Page 5 of One Night Forsaken

Perhaps this posh bed-and-breakfast existed on a smaller scale in the early days. Perhaps I should add its history to my list of places to research for my story.

I wind through the lot in search of a place to park, finding a spot on the third row. I cut the engine, hop out, and stretch my limbs. Ambling to the rear, I open the hatch and fetch my suitcase, pop up the handle, and shoulder my camera bag. After a press of the fob, I head for the B&B entrance with the suitcase gliding at my side.

Everything looks identical to my last visit, only brighter. Same tall gable roof. Same cream-painted wooden shake siding, cobblestone, and plastered exterior. And so many windows. Trees line the sidewalk, the drive, and the back of the property—which butts against the town-named lake.

It all looks the same but doesn’t.

The change isn’t seasonal. Not the brilliant greenery on the lush spruce trees nor the colorful blossoms on the flowering shrubs. Not the picturesque blue sky nor the lively chirps of nearby birds. And not the scents of the season; cherry blossoms in the distance and blooming lavender much closer.

Rather, it’s more like a new perspective. Seeing the town with new eyes. As more than another story. Which is odd since a story is why I am here. Again.

Nervous energy builds in my chest. Swirls and expands. Like when I was a child and I went too high on the swings. The excitement of defying gravity for a second here and there, followed by the anxiety of falling.

The last time I felt this familiar buzz in my chest, it didn’t end well. Hell, it broke me. Made me see most people as dishonest and artificial. Devious. And I refuse to go down that road again. Not for anyone.

Wheeling my suitcase through the lobby, I approach the reception desk.

“Welcome to the Lake Lavender Bed and Breakfast. How may I help you?” the man asks, a glowing smile on his face.

“Checking in.” I dig in my back pocket for my wallet and hand him my identification. “Braydon Harris.”

Tapping fills the momentary silence as he looks up my reservation. Tucking my license back in my wallet, I sign for my stay and he hands me the key to my room. I stare down at the key card hooked to a blue-and-white tag, the bed-and-breakfast name and a sprig of lavender etched in the metal. And for two breaths, memories from my last visit flit through my mind.

Shake it off, Harris.

“Take the stairs to the second level”—he points to the staircase—“turn right at the top and follow the hall. Your room is three doors down.”

Before I step away, he gives me the rundown on meal times and hours of the pool area, circling them in a brochure before handing it over. I thank him, wrap my fingers around the suitcase handle, and head for the stairs. Several stairs and lengthy strides later, I locate my room.

The lock beeps after a swipe of the key card. I open the door, cross the threshold and come to a stop. My eyes widen as I survey the room. One look and my last stay here dwarfs in comparison. During my fall visit, the better rooms were obviously unavailable. This room is easily the size of my bedroom and living room combined—maybe bigger—not including the bathroom. A definite upgrade.

Bold blues, creams, and subtle earthy tones draw you in. A cobblestone fireplace at one end of the room with a television mounted above. The king bed and pillows dressed in white-and-blue linens, a bold blue floral print quilt at the foot and matching decorative pillows at the head. Opposite the bed, a wall of windows with white wood plantation shutters brightens the room and grants the perfect view of the lake and forestry. Beneath the window ledge is a six-drawer dresser, a vase of dried lavender sprigs in the center and a television remote beside it. Nightstands sit on either side of the bed with glass-based lamps topped with a cream shade.

Two wingback wicker chairs with matching footstools sit near the fireplace, a small wooden side table between them. At the far end of the room, on one side of the fireplace, is a small nook with a desk. On it, a coffee maker, landline phone, lamp, and guides for the area. A small fridge and microwave hidden on the right wall. On the opposite side of the fireplace is the entry to the bathroom and closet—which seems far too large for a nonpermanent residence.

I wheel my suitcase to the bed, toss it on top, and start unpacking my things. Seeing as I will be here two weeks, it’s best I don’t spend my days living out of my suitcase. Until I return to Seattle, this is my temporary home.

Once my clothes are stowed and toiletries added to the posh bathroom, I pluck the guide from the desk and start surfing the list of things to do in this quaint town. Lake Lavender may be small in comparison to Seattle, but it has plenty of options to keep tourists and residents busy.

According to the guide, gatherings or festivals happen each month. Some are themed by the time of year or holiday, while others are just for fun. Parades and food contests and several annual fundraisers for local schools and food banks. Summer barbeques, fall bonfires, winter snowmen, and spring walks through lavender fields. Music concerts and film fests and local beer and wine tastings. Not a single month is vacant.

From the desk, I grab the bed-and-breakfast logoed pad of paper and pen. After perusing the guide a little longer, I jot down several sites, shops, and restaurants I want to visit during my stay. I strategize my time in Lake Lavender with all the places listed, noting I should just wander the town with no agenda for a day or two. Observe the residents and tourists. Get a true feel for the town.

Perhaps today, I meander the streets. Just me, my camera, and pen and paper. With the sun still high, I should get some great day shots of Main Street. And as the sun sets, shots near the lake will be gorgeous.

I tear the paper from the pad, shove it in my pocket, and snag my camera from the closet. Donning a hoodie, I loop the camera strap over my head. I forgo the pad of paper and simply take a few extra sheets and the pen, stuffing them in my front hoodie pocket.

Double-checking I have my room key, I exit and head for the stairs. Less than ten strides after I hit the bottom floor, I step through the front door of the bed-and-breakfast, out into the spring sunshine, and walk down Lavandula Lane the way I came.

Not sure what it is about this place, but a frenetic energy exists in the air. Stirs me to life. Revitalizes the blood in my veins. And for the first time in almost four years, I breathe easily.

CHAPTER2

ALESSANDRA

Ialways recognize the start of the season. The small shift from quieter days to more boisterous ones. It isn’t the warmer air or the longer hours of daylight. Nor the sweet fragrance that drifts from the lavender fields near the lake and blankets our town each year. Or the sight of residents wandering down Main Street with frozen treats or bubblier smiles.

It’s when myseason is hereradar beeps as I see random new faces in the café. One today, followed by another a couple days later. For weeks, they trickle in. Then all of a sudden, the line for the café is out the door. Every seat in the house is full. More new faces than familiar ones step up to the counter.

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