Praise for the novels of
SHERRYL WOODS

“Sherryl Woods delivers the goods again with a goofy screwball Southern contemporary romance. It’s kind of like a sloe gin fizz—bubbly and sweet with a little bit of a kick.”

—RT Book Reviews on Amazing Gracie

“Amazing Gracie is one of those wonderful books whose characters, setting and plot combine to produce a 24-karat-gold reading experience.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Sherryl Woods writes emotionally satisfying novels about family, friendship and home. Truly feel-great reads!”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“Warm, complex, and satisfying.”

—Library Journal on Harbor Lights

“Sparks fly in a lively tale that is overflowing with family conflict and warmth and the possibility of rekindled love.”

—Library Journal on Flowers on Main

“The Inn At Eagle Point is the first book in another guaranteed-to-be-a-blockbuster series by Sherryl Woods.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Launching the Chesapeake Shores series, Woods (Welcome to Serenity) creates an engrossing…family drama.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Compulsively readable…Woods’s novel easily rises above hot-button topics to tell a universal tale of friendship’s redemptive power.”

—Publishers Weekly on Mending Fences

Amazing Gracie

New York Times and USA TODAY Bestselling Author

Sherryl Woods

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dear Friends,

People often ask me if, after more than a hundred books, I have a favorite. Most of the time I swear it’s whatever just came out or whatever I’m working on at the moment, because that’s usually true. However, my next thought is almost always Amazing Gracie.

When this book first came out more than ten years ago, it was an RT Book Reviews Top Pick. The same magazine later named Amazing Gracie as one of the top two hundred books during its twenty years of publication. I wish I could say exactly what combination of plot and character came together to make this book so special, but I have no idea. It was just one of those serendipitous things authors wish would happen with every single book.

Of course, the fictional setting is very special to me. It was the first mainstream book to be based on my favorite summer town of Colonial Beach, Virginia, which later provided yet another fictional setting for the Trinity Harbor trilogy. The heroine, Gracie MacDougal, still has a place in my heart. And the hero—oh, my—Kevin Patrick Daniels combines just about everything I love about laid-back, generous, contrary and caring Southern men.

I’m so delighted to have Amazing Gracie back in print for a whole new audience. I hope you’ll fall in love with the town, Kevin and Gracie as others have before. Welcome to Seagull Point!

Looking ahead to later this spring, I’ll be taking you back to Serenity, South Carolina, for three more books with the Sweet Magnolias. The new trilogy will begin with Ty and Annie’s long-awaited story, Home in Carolina. I hope you’ll be watching for it.

All best,

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

1

Walking briskly through the small, elegant lobby of the Maison de Sol in Cannes, Gracie MacDougal noted every tiny detail, from the single wilted daffodil in the lavish arrangement of spring flowers to the fingerprints on the beveled glass in the double mahogany doors. She plucked the offending flower from the arrangement, then beckoned to the young man working behind the reception desk. André was one of her best, most dutiful employees. They’d become friends. Someday, she was sure, he’d replace her.

“André, call housekeeping at once, s’il vous plait. Take care of that window.”

“Of course, madame,” he said dutifully, then discreetly studied the glass to figure out what was wrong with it.

“Fingerprints,” Gracie said, grinning at him.

He peered more closely at the decorative windowpane. “Ah,” he said when he discovered them.

“You’ll learn, André. You’ll learn. Our guests expect perfection down to the tiniest detail.”

“Our guests, madame, or you?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded. “If I’m doing my job, then the guests will take it for granted. I only wish…”

“What?” André asked, regarding her intently. “What it is that you wish?”

“I only wish our new boss cared more about the details than the bottom line.”

“Monsieur Devereaux is a bit of a…What is it they say in America, a suit?”

Gracie fought a chuckle and lost. “That he is, André. He is a bit of a suit.”

Handsome, distinguished, and annoying, Maximillian Devereaux was, in Gracie’s opinion, more of an accountant than a hotelier. If the books balanced, he wouldn’t care if there was a layer of dust an inch thick on the gleaming antique tabletops in the lobby. His attitude and the battles it engendered were beginning to take a toll.

He was the third CEO of Worldwide Hotels in the last five years. He’d been brought in to improve the bottom line after Worldwide was acquired by a larger chain to add some class to its image. Though Worldwide continued to operate as a separate division with its own corporate identity, in Gracie’s view the small chain of exclusive, luxury inns was in serious danger of losing its reputation and its clientele. The wilted daffodil in her hand was symptomatic of the problem.

Less than an hour later, after inspecting every nook and cranny of the hotel, she dropped the flower on Max’s desk and said just that. He peered down his long, aristocratic nose at her, glanced at the broken petals, then sighed with evident exasperation.

