Page 1 of Summer Showdown
Chapter One
Lark
The GPS announced my arrival at Evergreen Inn with the same robotic confidence it had used to guide me through the last four hours of Montana back roads. I silenced it with a tap and stared up at the Victorian mansion through my windshield, wondering—not for the first time—if running away had been the smartest solution.
"It's a strategic retreat," I reminded myself, the same words I'd used when packing my suitcase at 2am three days ago. "Not running away."
I stretched my stiff shoulders, feeling the accumulated tension of the two-day drive from Chicago. My cell phone buzzed on the passenger seat—another text from Sloane Rafferty, my closest friend at the firm. I ignored it. Whatever latest update she had on the Apex-Meridian disaster could wait until I'd checked in and washed the travel grime from my skin.
The Evergreen Inn was exactly as advertised on its website: a sprawling Victorian gem with sage-green shutters, a wraparound porch, and enough gingerbread trim to staron a historical preservation calendar. Despite myself, I felt a reluctant admission that my exile at least came with architectural compensation.
I grabbed my purse, leaving my luggage for a second trip. The pale mountain gravel crunched beneath my heels, nothing like Chicago's polished concrete, as I approached the wide front steps, each footfall sounding like the ticking of a clock counting down my forced sabbatical. Two weeks. Fourteen days of "paid administrative leave" while the firm conducted the initial phase of their investigation. Corporate speak for "we need you out of the office while we sort through this mess."
An antique brass bell announced my arrival with a sound that belonged in a Christmas movie, not August in Montana. The interior was cool and smelled of lemon polish and fresh flowers. High ceilings, polished wood floors, tasteful rugs—whoever had renovated the place had respected its bones while giving it new life.
"Hello there! You must be Lark."
A young woman with chestnut hair piled into a messy bun emerged from a doorway to my left, tablet in hand and a warm smile on her face. She wore a simple sundress and looked utterly at home amid the Victorian splendor.
"I'm Rory Lancaster, owner and innkeeper." She extended her hand. "Welcome to Wintervale."
I returned her handshake with the firm grip I'd perfected during a decade of male-dominated boardrooms. "Lark Hayes. Thank you for accommodating me on short notice."
"Of course! We're delighted to have you." She glanced at the single purse slung over my shoulder. "Do you have more bags in your car?"
"Just one suitcase and my laptop."
"I'll help you bring them in. The Inn's quieter this week—the Summer Splash Festival doesn't start until next week, so you'll have some peace and quiet before the town gets busy. The festival runs through the following weekend."
A quiet week followed by festival chaos, perfectly aligned with my two-week leave. "That timing works well, actually. I'm here for about two weeks."
We retrieved my luggage, and Rory led me up a grand staircase, the wood creaking beneath our feet in what she cheerfully called "the Inn's way of saying hello." My room was on the second floor, a corner suite with windows facing both the front gardens and the side lawn that sloped toward what I presumed was the direction of the lake.
"The Larkspur Suite," Rory announced, swinging open the door. "One of my personal favorites."
The room was airy and elegant, with a four-poster bed, a reading nook tucked into a bay window, and a bathroom featuring an original claw-foot tub. Modern amenities had been tastefully integrated: reading lamps, power outlets, a ceiling fan turning lazily overhead.
"It's lovely," I said, genuinely impressed. "Thank you."
"Breakfast is served from seven to nine each morning, but there's always coffee and tea available in the dining room. Wi-Fi password is in the welcome folder on the desk. And if you need anything at all, my apartment's just off the kitchen." Rory handed me an old-fashioned brass key. "We do have electronic key cards, but most guests prefer these for the authentic experience."
I took the key, its weight substantial in my palm. "I appreciate it."
"Oh, and if you're interested in swimming, the lake's just a five-minute walk down the path from the side lawn. Public access, nice swimming area. Perfect way to cool off in this August heat."
I nodded, already envisioning a solitary swim. "I might take advantage of that."
"Well, I'll leave you to settle in. Breakfast is served from seven to nine in the morning, and there are several nice restaurants in town for dinner if you're hungry later."
Once alone, I stood in the center of the room, suddenly uncertain what to do with myself. I was accustomed to purpose—meetings scheduled in fifteen-minute increments, conference calls, deadline pressures. The silence felt foreign.
I began unpacking my hastily assembled wardrobe. After the emergency management meeting where they'd placed me on leave, I'd gone straight home and thrown things into a suitcase, barely registering what I was packing. Now I surveyed the strange mix: a couple of work blouses and slacks out of habit, several casual tops I rarely wore, three pairs of shorts, and a swimsuit still bearing tags from last year's impulse purchase. I'd packed like someone fleeing, not someone taking a planned vacation.
The random assortment suited my current state—neither fully professional nor comfortably casual, suspended between identities. I hung up what could be salvaged from the wrinkled mess, folded the rest, and tried to impose some order on the chaos.
My fingers brushed against something hard in a side pocket, and I pulled out my grandmother's ring. The sapphire caught the late afternoon sunlight, sending blue sparks dancing across the wall.
"Steady, Larkin," I whispered, using the childhood nickname only my grandmother had ever used. "You've weathered worse."
