Dream Big, Stella! Read online

  I stand at the window for hours, wondering how I made it through nearly thirty years without ever visiting the mountains. Or the Grand Canyon. Or the white sandy beaches of the Caribbean. When I was a child, Marnie took me to California once to visit her family, but that turned out badly. Other than that trip and annual trips to Cape May with Hannah and Marnie every summer, we never went anywhere else. When I got old enough to travel on my own, I was too busy working or studying. Besides, I always found plenty to explore in the city.

  Around nine o’clock, the need for caffeine drives me out of my reverie. Taking my toiletry bag into the bathroom, I turn on the shower faucet, but I’m unable to get any hot water. I consider not showering but change my mind when I catch my reflection in the mirror—greasy hair matted to head and mascara smudged under my eyes. I feel grimy from the train trip, and before I chicken out, I strip off my pajamas and step under the cold stream of water. I stay in long enough to shampoo my hair and wash my body with the tiny bar of soap. My lips are blue and teeth chattering when I emerge from the shower. I dress in cropped jeans and a black crew-neck sweater, and when I can’t find a hair dryer, I towel my wet corkscrews into a frizzy mess.

  If I were a paying guest, I would totally complain. I venture down to the lobby where I discover an elderly couple venting a litany of grievances to the stunning woman at the front desk. Their list is long, and the agent comps them their room with an apologetic smile. But when the couple steps away and the woman turns her attention to me, her lips turn downward.

  “I’m Stella Boor. I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” she says in a clipped tone. “I hope you don’t have a complaint. Your suite is the last remaining fully functioning room we have.”

  I hold my tongue about the icy shower.

  Naomi, according to her name tag, is Whitney Houston gorgeous. She wears her hair in a sassy cut, short with long bangs that dip over sultry eyes. While I have so many questions for her and I could really use an ally, she is throwing out some serious back-off vibes. But I’m a New Yorker who can cop an attitude with the best of them. “I need coffee. I gather Starbucks is outta the question.” I mean it as a dig, since I know from my Google search the nearest Starbucks is thirty miles away.

  Her arm shoots out, finger aimed at the large lounge area to her right. “Dining room’s that way.”

  Thanking her, I move from reception into the lounge where comfortable seating areas are arranged in front of floor-to-ceiling windows to take advantage of the stunning view of the mountains. Oriental rugs in muted colors adorn worn wooden floors. And while the upholstery is shabby, most of the furnishings appear to be high-quality antiques. Meandering my way through the lounge, I admire the artwork hanging on the walls. I’ve visited most of New York’s major museums many times, and these are some of the most unusual paintings I’ve ever seen. The soft colors are pleasing to the eye. All are nature scenes—stands of tall trees, a shimmering lake with the mountains in the background, a tranquil stream of water bordered by lush greenery. The signature in the bottom corner of each painting bears the same name. Opal. No last name.

  As I pass by the bar, I notice thick layers of dust coating the liquor bottles on the glass shelves on the wall. How long has it been since anyone had a drink in here? The lounge dead-ends into the dining room. The wall of windows continues in here where streams of sunlight highlight outdated lattice wallpaper on the ceiling and faded green carpet on the floors.

  Tables and chairs are scattered about the room in no particular order. Only two tables by the window are draped in linen and set with flatware, drinking glasses, and coffee mugs. The elderly couple I encountered earlier in the reception hall is seated at one. I take my place at the other and stare out the window, across the veranda to the grounds. While I’m eager to explore, I’m nervous of what I might discover.

  Naomi appears within minutes, dropping a chipped plate bearing a sad-looking muffin on the table in front of me.

  “Don’t you have someone that can help you serve?” I ask.

  “Nope,” she says as she fills my mug with thick, dark coffee. “I’m a one-woman show around here. Server, reservations manager, housekeeping. The rest of the staff quit, except for Bernard, the groundskeeper. And he can barely keep the grass mowed.”

  The elderly couple signals for Naomi, but before she can escape my table, I ask, “Would it be too much to ask for a tour of the property?”

  Naomi hunches a shoulder in a why-not gesture. “Come find me after breakfast.”

  Gulping the muffin down with stale coffee, I beat Naomi back to the reception desk.

  In a disgruntled voice, she says, “All right then. But I warn you, I can’t be away from the front desk for long.”

  I think back to when I arrived last night. The door was unlocked and the front desk unsecured.

  I follow her out the back of the building, across the wide veranda, to a semicircular stone patio with a fountain in the center that has ceased to spew water. She turns to face the inn. “There are thirty rooms and ten suites in the main building. In addition to the bar, lounge, and dining room, which you saw, we have a library, a solarium, and a wine cellar in the basement.” Doing an about-face, she points to the three closest outbuildings. “There’s the barn, the carriage house, the caretaker’s cottage, and the lake.”

  “Does the lake have a name?”

  “Not a very original one,” Naomi says. “Clear Bottom Lake. The water is so clear you can see all the way to the bottom.”

  “And what’s that down by the lake?” I ask of the plain-looking low-slung building.

  “The summer house, a glorified porch used for bingo nights and dances back in the day.”