“What is it now, Ms. MacDougal?” he asked, as always reverting to formality to indicate his own annoyance with her.

“The flowers weren’t changed this morning as they should have been,” she said.

“There is no need to change them daily. We’ve discussed that. Every three days will be sufficient and will cut the flower budget by two-thirds.”

“And our guests will find wilted flowers in the lobby and assume that if we no longer care about appearances in such a public area, we will be even more careless in places they don’t see, such as the kitchen. Details like this make a lasting impression. If you doubt it, check the reservation book.”

“We’re booked solid for the next month.”

“And this time last year we were booked solid for six months in advance,” she countered. “At this rate, we’ll have rooms available for every Tom, Dick and Harry who forgot to book a reservation before leaving the States.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Gracie.”

“It’s true.” She studied Max intently. “You really don’t see it, do you? You don’t see what you’re doing to this hotel, to this entire chain.”

“Have dinner with me tonight and explain it,” he suggested.

This time she was the one who sighed in exasperation. The man was relentless, when it came down to something he wanted, namely her. On paper, she and Max Devereaux were a perfect match. They were both tall—even at five eight, she barely reached his chin. Max had dashing, Cary Grant looks. Gracie prided herself on her polished, classic appearance. Max’s intelligence, his quick rise in the international hotel industry paralleled hers.

But the man had no real passion for it. It was all numbers to him. Gracie cared about the guests and their comfort, the lasting impression they would take home with them. Max worried only about the size of their bill.

No, she concluded. It would never have worked. He was certainly bright enough to have figured that out for himself, but his masculine ego kept him in the game. With another man, the unwanted attention might have bordered on harassment, but there’d never once, in any way, been a hint that Gracie’s job hinged on whether she said yes or no. Asking was just something Max did, pretty much like breathing.

“Max, I will not have dinner with you,” she told him for the umpteenth time. “Not tonight, not ever. How many times do I have to say it?”

“Not even to save your precious flower budget?”

“No, Max. It’s a very bad idea. You’re my boss. Socializing would only complicate things. Besides, you and I don’t see eye to eye on anything. We’d just ruin our digestion.”

He shrugged as he always did after she’d rejected one of his invitations. “Suit yourself.” He returned his attention to the paperwork in front of him, dismissing Gracie as clearly as if he’d gestured toward the door.

Maybe it was because she was tired or frustrated or angry or all three, but Gracie stared at Max’s down-turned head for several minutes, then reached a decision that had been several weeks in the making.

“I quit,” she said softly but firmly.

That brought his head up. “What?” For an instant, shock registered in his usually cool gray eyes.

“You heard me. I quit.”

“Now, Gracie—”

“Don’t you now-Gracie me,” she snapped back. “You won’t listen to a thing I say. You’re determined to run this chain as if it were a string of economy hotels. Obviously, I am no longer of any value to Worldwide, so I might as well take my expertise to another hotel chain where they care about appearances and service and comfort.”

There was the faintest hint of worry in Max’s expression, but once again he shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”

Stunned by his indifference, Gracie paused long enough to sweep that blasted daffodil up and drop it into the trash can before leaving. Tempted as she was to slam the door, she didn’t want to disturb the guests by creating a scene. Even now, old habits died hard.

Back in her small suite of rooms off the hotel lobby, fighting tears, she began methodically packing. Because she moved frequently from hotel to hotel to troubleshoot problems, there was very little to pack, nothing personal needing to be shipped. She could be on a plane back to the States tonight…if only she had someplace to go.

Realizing that there was not one single destination in the entire world where someone would be waiting for her hit her like a blow. She sank to the edge of the bed.

“What now, Gracie?” she whispered.

Though her decision to quit had been far from impulsive, never once had she considered the next step. Now she had just abandoned the most exciting, rewarding, wonderful job she’d ever had, one she’d worked very hard to get. She was twenty-nine-going-on-thirty. Her last three relationships had been total disasters. All three men had ended up married to someone else—someone who stayed put—within days of breaking up with her.

The relationships weren’t worth talking about, but her career, well, that was not something she was quite so willing to walk away from without a fight. She had loved the hotel business from the day she first discovered room service. In Monopoly, hotels were always her primary objective. In her mind’s eye, they were always small, elegant and discreet.

Worldwide had always exemplified that image. At least until recently. Shifting gears to accommodate all of the executive changes had turned a dream job into a nightmare. She’d been right to quit, she consoled herself. It was a smart decision.

So why did she feel so lost and empty?

A knock on her door prevented her from having to come up with an answer for the inexplicable “Yes?”

