Page 10 of Destined Chaos
“I was invited.” A long sigh left her lips as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her long blond hair was braided and hanging over her shoulder, nothing like the wet mess it had been earlier that day. “What are you doing here? Breaking in?”
“I see you two met,” Mrs. Weller said as she walked in, carrying a basket full of rolls.
Clark followed behind, carrying a big bowl of salad. Something that none of them ever ate. Mrs. Weller wasn’t known for cooking healthy. Every meal was followed with a dessert of some kind, most likely an apple pie. They set them on the dinner table next to a casserole dish of lasagna.
“Libby, this is my son, Clark. He’s the sheriff in town, and that’s Hugh Bennett. Clark's life-long friend and local good guy. If you ever need a helicopter or charter man, he’s your guy.”
“Nice to meet you both,” she said.
Mrs. Weller glanced at me and lifted a brow. “Hugh, why don’t you get Libby’s chair.”
“Right, sorry, where are my manners?” I said, sliding the chair out for Libby to sit. Mrs. Weller pointed to the one next to Libby for me to take. If she were playing matchmaker, this had disaster written all over it.
Libby smiled and took her seat before I sat in the one next to her.
Mrs. Weller dished out plates. She handed Libby a large salad and didn’t even attempt to give any to Weller and me, just added extra helpings of the homemade lasagna.
“I’m sure you’re both wondering why I brought you here.”
I glanced at Libby, who seemed just as surprised. I opened my mouth and then snapped it closed before I guessed something that would get me in trouble.
“Actually, you said you invite all the town residents over,” Libby said. Her smile momentarily wavered until she cleared her throat.
“Yes, well.” Mrs. Weller filled a little plate of lasagna and placed it in front of Libby. “You were both born in this town, so that’s true, but the primary reason I’ve invited you both is so that each of you knows where I stand on a few things.”
Libby clasped her fingers in her lap. “And what might that be?”
“You’re experiencing fog, are you not?” Mrs. Weller asked.
“I think we both know that Libby isn’t responsible for bringing the weather to town,” I said, unsure where this was going.
Libby’s stare didn’t waver off of Mrs. Weller, as if she were trying to read the older woman’s mind.
Mrs. Weller was the first to turn her gaze on me. “And even though you believe that structure has a solid foundation and you want to buy Slaughter House, there are secrets still left to be discovered before you should ever make your first reservation.”
Libby’s gaze whipped in my direction. Her brows dipped. “You want to buy Slaughter House?”
“Yes. The secret is apparently out. I want to open a ski lodge on this side of the mountain.”
“And what does she mean about the foundation?”
I put the napkin on my lap and picked up my fork. “What did she mean about the fog?”
She huffed and grabbed her fork, stabbing the lettuce with a bit more zest.
“Each of you needs something the other can provide,” Mrs. Weller continued. “Libby can help with the ghosts haunting the property, since most are probably her relatives. And Hugh, you can help point out all the problems in the lodge, like you do for all those other people who pay for your services. You can also make sure everything gets fixed. It’s an added bonus that you’re local and know everyone in town. You can help Libby contract the right people to get the job done, only might I suggest that both of you be present for the renovations. You know, in case there are any issues.”
“That’s all fine and dandy, Mom, but Hugh has a company. He has flights. He can’t just drop everything to go help Libby. No offense, Ms. Slaughter.”
Mrs. Weller picked up her own fork and sliced into her lasagna with finesse. If anything, she looked pleased with her decisions to bring us together.
“He will if it means achieving his dream. Won’t you, dear?”
That was the question. What was I willing to do, or rather put up with, if it meant getting Slaughter House? Did I care that I hardly knew Libby?
“Assuming Libby’s trigger finger turns less itchy, I’d consider it, but only if she lets me put a bid in on the place.”
The bell above the front door chimed, announcing someone walking into the B&B.
