artistic mediums.”
“She’s amazing.” Ivy continued watching. Shelly was in her creative zone now, humming to the music as she worked. She didn’t notice Ivy taking photos.
Ivy looked at the images she was catching on her screen. An idea formed in her mind for a new watercolor series, not only of flowers but also of Shelly tending her arrangements. With Shelly’s chestnut hair falling from her bun and petals in her hair as if strewn there by the breeze, the paintings would be beautiful romantic depictions.
Noticing the time, Ivy slipped away. Eleanor and Rachel would be here soon, and Ivy wanted to inspect their rooms one last time before they arrived. She had added thoughtful touches in each room that she thought they might like. A selection of teas, fizzy water, and plain crackers in Rachel’s room in case she felt queasy, and fruit baskets and wine in the parents’ rooms.
Satisfied that the rooms were in order, Ivy checked her watch again. Charlie was reporting for work in five minutes. At Darla’s, when Ivy heard Charlie mention that he had once driven a limo on weekends in Los Angeles and how much he enjoyed meeting people, a plan had clicked in her mind.
Charlie was bored in his retirement.
So she shared her thoughts with him. At first, he’d resisted, but as Ivy spoke, he grasped the idea that he could run a parking service for special events and maybe even a local car service.
Charlie arrived on the hour. He wore a white shirt, black slacks, a red bow-tie, and a dark jacket. He looked quite nice, and Ivy was relieved. She’d also checked her insurance to make sure she would be covered if someone banged up a BMW. Diego, the young bank teller and weekend surfer, hurried behind him. He also wore black slacks and a white shirt.
“How do we look?” Charlie asked, tucking his thumbs under his lapels.
“Fancy enough to serve royalty,” Ivy said, thinking of Eleanor’s claims. They walked outside, and she showed him where he could park cars.
Charlie lifted an eyebrow with skepticism. “If guests park on the street, it’s not too far to walk.”
“I know, but they’ll be dressed up, and some might be frail or elderly. Above all, treat them as if they were cherished guests, which they are.” Ivy hoped she hadn’t made a mistake hiring Charlie, but it had seemed an opportune solution at the time.
“Right.” Charlie tapped his temple. “I’ve got it all figured out. You can rest assured.”
Just then, a late model European luxury car worth more than she’d made in years pulled to the curb. Eleanor and her husband, along with Rachel, were in the car.
Suddenly nervous, Ivy turned to Charlie and explained about Eleanor. “Would you help her with her door and the luggage?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Charlie said. He snapped his fingers. “I’ll get the doors, and Diego, you’re in charge of luggage.” To Ivy, he added, “Not a scratch, I promise.” With a wink, Charlie set off for the car.
Ivy prayed Charlie could handle this role, but he seemed enthusiastic. In amazement, she watched him jog toward the car. Overnight, he seemed twenty years younger.
She smiled to herself. That’s what a purpose can do for you, she thought.
17
With a pleasant smile, Ivy greeted the York family at the door.
Eleanor swept into the inn like a queen on the arm of her husband, who looked about twenty years older than his wife. With salt-and-pepper hair, a sweater vest, and horn-rimmed glasses, Churchill York had the appearance of old, comfortable money not trying to impress anyone. This was a stark contrast to photos Ivy had seen online of him wearing tuxedos at gala events with Eleanor.
Churchill’s manner was as Rachel had described him. A warm smile and wonder filled his face as he gazed around the foyer. Ivy wouldn’t have put Eleanor and Churchill together, though she assumed it might be a case of opposites attracting.
“Isn’t this a charming place?” Eleanor cooed to her husband. Her arm was tucked through his, latched onto him as if she were afraid he might get away. She wore a peacock-blue designer knit suit with hose and heels and diamonds blazing at her ears, neck, fingers, and wrists.
“This reminds me of my family’s old summer home in Santa Barbara,” Churchill said as he took in parquet floors honeyed with age, chandeliers that had a few crystals missing, and the staircase with its hand-painted, cracked tile risers. “Comfortable and welcoming. I quite like it. Your sister came through