“Gracie, it’s Max.”

“Go away.”

“I think we should talk.”

“I disagree.”

“Would you open the blasted door and let me in, please. Or do you want the entire hotel to hear our conversation?”

That caught her attention as nothing else might have. She opened the door. She did not move aside to let him in. Max was much too forceful a presence to allow herself to be alone with him while she was in such a vulnerable state. He’d tried too many times to turn business conversations into something personal for her to trust him—or herself, at the moment—in such intimate surroundings. She might not much like the man at the moment, but he had a very attractive shoulder she could cry on.

“Yes?” she said.

He peered past her to the row of suitcases. “You’re determined to leave, I see.”

“I told you I was going.”

“Where?”

Ah, she thought, that was the million-dollar question. Money wasn’t a problem. Her heart was the problem. The only place she wanted to be was at the center of a thriving hotel. Her parents were dead. There had been no brothers or sisters, not even an extended family of aunts and uncles she’d been close to. She’d made a few close friends in college, but over the years, thanks to so much job-related traveling, she’d lost touch with all of them.

“That’s none of your business,” she said, hedging.

“No place to go, huh?”

“Of course I have a place to go,” she snapped. “I’m going to…Virginia.” She seized the destination out of thin air, based solely on some distant, idyllic memory of a family vacation in a small beach town there twenty years before.

“Virginia?”

Max said it as if he weren’t quite familiar with the state or even the country it was in. He’d obviously been in Europe way too long. Maybe she had been, too.

“Yes,” she said, warming to the idea. “It’s lovely there this time of year.”

“How in hell do you know that?”

“It’s spring,” she said. “It’s lovely everywhere in spring.”

“Of course,” he said wryly. The worried frown was back between his brows. “You’ll stay in touch?”

“Why?”

“In case you decide you want to come back, of course.”

“I won’t,” she said with certainty. Whatever happened, whatever she decided to do with her life, she would not come back to Worldwide as long as it was in the hands of Maximillian Devereaux.

“You’ll always have a job with us,” he said anyway. “Remember that when you tire of watching the dogwood and the cherry blossoms bloom.”

“I’d keep the flower references out of the conversation, if I were you. Flowers are what brought us to this impasse, remember?”

“You’ll be back,” he said with arrogant confidence. “You and I have unfinished business.” His gaze settled on her and lingered. “Professional and personal.”

She refused to be shaken by the intensity of his gaze, but only because there was no responding, wild leap of her pulse. She stared straight into his eyes and slowly shook her head. “Don’t bet the wine cellar on it, Max.”

And then she slammed the door in his face. Forever after, she thought she would remember with a great deal of satisfaction his thoroughly stunned expression. She doubted Max could recall the last time a mere mortal, especially a woman, had ever said no to him and not left the door open for a yes.

Gracie checked her bank balance and gave herself five months—the rest of spring and the entire summer—to pull herself together. She made that decision on the plane. Then, exhausted and emotionally drained, she slept the rest of the way to Washington.

At Dulles Airport, she bought a map, rented a car and started driving east on the Beltway, turning south on I–95 to Fredericksburg then heading east again. Seagull Point was a tiny speck on the map, tucked between Colonial Beach and Montross, right in the heart of history as the guidebooks liked to say.

Passing gently rolling farmland along the Rappahannock River, she began to have her doubts. Would she be able to survive for long in the middle of nowhere? True, the dogwoods were blooming in profusion, their white and pink blossoms standing out against the budding green of giant oaks. Tulips and the last of the daffodils bobbed in the lilac-scented breeze. The scenery was idyllic, but the only town she passed through, King George, was hardly a metropolis. There wasn’t even a traffic light in the middle of town. She barely had to slow down until she hit the intersection with Route 205 and made the turn toward Colonial Beach.

Pausing at the next red light at Route 301, she considered turning left and heading north, across the Potomac River Bridge, back to D.C. or maybe Baltimore. Instead, though, she kept going, determined to follow the plan she’d set for herself. Making plans, seeing to details, was something at which she excelled. It was why, until recently, she’d been such a valued Worldwide employee. She was organized to a fault.

By three in the afternoon she’d found a small hotel on the Potomac River. No one would ever confuse it with a Worldwide property, but it was clean and the mattress was firm, just the way she liked it. It would do until she could find a rental property for the summer, she concluded.

By five she’d finished a take-out carton of Kung Po chicken, showered and watched the early news out of Washington. Though she’d intended to shift her body onto local time by staying awake until nine at least, by five-thirty she was sound asleep. Naturally, because of that, she was wide awake before dawn.