  I know little about building maintenance, but it doesn’t take an expert to see all four are in need of major repairs. Shutters hang askew. Paint is either faded or peeling off the sides. Shingles are missing from roofs. A gutter has fallen off the carriage house. “Are these buildings in use?”

  Naomi’s lips are thin and her jaw tight as she explains. “Bernard houses all the lawn equipment in the barn. The carriage house is divided into two suites that haven’t been rented in years. And the ceiling is caving in on the summer house.”

  “And the caretaker’s cottage?” I ask, thinking the cottage might make a nice home for me. Anything is better than the creepy inn.

  “Billy lived there. You’re welcome to it, if you can get through the door. He was a bit of a hoarder.”

  “Oh,” I say, imagining stacks of newspapers and magazines and black plastic bags of trash barring the door. “How bad is business?”

  She stares past me, her gaze fixed on an object behind me. “We average two or three bookings a week. We have 50 percent occupancy for the upcoming college’s graduation, but I have no idea where we’re going to put the guests. As I mentioned earlier, most of the rooms are uninhabitable.”

  “How did things get into such bad shape?”

  “Billy’s heart wasn’t into running the inn. He made sure everything was maintained in good working order, but when he got sick, he lacked the strength to even do that. I guess he was waiting to die, to hand this mess over to you.” Her brown eyes are full of sadness. She obviously cared about him. Was their relationship strictly professional? Were they friends? Or something more?

  “Where was Billy’s heart, if not here?”

  She huffs out her irritation. “Ask someone else. There are plenty of people around here who would love to tell you what made Billy Jameson tick.”

  I stare with mouth wide open as she reenters the building. Why does she dislike me so? Does she consider me a threat? She’s technically my employee. I should fire her for being so rude. But, in her own words, she’s a one-woman show. At the moment, she’s all I’ve got.

  Four

  The caretaker’s cottage, located a hundred yards from the main building, is one story with a blue front door and a wide porch that wraps around two sides. Inside, I’m relieved to discover th
at my father was not a hoarder. He was a lover of rock and roll, and his cottage houses a museum-worthy treasury of memorabilia. Signed and framed album covers and posters of all the greats adorn the walls. There’s Mick Jagger, John Lennon, Bono. The list goes on. Three guitars are mounted over the sofa—two electric and one acoustic. On either side are shadowboxes containing ticket stubs and guitar picks from world famous tours. A bomber jacket once worn by Led Zeppelin, also framed, takes up space near the entrance to the kitchen. One side of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves is home to an extensive vinyl collection while the other side houses glossy programs from concerts and biographies of superstars’ lives.

  I’m studying a framed photograph of Billy with Elton John when I sense someone behind me. I turn to see Brian Powers peering over my shoulder. I jump. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  He nods at the photograph in my hands. “He was something, wasn’t he?”

  I’m surprised when my throat swells with emotion. I didn’t even know Billy Jameson, yet I feel this strange connection being in his home. “He was . . . not what I expected. What kind of musician was he?”

  “Billy was a legend around these parts. Ever heard of the Wild Hollers?”

  My jaw hits the floor. “Shut up!” I jab my finger at the photograph. “You mean this man, my father, was that Billy Jameson?”

  Brian smiles. “The one and only.”

  “I know his music well.” I study the photograph in my hands. “No wonder he looked familiar when you showed me his picture the other day. Out of context, I didn’t put two and two together.”

  “Billy wasn’t famous worldwide. His following was mostly local. I’m surprised you’ve heard of him.”

  “My mom introduced me to his music when I was just a kid. That makes sense now given the circumstances.”

  “What do you think of the cottage?” Brian asks before I can press him for more information about my mother and Billy.

  I return the Elton John photograph to the end table. “I haven’t gotten past the living room.”

  I follow him into the adjoining bedroom, which is surprisingly uncluttered with a queen-size bed, chest of drawers, and lounge chair.

  “We removed Billy’s clothes and brought in a new mattress,” Powers says.

  I want to ask him who the other party in we is, but I assume he’s referring to Naomi.

  He opens a door on the far side of the bed. “This is the only updated bathroom on the property. We put in a shower stall to make it easier for Billy.”

  I peek around the doorjamb at the marble bathroom, relieved to see modern fixtures capable of producing hot water.

  We pass back through the living room to the kitchen, which is outdated but quaint with linoleum on the floor, a sink under a small picture window, and a narrow pine farm table along the opposite wall.

  Brian opens a half-paned door and we step out onto a side porch. A pair of rockers and small round table with the kind of chairs you’d find in an ice cream parlor occupy the small space.

  We stand side-by-side, looking out toward the mountains. “I trust you’ll be comfortable in the cottage.”

  I look over at him. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to live here? Naomi mentioned it, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Of course. It’s the caretaker’s cottage. And you’re now the caretaker. I’m sorry there’s not more room for your things. We’ll eventually need to figure out something to do with Billy’s collections. But for now, his valuables are safer here.”

  “I agree. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to his collections. I don’t need much room, anyway. I only have my clothes.” I don’t tell him I left the rest of my possessions in a heap on the curb for the trash men. “Can you give me a more detailed job description for the caretaker’s position?”

