Page 1 of Unpacking Secrets
One
Juliet
Thiscannotbereal,I thought as I studied the building in front of me.
A family legacy I’d never heard of, an inheritance from a grandmother I’d never known. That initial sense of disbelief still hadn’t quite worn off, even as I stood before the charming Tudor-style inn. My gaze traveled from the steep, gabled roof down to the perfectly landscaped flower beds on either side of an arching wooden door.
This building—this business—was now mine.
After a phone call changed the course of my life, I was the new owner of the Lakeside Inn, a bustling bed and breakfast in the middle of Nowhere, New York.
Scratch that.
Once rated one of the safest towns in America, Spruce Hill lay tucked away between Lake Ontario to the north and the Finger Lakes to the south. My internet search the week before had produced little more than a few wineries outside of town, the inn itself, and a conspiracy site about a string of unsolved murders in the surrounding area back in the eighties and nineties.
Since the safe town rating was more recent, I decided to ignore that bit of trivia.
After two long days of driving and an overnight stay at a creepy motel outside of Chicago, I was tired, hungry, and quite possibly delirious. The inn, with its white stucco exterior and dark exposed beams, made me feel like I'd crossed an ocean rather than a handful of states.
It was cute and quaint and, mind-bogglingly, it belonged to me.
I pressed my hand hard over my mother’s ring where it rested against my sternum, drawing a deep breath that lifted the opal into my palm. Missing her was like missing a limb. It had always been us against the world, but now it was just me and the aftermath of a truth she’d kept hidden my entire life.
Her ring and the unexpected, strangely cryptic note she’d left for me to find in a nightstand drawer, telling me to contact the owner of this inn, were the only tangible proof that this wasn’t a dream.
Unfortunately, when I did as she directed, I learned the owner—my grandmother, who I’d thought long dead—had passed away only a matter of months after my mom.
My childhood home, tucked in a quiet suburb outside of Minneapolis, was officially sold to a young couple expecting their first child. Most of my worldly possessions were crammed into suitcases in my car, with only the most sentimental items taking up space in my best friend’s guest room closet until I was settled and ready for her to ship them to me.
My gaze turned to Lake Ontario, nestled right up against the pretty gardens behind the inn. Sunlight glittered across the gently waving surface, accentuating each ripple drawn by the spring breeze.
I took a step down the path to explore further, but I was interrupted by a sudden jingling of keys and a robust laugh.
“Well now, you must be our long lost friend. I’m Gerard Walker, caretaker here at the inn.”
A portly older man appeared from behind the corner of the building. His English accent was soft, faded after what I imagined must be decades far from home and remarkably soothing to my nerves. He was the perfect caricature of a grandfather, with his twinkling eyes and a shock of white hair.
When he held out a hand, I felt like a child, playacting at business ownership. I forced down the uncertainty to shake his hand with as much confidence as I could muster.
“Yes, I’m Juliet Morrison.”
“Juliet,” he repeated, his voice heavy with emotion. “It’s a delight to finally make your acquaintance. By heavens, you do look like Nan. That wild red hair, those freckles. And you have her eyes, blue as the morning sky over the lake.”
It was strange, hearing my unknown grandmother referred to in such a familiar fashion. Until my mother’s letter set off this chain of events, I hadn’t even known Nan existed. Though I pasted what I hoped was a polite smile on my face and wracked my brain for an appropriate response, the awkward silence stretched.
Finally, Gerard cleared his throat and gestured toward the inn. “Why don’t I show you around?”
“Sure, that sounds great,” I said with relief.
I followed his stout frame to the inn’s heavy wooden door. It looked practically medieval, I thought, expecting a dim interior filled with long oak tables and serving wenches. Instead, the door opened into a sunny, cozy sitting room. The patterned wallpaper was a bit old-fashioned, but then, so was the floral upholstery. It could have been straight out of a country living magazine.
“Nan and our housekeeper, Gemma Gregson, decorated the place themselves,” he told me as we walked into the room. “They wanted it to feel like a family home, rather than an impersonal hotel.”
“It’s beautiful.” I touched a petal in the bouquet of silk flowers on a side table.
“I, ah, assume the lawyer explained the management situation to you?” he ventured. His hands were clasped tightly together as he watched my perusal of the room, as though my opinion of the place actually mattered.
The lawyer. Right. After calling the inn and being informed the owner had died, I received a call from a lawyer the next day. I still hadn’t wrapped my head around it.