Years of starting the day while others slept made the early hour seem almost normal. Except there were no lists to make, no calendar to check for meetings, no details to see to. There was absolutely nothing demanding her attention and no reason at all to get out of bed.

“Go back to sleep,” she coached herself, forcing her eyes shut and trying to stay perfectly still. She willed herself to relax. After fifteen increasingly restless minutes, she realized she didn’t know how.

“Tomorrow will be better,” she promised herself as she dressed and headed out to find someplace serving breakfast.

Over scrambled eggs and toast at the Beachside Cafe, she read the Washington Post. As she lingered over coffee, she dug in her purse for paper and made a list of things to do, starting with contacting a real estate agent about available rentals. She wanted something small, facing the river so she could sit on the porch and drink her morning coffee or her evening tea and watch the play of colors on the water.

“More coffee, miss?”

Gracie glanced up at the waitress and smiled, noting that her name was Jessie and that she had the reddest hair Gracie had ever seen, especially on a woman who had to be in her sixties. “Yes, please. Any idea what time I’ll be able to find a real estate office open around here?”

“Oh, it’s catch as catch can until nine or so, though Johnny Payne usually stops in here around eight. If he doesn’t have what you’re looking for, he can find it for you.”

Gracie glanced at the clock behind the counter. “Maybe I’ll just stick around then. Do you mind?”

“Be my guest. We’re never full on a weekday till after the season starts. I’ll send Johnny over when he comes in. Having breakfast with a pretty woman for a change will make his day. Those old coots he’s usually with ain’t nothing to look at.”

Gracie grinned. “Thanks.”

“You need anything else, just holler. I’ll check on your coffee now and again.”

It was three cups of coffee later, just as Gracie was beginning to get a worrisome caffeine buzz, when the man who turned out to be Johnny Payne ambled in. He headed for the counter, only to be waylaid by the waitress and directed toward Gracie. He was tall and raw-boned with a flushed complexion, liberal gray in his once-brown hair and a twinkle in his hazel eyes.

“Mr. Payne?” Gracie guessed when he stood beside her table, his hands shoved in the pockets of his chinos. Christmas-red suspenders held them up.

“Yes, ma’am, that would be me. What can I do for you?”

“Sit down, if you have a minute. I don’t want to keep you from your breakfast.”

“Not me,” he said, and pulled out a chair. “I had breakfast at home an hour ago. I come in here to fuel up on coffee and gossip.”

“Well, I certainly won’t keep you from having your coffee. As for the gossip, I’ll try not to keep you from that for too long, either.”

He grinned at her. “Not to worry. Nothing much happens around here anyway, leastways nothing that’s more exciting than a pretty stranger asking about property. That is what you wanted to see me about, isn’t it?”

“It is. I’m looking for a summer rental.”

“On the river?”

“Absolutely.”

“Big or small?”

“Small will do.”

He looked her over, his expression thoughtful. “You mind investing a little elbow grease?”

“Not at all.” It would keep her mind off of the decisions that had to be made.

He gave a brief nod of satisfaction, as if she’d just passed some sort of test. “I’ve got just the place. Owner died a few years back and his kids don’t give a hoot about the house. Can’t seem to agree about selling it, either. In the meantime, it’s for rent. Won’t suit just anybody because of its size. Two bedrooms, a big kitchen, and a living room. Most folks want the Taj Majal in the summer, so they can fill the place with everyone from back home they were trying to get away from. You know what I mean?”

Actually, she had no idea. She’d taken only one real vacation in her entire life—to this town, as a matter of fact. She nodded just the same.

“Anyway, the price is negotiable depending on how long you want it for and how much work you’re willing to put in yourself to clean it up and save me calling in a maid service.” At Gracie’s surprised look, he chuckled. “That would be my wife. She’d be mighty happy to let someone else chase the mice away for a change.”

Gracie swallowed hard and reminded herself she wasn’t at Worldwide anymore. “There are mice?”

“Not so many now that the weather’s warming up. Once you sweep away the dust bunnies and get to stirring around inside, the last of ’em will go.”

“I certainly hope so,” she muttered. “When can you show it to me?”

“Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose. You have a car with you?”

“I left it at the hotel.”

“Then you can ride with me. I’ll stop by the office and pick up the keys.”

Gracie wasn’t sure what she’d expected, someplace ramshackle and neglected, probably. At any rate, it wasn’t the tidy little white cottage with the Wedgwood-blue shutters and sprawling porch across the front. A pair of white rockers had been upended on the porch. That was all she needed.

“I’ll take it,” she said at once.

“You haven’t even been inside yet,” Johnny Payne protested.

“Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe I was being impulsive, but this is exactly what I was looking for.”

“Miss, if you don’t mind me saying so, you must not do much negotiating.”

If only he knew, Gracie thought. She’d handled more tough negotiations in recent years than Johnny Payne probably had in his lifetime. “I’ve done my share,” she said modestly. “I just don’t believe in playing games once I’ve made up my mind about something.”

“And you want this house?”

“I do.”

He shrugged. “Then let’s see how many mice took up residence this winter before we settle on the details.”

The details were a snap. The asking price was so reasonable, Gracie saw no reason to argue about it, though Johnny Payne looked a little disappointed when she didn’t.

By nightfall, Gracie had swept and vacuumed and dusted away cobwebs. She’d left the windows open to the cool April breeze off the water. More than once she’d slipped outside to sit on the porch for just a minute and take in the view of the wide, wide Potomac with the Maryland shore in the distance and a peek at the banks of Robert E. Lee’s birthplace, Stratford Hall, off to one side.

After dinner, her muscles aching and her clothes and hair an untidy wreck, she took her cup of herbal tea onto the porch for one last time. An unfamiliar feeling stole over her as she sat there with the sky darkening and the waves lapping on the narrow patch of beach across the street. She felt at peace. Worldwide Hotels and Maximillian Devereaux were very far away. She could almost imagine a time when neither would so much as enter her thoughts.

That moment couldn’t possibly come soon enough to suit her.

2

By the end of the week Gracie had established a routine. Still up at the crack of dawn, she went for a walk along the river, always winding up at the Beachside Café for breakfast.

On her second visit, Jessie and everyone else in the place already seemed to know that she had just rented the Taylor place on the waterfront. They knew she wasn’t from the area and that she planned to stay at least through summer.

“I’m surprised they haven’t nailed down my credit rating,” she commented to Jessie, laughing at the accuracy and thoroughness of the waitress’s report.

“Oh, Johnny has that, too, I’m sure, but there are some things he manages to keep to himself.” She eyed Gracie with curiosity. “Why here? You look like a big-city girl to me. I’ll bet you don’t even own a pair of jeans.”

That was true enough, but Gracie decided not to confirm it. “Maybe I’ve just had a little too much of big-city living,” she said, which was the truth as far as it went.

“The fast pace’ll kill you, that’s for sure,” Jessie agreed, then peered at her thoughtfully. “Or was it a man?”

She nodded sagely, though Gracie hadn’t said a word. “It usually is, if you ask me. At the heart of any woman’s troubles there is guaranteed to be a man.”

“Not this time,” Gracie replied, even as an image of Max popped into her head. Max wasn’t a problem, not for her heart, anyway. He was just a simple pain in the neck, professionally speaking.

Unfortunately, her conversation with Jessie had stirred up the very memories she had been trying so hard to forget. Thanks to Max she was in a strange place, completely at loose ends. Listening to Jessie’s curious speculation reminded Gracie that this little sabbatical of hers would end sooner or later. What then?

Maybe thinking about the sorry state of her life and the dim prospects for her future explained why she noticed the house, the huge Victorian with its dilapidated, sagging porch and its intricate gingerbread trim. It was hidden away behind an overgrown hedge and a heavy wrought-iron gate.

Gracie figured she must have passed it half a dozen times before as she strolled along lost in thought, but this morning with the sun glistening on its fading white paint and grimy windows, it caught her eye.

Three stories tall, with a widow’s walk on the top, it was like something out of a book, albeit a Gothic horror novel at the moment. It was the kind of place kids would assume was haunted.

But despite its state of disrepair, Gracie could envision it all primped up with fresh paint and shining windows. In her mind’s eye, pots filled with bright flowers decorated the front porch and the lawn was tended, the hedge neatly trimmed. She could also imagine a simple, discreet sign hanging by the gate, declaring it a bed-and-breakfast.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered the minute the idea struck. She hurried her step as if to escape her own thoughts. Though the house was clearly unoccupied and ignored, there was no For Sale sign out front. Even if there had been, she wasn’t interested in staying in Seagull Point for more than a few months.

Was she?

Of course not, she insisted, again picking up speed after a last backward glance over her shoulder. Coming here in the first place had been impulsive. Staying would be, what? Lunacy? Jessie had pegged it. She was a big-city girl. The more exotic the city, the better. Seagull Point was a far cry from Cannes, France.

Still, she found herself strolling past the house again that afternoon and pausing in front of it on her way to breakfast the following morning to study it with a critical, experienced eye.

“It wouldn’t take much,” she murmured, ignoring the little voice inside that suggested boredom, not good sense, was behind the notion of buying the place. Once again, she dismissed the idea.