  “Certainly. Why don’t we sit a minute?” He motions me to the small table, and we sit opposite each other. “You need to stop thinking of this as a job, Stella. You are the proprietor of the inn.” He spreads his arms wide. “All this belongs to you.”

  I press my hands against the sides of my head. “I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around that. You told me the property was in a state of disrepair. You didn’t tell me it was in worse shape than the Roman ruins.”

  Brian laughs. “I didn’t want to scare you off before you had a chance to visit the property. You have to admit it has potential.”

  I cut my eyes at him. “I remain unconvinced. I’ll be honest with you, Brian. I’m in over my head here. I know nothing about construction. And this building needs a major overhaul. As in, we should lock the doors and not allow any guests in until everything is restored to working order. In my humble opinion, you’re doing the inn a disservice by allowing anyone to see it in its current condition.”

  A relaxed smile crosses his face. “I agree completely. Cancel the bookings and lock the doors.”

  I blink hard at him. “Are you serious? I can’t believe you’d give me that kind of authority when you know virtually nothing about me.”

  “I know plenty about you, Stella. And Billy had faith in you. He believed you’re the right person to give Hope Springs Farm the tender loving care it deserves.”

  “But Billy—”

  Brian holds up a hand, silencing me. “You are his daughter. His and Hannah’s. You come from a long line of strong-minded characters on both sides.”

  “Obviously, Billy and my mother were involved. Sexually, I mean. But were they in a relationship?”

  His face registers surprise. “Did you not talk to Hannah about all this?”

  “I’m not currently speaking to her.” I don’t elaborate. It’s none of his business.

  “Your mother and Billy were once close.” He hesitates, and I get the feeling he’s trying to decide how much to say. “I won’t give you all the answers, Stella. You’ll have to figure some things out for yourself. This is your journey, your discoveries to make. This is what Billy wanted for you. Billy wasn’t just my client. He was my friend. We talked about his plans for you at considerable length.”

  While I resent having my life manipulated without my knowledge, I’m totally intrigued that my father cared so much about my future.

  “Were you and my mother friends?”

  “Friends?” He pauses, as though considering how to answer. “No. Hannah and I were definitely not friends.”

  I have so many questions, but his expression has become guarded, and I don’t yet know him well enough to pry. “All right then. So, tell me . . . where do I start? After I lock the doors and cancel future bookings. I have a little over two hundred dollars in my checking account. I don’t know how much these things cost. That might buy several boxes of nails and a hammer at the hardware store.”

  He laughs out loud. “You might be able to add a screwdriver and a gallon of paint to those purchases.” He removes a debit card from his wallet and slides it across the table. “I took the liberty of opening an account for you at the local bank. You can create a PIN number when you activate the card. You’ll receive an automatic deposit once a month for five thousand dollars.”

  I gulp. I didn’t make that much in three months as a guest services agent. “Do I need to pay rent on the cottage?”

  “Nope. You will live here for free. This is your personal income. You may do with it as you please. If you find you need more, let me know and I’ll make the arrangements.”

  After years of barely getting by, I might actually be able to save a little.

  “As for the business expenses, the inn is in a trust with me currently designated as trustee. I will pay all the bills, including the renovations. For planning purposes, it would help if you could come up with a budget. But don’t cut any corners. Dream big, Stella. Hire decorators and architects. Renovate the existing outbuildings and build more. Do whatever you want. We’re behind you all the way.”

  There’s that we again. “Can you give me some guidance as to what type of finished product you’re looking for?”


  Brian crosses and uncrosses his legs. He’s too tall for the chair, and he looks miserably uncomfortable. “My opinion doesn’t matter. Billy wanted this to be your vision. The shelves in the library are packed with old photo albums that will help you get a feel for what the inn was like in its heyday.”

  “I have little to bring to the table, Brian, but I promise I’ll do my best.”

  “I have no doubt but what you will. If you’re anything like your father, you possess the gumption necessary to succeed.”

  Gumption. Not a word I hear often, but I like the sound of it.

  Brian stands to go. “I can give you the name of three contractors, but you’re wasting your time in contacting two of them. Only one is worthy of a project of this magnitude. Jack Snyder is passionate about historic renovations and demands only the best from his subs. He will get the job done in a professional and timely manner. And by timely, I mean by the beginning of September, when the students return to Jefferson college.”

  I feel a throbbing headache developing behind my eyeballs. “September? A lot needs to happen in four months.”

  “Which is why you should get started right away.” He digs through his wallet and hands me a business card with the contractor’s name and number, email address, and website information. “I’ve already spoken with Jack about the project. He’s waiting to hear from you.”

  “If I may ask, what exactly is Naomi’s title? Is she the general manager?”

  “For now.” Brian lets out a deep breath, and his body deflates. “I realize she can be difficult. Naomi’s been through a lot. Give her the benefit of the doubt until you can prove otherwise.”

  “She clearly has something against my being here. Do you know what it is?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.”

  “Right. My journey. My discovery.”

  He walks down the short flight of steps, and when he reaches the ground, he turns around, looking up at me. “I’m here for you, Stella. If you need anything, do not hesitate to call.”