The Welcoming

about sweet.
    And she’d help plan a wedding—May bride, May flowers—right there in The Courtyard, just as Clare’s had been this past spring.
    Thinking of it, Hope looked down Main toward the bookstore. Clare’s Turn The Page had been a risk for a young widow with two children and another on the way. But she’d made it work. Clare had a knack for making things work. Now she was Clare Montgomery, Beckett’s wife. And when winter came, they’d welcome a new baby to the mix.
    Odd, wasn’t it, that her two friends had lived right in Boonsboro for so long, and she’d relocated only the year—not even a full year yet—before. The new kid in town.
    Now, of the three of them, she was the only one still right here, right in the heart of town.
    Silly to miss them when she saw them nearly every day, but on restless nights she could wish, just a little, they were still close.
    So much had changed, for all of them, in this past year.
    She’d been perfectly content in Georgetown, with her home, her work, her routine. With Jonathan, the cheating bastard.
    She’d had good, solid plans, no rush, no hurry, but solid plans. The Wickham had been her place. She’d known its rhythm, its tones, its needs. And she’d done a hell of a job for the Wickhams and their cheating bastard son, Jonathan.
    She’d planned to marry him. No, there’d been no formal engagement, no concrete promises, but marriage and future had been on the table.
    She wasn’t a moron.
    And all the time—or at least in the last several months—they’d been together, with him sharing her bed, or her sharing his, he’d been seeing someone else. Someone from his more elevated social strata, you could say, Hope mused with lingering bitterness. Someone who wouldn’t work ten- and twelve-hour days—and often more—to manage the exclusive hotel, but who’d stay there—in its most elaborate suite, of course.
    No, she wasn’t a moron, but she’d been far too trusting and humiliatingly shocked when Jonathan told her he would be announcing his engagement—to someone else—the next day.
    Humiliatingly shocked, she thought again, particularly as they’d been naked and in her bed at the time.
    Then again, he’d been shocked, too, when she’d ordered him to get the hell out. He genuinely hadn’t understood why anything between them should change.
    That single moment ushered in a lot of change.
    Now she was Inn BoonsBoro’s innkeeper, living in a small town in Western Maryland, a good clip from the bright lights of the big city.
    She didn’t spend what free time she had planning clever little dinner parties, or shopping in the boutiques for the perfect shoes for the perfect dress for the next event.
    Did she miss all that? Her go-to boutique, her favorite lunch spot, the lovely high ceilings and flower-framed little patio of her own town house? Or the pressure and excitement of preparing the hotel for visits from dignitaries, celebrities, business moguls?
    Sometimes, she admitted. But not as often as she’d expected to, and not as much as she’d assumed she would.
    Because she had been content in her personal life, challenged in her professional one, and the Wickham had been her place. But she’d discovered something in the last few months. Here, she wasn’t just content, but happy. The inn wasn’t just her place, it was
home
.
    She had her friends to thank for that, and the Montgomery brothers along with their mother. Justine Montgomery had hired her, on the spot. At the time Hope hadn’t known Justine well enough to be surprised by her quick offer. But she did know herself, and continued to be surprised at her own fast, impulsive acceptance.
    Zero to sixty? More like zero to ninety and still going.
    She didn’t regret the impulse, the decision, the move.
    Fresh starts hadn’t been in the plan, but she was good at adjusting plans. Thanks to the Montgomerys, the lovingly—and effortfully—restored inn was now her home and her career.
    She wandered the porch, checking the hanging planters, adjusting—minutely—the angle of a bistro chair.
    “And I love every square inch of it,” she murmured.
    One of the porch doors leading out from Elizabeth and Darcy opened. The scent of honeysuckle drifted on the night air.
    Someone else was restless, Hope thought. Then again, she didn’t know if ghosts slept. She doubted if the spirit Beckett had named Elizabeth for the room she favored would tell her if she asked. Thus far, Lizzy hadn’t deigned