Unfortunately, it kept coming back. When she stopped at the hardware store to pick up a new broom and some nails to fix a loose board on the porch of the rental, she couldn’t help looking at the paint chips. Before she knew it, she had a whole handful.

“Johnny hasn’t talked you into painting the Taylor place while you’re here, has he?” the man behind the counter asked when he saw the collection of paint chips.

Gracie grinned. “No way. I have another project I’ve been thinking about, that’s all. It probably won’t come to anything. Is it okay if I take all these samples?”

“That’s what they’re there for. Let us know if there’s anything you need. I’ve got a fellow working for me who takes on odd jobs painting. Needs the extra money. He does good work, too, as long as you don’t mind him doing it evenings and on his days off from here.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

On her way home, she stopped in front of the old Victorian once again. This time, though, she opened the rusty gate and stepped through. The grounds were far more expansive than she’d envisioned from the street, though at the moment they were a tangle of weeds. There was room enough for a badminton net and a croquet course in the back, plus an area with a brick fireplace that would be perfect for family-style barbeques for guests. The concept had an old-fashioned charm to it that appealed to her. Surely there were still people in the world who longed for the days when video games weren’t the entertainment of choice. Surely there were families that sought out low-key vacations far from the crowds at Disney World.

She tested the steps and found them solid enough, but to her regret the windows were too filthy to permit a halfway decent view of the interior.

“It doesn’t matter,” she told herself sternly. It was only a pipedream, after all. It wasn’t as if she were going to buy the place and settle down here to run it. She had a job waiting for her in France…if she wanted to go back. She could land another position with another hotel chain at the drop of a hat…if she chose. The sleepy town of Seagull Point, Virginia, was not what she needed, not in the long run. It was a temporary balm for her soul, no more.

Even so, she found herself spreading the paint chips out on the kitchen table when she got home, playing with combinations of color until she had two that she liked, a third that was a possibility. When the phone rang, she guiltily shoved them all back into a pile as she answered it.

“Hello, Max,” she said, anticipating who would be on the other end of the line. Max was the only person she’d told where she was going. Even though she’d given him the entire state to choose from, Max was apparently every bit as good at narrowing down possibilities as he was at spotting a discrepancy of a few francs in the Worldwide books. It had taken him less than a week to find her.

“Bored yet?” he inquired.

“Of course not.”

“What are you doing with yourself?”

“Nothing, Max. That’s the whole point of a vacation.”

“A vacation?” His voice brightened perceptibly. “Then that is all that this is? You will be back?”

“No, Max. I will not be back.”

“The staff misses you,” he said, trying a different tack.

“I miss them,” she said. She had felt vaguely guilty about abandoning them to Max’s puritanical fiscal whims. André in particular would not fare so well without her as a buffer between him and Max.

“Guests have asked about you.”

She did brighten at that. “Really?” She’d hoped that the regulars would notice her absence, but hadn’t really expected Max to tell her.

“Actually, they have mentioned missing the floral arrangements you put in the lobby.”

A twinge of panic fluttered in her stomach. “Where are the flowers, Max?”

“The florist and I had a slight disagreement,” he admitted. “He prefers dealing only with you.”

Gracie laughed as she thought of gentle Paul Chevalier standing up to Max and refusing to deliver flowers to the hotel. He must have been incredibly insulted to have taken such a stance.

“Would you like me to call him?” she offered. “I can smooth things over.”

“Would you?” he asked, sounding relieved, perhaps a bit too smug.

“Of course. But Max, you’re going to have to start dealing with these little crises yourself or else bring in a new manager.”

“I can’t do that, not when I’m holding the job for you. In the meantime, the rest of us will do the best we can. The hotel will not fall apart overnight.”

“Overnight? Max, I’ve told you not to hold the job.”

“Allow me my fantasies, ma chérie.”

“Max!”

“Au revoir.”

Gracie sighed as she hung up. A moment later she placed the international call to the florist. Even though it would be evening in France, she knew she would find Paul Chevalier in his shop, tidying up after a hectic day, checking his orders, planning his trip to the flower market at the crack of dawn. Sure enough, he answered on the first ring, sounding distracted and rushed as he always did.

“Bonsoir, Paul.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, bonsoir,” he said, his voice brightening. “Comment allez-vous?”

“Très bien. And you, Paul? How are you? I understand Monsieur Devereaux has upset you.”

“The man is an imbecile,” he declared.

“What has he done?”

“He has asked me to pluck out only the dead flowers and replace them. He does not seem to understand that each arrangement is a piece of art, unique, magnificent in its own right.”

