often as before. He may be in therapy all his life, for both the physical and mental issues. But inside, past all the junk, he’s no different than he ever was. Patrick was the happiest kid, always smiling, always goofing around.”
“And you want to see that kid again.”
The older woman dug a tissue out of her pocket, wiped her nose. “Yes.” She stopped again, clearing her throat. “Patrick needs someone in his life—besides us, I mean—with the strength and courage to know what’s true about him even when things are tough. To comfort him even when he says he doesn’t want it. To, I don’t know, coax who he used to be out of hiding. Natalie—his ex—wasn’t that person.”
April almost laughed. “And you think I am?”
“Oh, I have no idea. I’ve just met you. But you need to know what you’re getting yourself into. If things were to...progress. For both your sakes—”
“Ma!” A big-boned redhead who looked very much like Kate stuck her head out the front door. “You want to make the gravy, or you want me to?”
“I’ll be right there, Frannie.” Kate got to her feet, dusting off her bottom and stretching a little. “Old butts and hard steps don’t mix,” she said on a laugh as April stood as well, flinching slightly when Kate drew her into a hard hug, whispering, “Knowledge is power,” before heading into the house.
April followed Patrick’s mother inside, stopping for a moment in the lobby to process, if not steel herself against, the raucous laughter drifting out from the kitchen. A vociferous bunch, those Shaughnessys.
Another woman appeared, this one a little younger than the first. Thinner. Wiry haired. “April, right? I’m Bree, another sister,” she said, striding across the foyer to pump April’s hand, a huge grin splitting her pretty face. “The house is seriously amazing. And the kitchen...” She laughed. “Oh. My. God.” When April laughed back, Bree thumbed over her shoulder. “You mind if we rearrange the dining room furniture—?”
“Oh! No, go right ahead, do whatever you like with it.”
“Got it.” Bree disappeared, and April shut her eyes.
She’d originally envisioned the inn as a refuge from the storm of life, perhaps because that’s how she’d seen it as a child—an antidote to that constant upheaval. Not that she expected being an innkeeper would be all sunshine and roses, or that there would never be surprises—she grimaced, thinking of the ravaged grounds—but as much as lay within her power she wanted her guests to feel that same peace.
Except now she remembered how they’d laughed their way through those summers, she and Mel and Blythe, the walls of their grandmother’s house ringing with their shrieks of glee. As had her grandmother’s ears, most likely. Oh, there’d been no peace back then, she thought, smiling.
But there had been something even better:
Joy.
Excitement shuffled through her as she realized what had been before was still here, more than sufficient to trump the bitter memories her mother wanted to believe had infected the place. That’s what had been at the root of that silly childhood dream of one day owning the Rinehart property, that had made her jump on the opportunity to buy out her cousins.
Another burst of laughter went up, this time from the dining room, along with the bumps and knocks and scraping of furniture being rearranged, and tears burned her eyes, happy tears, as she pictured all the weddings and anniversaries and family gatherings she hoped to host in the coming years. Then the men began trooping in, Patrick demanding they all remove their shoes, not touch anything until they’d washed their hands, and her heart warmed, then cramped, as she replayed his mother’s words in her head.
Because being an adult was all well and good, but not at the expense of snuffing out—or letting outside influences snuff out—that ember of childlike bliss that made life worthwhile. Sure, kudos to the man for
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