Only when she’d heard her daughters doing that had she recognized the behavior in herself.
In her marriage, Jeremy had grown to be hypercritical. She’d become accustomed to his small, insidious remarks that she tried to ignore simply to keep the peace. She looked past his shortcomings because of her love for him and the power he held in their relationship as the breadwinner. In retrospect, she never should have.
And she wouldn’t again.
Ivy glanced toward the entry to the dining room where the four women who’d arrived yesterday were straggling in. They were the last ones at breakfast, and from the looks of most of them, they’d just rolled out of bed. Only Rachel looked bright-eyed.
“I think this group is going to need a fresh pot of coffee,” Ivy said.
“You tend to them. I have to get to the office.” Bennett got up and snagged an apple on his way out.
“Good morning, ladies,” he called out as he passed their table.
“Ow, you don’t need to yell,” Carrie said, holding her head.
“He’s not,” Rachel said. “That’s your hangover screaming at you.”
Carrie moaned. “More like a little monster hammering on my forehead to get out. Anyone have any hangover meds?”
Bennett grinned. “Hydrating will help, too.”
“Even my ponytail hurts.” Carrie slid an elastic band from her messy hair and wiped day-old mascara from underneath her eyes.
As Bennett disappeared around the corner, Ivy made her way to the women’s table. “More coffee? I can put on a fresh pot.”
“Absolutely,” Rachel said. “My friends had a little too much fruit of the vine last night. Guess that’s the silver lining to my condition.”
“You have a lot of wonderful experiences to look forward to,” Ivy said.
“Not everyone will think so.” Rachel’s eyes loomed large in her pretty face. “At least Topper is thrilled at the prospect of becoming a father, even if it is sooner than he’d thought.”
Ivy assumed Rachel was referring to her mother again. She hoped that her daughters would never feel like they couldn’t discuss such an important matter with her. “I’ll bring fresh coffee shortly.”
As Ivy was on her way to the kitchen, Poppy stopped her in the hallway. “There’s a woman at the front desk. It’s your Mrs. York.”
“She’s early,” Ivy said, glancing at her watch.
“Do you want me to talk to her? I could show her around.”
“No, I’ll meet with her now. But could you make a fresh pot of coffee for the bachelorettes in the dining room? They had a late night at Spirits & Vine.”
Poppy agreed, and Ivy made her way to the foyer.
Ivy greeted Mrs. York. Meticulously attired, the fortyish woman wore a pastel-blue knit suit with hose and heels. Her make-up was flawless, if a little obvious, and her hair was coiffed and sprayed stiff. She held herself in an imperious manner. Her outfit might have been perfect for a Beverly Hills luncheon, but this was Summer Beach, where sandals and sundresses were considered dressing up. Perhaps she had somewhere else to go later, Ivy allowed.
Nevertheless, Ivy sensed an iciness in the woman’s demeanor that Poppy must have felt over the phone.
Mrs. York glanced around the foyer, her nose tilted as if she expected to encounter an unpleasant smell at any moment. “Your girl told me you were in the midst of renovations. When will all of this be replaced?”
“That was Poppy, my niece,” Ivy said brightly. “She’s our marketing expert and is quite talented. A USC graduate, in fact.” She couldn’t resist mentioning the prestigious private university in Los Angeles.
“Well now, that changes things,” the woman said a little grudgingly. “My husband graduated from USC, too.” After an awkward pause, she added, “You may call me Eleanor.”
“Ivy.” She shook Eleanor’s limp extended hand. “As for the renovations, we just completed many repairs.” The house was clean, and the entire Bay family had pitched in to paint it last spring. Aside from that, she couldn’t afford much else right now.
“Our guests enjoy the casual beach house ambiance,” Ivy said. “People come here to relax.” She wondered if Eleanor ever did. “How did you hear of the Seabreeze Inn?”
“My sister suggested it. Lillian attended your spa week. She raved about the inn and your hospitality, though her standards are somewhat more relaxed than mine.”
“I see,” Ivy said, ignoring Eleanor’s comment. She heard someone coming down the stairs behind them. A few moments later, Gilda, a writer and long-time resident, appeared in the foyer. She wore a casual, wrinkled cotton outfit, and she had a pen that matched her