“Definitely an imbecile,” Gracie agreed. “But, Paul, think of the guests. They appreciate your arrangements. They have told Monsieur Devereaux that they miss them. S’il vous plait, Paul, for me. Will you try to work with him?”

“You are coming back soon?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“You have abandoned us, then, left us to this imbecile?”

“Max is okay. Just be patient with him. He will learn.”

Paul sighed dramatically. “For you, mademoiselle, but only for you.”

“Thank you, Paul. You are a treasure.”

“You are sure you will not be back?”

“Very sure. Not to the hotel, anyway. But I will come back to visit, Paul. I promise.”

“Very good, mademoiselle. Au revoir.”

Dealing with that one little detail reminded her that she was only postponing the inevitable. She loved handling the day-in day-out crises that went with running a hotel. If Paul’s ego required careful handling, it was nothing compared to those of the chefs. More than once she had walked into a hotel kitchen to find the chef and the sous-chef squared off in a battle that shook the pots and pans. One terrible night she had ended up putting the final touches on elaborate desserts under the watchful gaze of the artistic, temperamental pastry chef after his own assistant had quit in a huff.

In truth, there was very little she hadn’t pitched in and done at one time or another to keep the hotel operating smoothly. Which meant, she concluded thoughtfully, that surely she could run a small little bed-and-breakfast in Virginia on her own. It would be an investment in her future, to say nothing of a home, something she hadn’t had since she’d sold off her family’s property, such as it was, in a long-dead Pennsylvania coal mining town.

There had been nothing charming or quaint about the place where she’d grown up. It had fallen to ruin years before, leaving behind citizens who were every bit as depressed as the local economy. She had been all too eager to see the last of it. She had known when she left after her mother’s funeral, less than six months after her father’s, that she would never go back there.

Seagull Point, Virginia, however, had promise. In only a few days she had seen that. There was hope in the burgeoning business district and in the freshly painted and recently renovated homes along the river. The people were friendly and upbeat. They were rooted, not in misery as her old neighbors had been, but in life. Gracie had seen evidence of prosperity in the packed seafood restaurants and actual traffic jams at the town’s main intersections on weekends.

There weren’t enough hotel rooms, either. She’d stayed in the only national chain hotel in the entire area. The others were all small, family-owned motels with a very limited number of rooms. A bed-and-breakfast, especially one in a house with historic charm and architecture, would fit right in. She didn’t have to make one of her notorious lists to add up the pluses and minuses. Fiscally the decision was sound. Emotionally, well, in the last couple of days she had developed a surprising longing for roots, sparked by that surprising and devastating discovery back in Cannes that she had no real ties in the world.

It wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions, check on the property’s availability. Gathering facts wasn’t the same as making an impulsive offer. It was testing the waters, not jumping off a bridge. She would make a few casual inquiries, assess the possibilities. She would approach the whole thing in a slow, logical manner.

Famous last words.

“Not available,” Johnny Payne told her succinctly when Gracie asked him about the old Victorian.

Naturally that stirred her competitive spirit. Overcoming obstacles was her specialty. She thrived on it. “Why?” she asked.

He regarded her as if she had a screw loose for asking such an obvious question. “Because the owner don’t want to sell,” he explained patiently.

“How do you know? Have you asked?”

“It’d be on the market if they wanted to sell, now wouldn’t it?”

Gracie decided on another tack. “Johnny, what would that house be worth in today’s market? Can you give me a ballpark figure?”

“Don’t know,” he insisted. “Never thought about it.”

“You’re in real estate. It’s your business to know property values in the area. Surely you have some idea.”

He shook his head. “You ask me about a cottage on the riverfront, I could tell you in a heartbeat. That old Victorian’s one of a kind. It’s been in the same family since it was built as their summer home way back at the turn of the century or before, when this place was bustling with tourists running away from D.C. Haven’t been inside it myself in a dozen years or more. Can’t say what condition it’s in now, though from the looks of it, it can’t be good.”

He peered at her curiously. “Why are you asking so many questions? You thinking of sticking around, after all? If that’s it, I could probably get you a deal on that place you’re in. It’s more your size, anyway. You’d just be rattling around in that big old Victorian. Must be ten, fifteen rooms in there, altogether. The place sprawls all to hell and gone.”

Gracie wasn’t prepared to show her hand. If the owner thought there was an anxious buyer out there with plans for the house, the price could escalate beyond her reach. Assuming this mysterious owner could be located in the first place. Johnny was as tight-lipped as a clam about the owner’s identity. Maybe he feared he’d be cut out of a deal if she decided to contact the man directly.

“Could you at least look into it for me,” she pleaded, partly to reassure him that the deal would be his, if one were struck. “What would it hurt?”

“I don’t go around begging folks to sell their property,” he retorted. “It’s not polite.”

“Isn’t that carrying southern courtesy to an extreme?” Gracie asked. “Maybe they just haven’t thought of selling. Given the look of the place, maybe they’ve forgotten all about its existence. Or maybe they figure they’d have to pour too much into repairs to put it on the market. Coming to them with a prospective buyer and a firm offer could be an easy commission for you.”

“Sorry.”

“Johnny, for heaven’s sakes, tell her the truth,” Jessie prodded. “You haven’t said one word to Kevin Patrick Daniels since he beat out your boy for all-state in basketball their senior year.”

Gracie stared from Jessie to Johnny’s suddenly beet-red complexion. “This reluctance of yours is due to some old feud over basketball?”

“Around here, folks take their high school basketball seriously,” Jessie explained. “Don’t they, Johnny?”

He scowled at her. “You’ve got a big mouth, missy.”

Jessie gave him an impertinent grin. “Truth’s truth. You wouldn’t talk to Kevin Patrick if there was a million-dollar commission in it for you.”

“The man stole that title from my boy,” he muttered. “Ruined his scholarship chances, and for what? Not a damn thing. He didn’t need a scholarship. He was already headed for the University of Virginia, just like his daddy before him and his daddy before that.”

Jessie shook her head. “Kevin Patrick could hardly help the fact that he was named to that all-state team. He’d been high scorer here for his entire high school career. Derek was second best and that’s no reflection on him. It’s just that Kevin Patrick had a gift. He had one of those exceptional, once-in-a-lifetime records. It was too bad they went through school at the same time. Any other season, Derek would have been the superstar.”

“Damn right,” Johnny said.

“Let me get this straight,” Gracie said, trying to grasp the conflict between the two men. “You’re refusing to even check on this house for me because it would mean dealing with a man you blame for cheating your son out of a college basketball scholarship?”

“In a nutshell,” Johnny confirmed without embarrassment.

“How many years ago was this?”

“Eighteen. Right, Johnny?” Jessie said.

“That’d be about right,” he agreed.

“Eighteen years? You’ve carried on this feud for eighteen years?” Gracie was incredulous. “Why not put the screws to him, then? Make him sell me the house for a fourth of what it’s worth. Think what a laugh you could have over that.”

“Can’t do it,” Johnny said with finality. “I refuse to be in the same room with the arrogant, no-good son of a gun. You want to deal with him you’re on your own, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. The man’s a cheat and a scoundrel. He’s been managing that property for the past few years and you’ve seen it. He’s let it go to seed.”

Cheats and scoundrels were among Gracie’s favorite people. Negotiating with them and winning thrilled her almost as much as terrific sex. Not that she’d had much experience with either lately.

She studied the real estate man carefully. “You’re sure about this, Johnny? Selling real estate’s how you make your living. You don’t mind if I track down this Kevin Patrick Daniels and deal with him directly?”

“Suit yourself,” he said with an indifference that rivaled Max at his worst.

“Where can I find him?”

When Johnny remained stubbornly, steadfastly silent, it was Jessie who gave her directions. “Believe me, you won’t be able to miss it. There’s not another place like it on that road. Think of Tara and then exaggerate.”

The man lived on a blasted plantation and he allowed that beautiful old Victorian to fall to ruin? Gracie decided she might come to dislike Kevin Patrick Daniels almost as passionately as Johnny did. That would make buying the house for a pittance of its worth all the more satisfying.

If, of course, she decided she really wanted it.

Which she didn’t, she insisted. This was purely an exercise, a gathering of facts. Nothing more.

Two hours later she was searching a country road for the lane that would take her to Kevin Patrick Daniels, current manager of the property. If that run-down state was his idea of management, he ought to be a quick sell.

She knew the type. Never spend a dime unless the roof is actually falling down. Which it was. No doubt he’d rather accept her offer than put a new coat of paint or a new roof on the place. Her adrenaline pumped just thinking about the negotiations. She felt more alive than she had in months. Hopeful.

And that was before she glimpsed the Daniels estate. Jessie hadn’t exaggerated a bit. It was Tara on steroids. Every bush was tidily trimmed, every blade of grass on the rolling hillside had been neatly shorn to the precise same length. The house and the columns across the front were pristine white, which probably required regular touch-ups. The windows, tall and stately, glistened.

Oh, yes, indeed, Gracie thought, staring at it with a mixture of awe and disgust. Stealing that neglected Victorian from Kevin Patrick Daniels was going to make her day.

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