One week at the faraway.., p.1
One Week at the Faraway Inn, page 1
One Week at the Faraway Inn
A Berkshire Romance
E.A. Brady
Sandgate East Publishing
Copyright © 2023 by E.A. Brady
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact eabrady@eabradyauthor.com.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Angela Haddon Book Cover Design
First edition 2023
Dedication
For Steve. Because they’re always for Steve.
If you and I know each other in real life, please don’t read this book. It contains descriptions of sex between two consenting adults.
Should you decide to move forward against my advice, please know that it may be weird to look each other in the eye the next time we hang out.
You’ve been warned.
And I love you for reading it anyway!
Contents
1. Victoria
2. Aaron
3. Victoria
4. Aaron
5. Victoria
6. Aaron
7. Victoria
8. Aaron
9. Victoria
10. Aaron
11. Victoria
12. Victoria
13. Aaron
14. Victoria
15. Aaron
16. Victoria
17. Aaron
18. Victoria
19. Aaron
20. Victoria
21. Aaron
22. Victoria
23. Aaron
24. Victoria
25. Aaron
26. Victoria
27. Aaron
28. Victoria
29. Aaron
30. Victoria
31. Aaron
32. Victoria
33. Victoria One Year Later
Afterword
Also by E.A. Brady
About the Author
Victoria
The further west she drove from Boston, the greener and more spacious the scenery became, and the tighter and more anxious Victoria became. It had been a long time, years in fact, since she had been out of the city for more than a weekend. And never by herself.
As the traffic dwindled to near nothingness in the unending stretch of the Massachusetts Turnpike between Springfield and Stockbridge, Victoria Lathrop’s second thoughts about spending a week alone in the Berkshires came crashing back to add to her already high anxiety level. Would she be able to do any of the art classes she’d signed up for or had all her creativity dried up from years of non-use? Did the old adage, use it or lose it, apply do artistic abilities?
The logistics of being away from Lathrop Associates, the social media management business in which she’d invested blood, sweat, and tears over the last decade, had all been taken care of. Her clients had been notified of her absence and her co-workers were more than capable of handling whatever came their way. All Victoria had to do was lighten up and enjoy herself over the next seven days. But the question remained: would she be able to do that?
Her schedule had been loosely planned around a mixed media art class, a Boston Symphony Orchestra performance, and a potential mixology class after dinner at an upscale local restaurant. The incredibly vibrant and active art scene coupled with the amazing natural beauty of the area had drawn Victoria to the Berkshires for her mini renaissance. On the eve of her forty-fifth birthday, she had finally taken long-avoided action to reignite her artistic side, the side she had ignored for so long it had stopped seeking her attention.
She justified her intentions to re-energize herself as a way to re-energize her business but somewhere deep down she knew it was more than that. It was a way to rekindle the sense of freedom that her art had always provided and that lately she’d felt was missing.
She had been told so many times that art was a distraction from the things that truly mattered, and that she needed to be able to be able to support herself as an independent woman who didn’t need a man, that she had internalized the message to the point of no return. Only recently did she realize that she had become a successful woman who was more than capable of supporting herself and, dammit, she missed making art.
The open space on either side of the highway rolled by in striking green contrast to the gray, steel backdrop of the city she was used to.
She needed something to get her out of work mode and into week-by-herself-summer-vacation mode. Music had never let her down before and the diversion of song lyrics seemed like the best way to relax while she finished the drive to the Faraway Inn, the family-run bed and breakfast, in a small town called Hazelton, at the western end of the state. Though she was more of a classical music aficionado, her assistant’s love of country music had started to rub off on her and classic country felt like the perfect soundtrack to a bright, warm, sunny July afternoon.
Not normally a Jimmy Buffett fan, "Margaritaville" was one of those songs she couldn’t resist singing along with, so when it started playing through the Harman Kardon sound system of her new Mercedes, Victoria clicked up the volume, put down the windows, and since there was nobody around to hear her, she let loose and sang along.
She clicked the volume up another couple notches and unexpectedly felt a deep connection with Buffett’s broken-hearted beach bum as he finally came to the realization that his dire situation was most likely self-inflicted. Probably a little too close to home. She took a sip from her water bottle and clicked over to the classic rock channel. A woman could never go wrong with a little old school Bon Jovi to keep her company.
Even belting out "Livin’ on a Prayer" as loud as she could wasn’t enough to keep her mind distracted from thoughts of what was happening back in Boston. Her fingers itched to call her assistant, Paige, and find out how things were going and maybe give her a bit of grief for convincing Victoria to embark on this self-reflection vacation. “Tell yourself it will benefit the company if you have to,” Paige had said. “But just go and relax and practice making art while you learn to take some deep breaths.” Luckily, the GPS stopped her from dialing when its AI voice instructed her to get off at the next exit, toward Hazelton.
About fifteen minutes later she found herself driving through the idyllic town, slowing down to take in the utter charm of the place. Wide streets, with ample parking, were lined with diners, a gas station, a small movie theater, and at least three different restaurants, along with an array of gift shops, a bakery and, much to her delight, a sign pointing up a side street to a chocolatier. That quintessential New England hallmark, a white wood clapboard church, sat at the far end of the street, overlooking the downtown area.
Just after the center of town, a sign pointed north, indicating the direction to the Hazelton Art Museum and Gallery. An empty feeling settled into her stomach when she realized she’d be going that way tomorrow to see what, if anything, remained of her art skills.
“You’re just hungry,” she said to herself, rationalizing away the spark of fear as evidence of the fact that it was three o’clock and she still hadn’t eaten lunch. She stopped looking around the town and continued driving until she arrived at 324 Benson Drive, The Faraway Inn.
The inn itself looked as if it belonged in a fairy tale. Her tight grip on the steering wheel eased slightly as she took in the old, two-story, safflower yellow Victorian with white-trimmed windows, sitting at the end of a long, gravel driveway. The deep front porch wrapped around the side of the house and was surrounded by plants in an explosion of colors and textures. Even the wooden sign had been painted in complimentary colors in an elegant script. She half expected a troupe of fairies, or whatever term one would use to name a collection of fairies, to rise from the flower beds as she watched.
Once she stepped out of the car, everything about her surroundings was different enough to feel slightly uncomfortable, including the way the air smelled. There weren’t a lot of places to get the fresh cut grass smell in the city, but there was no way to avoid it out in the hinterlands of Hazelton. She inhaled a deep breath, determined to force herself to slow down, take in everything the area had to offer, and enjoy her birthday renaissance week.
Victoria hauled her suitcase out of the trunk, set her weekend bag on top of it then wheeled it across the driveway toward the front door of her home away from home for the next seven days.
Aaron
People watching without being recognized was a hobby Aaron Price had developed during years touring the country when he needed some down time away from the chaos of life as a musician on the road. In the past, a hat and sunglasses were all the disguise he needed to avoid detection from all but the most hardcore fans, but as years went on even those became less of a necessity and more of a habit.
He’d been at the Faraway for a few days already and had yet to see anyone who piqued his interest in any way other than as a casual observer. And then a most intriguing woman exited a black Mercedes, her hair a mess, as though she drove with the windows down instead of using the air conditioning, wearing a knee-length dress printed with large flowers. Her hips swayed as she strode across the driveway, pulling
From his seat in the hammock swing under the giant maple tree, Aaron watched the woman walk, listened to the slapping sound her sandals made against her feet with each step she took, and an easy smile worked its way across his face. He looked back at the Mercedes to see if there was anyone else getting out of it, but it was still. Perhaps her companion would be meeting her later. Or perhaps she would be staying by herself. Odd but not unheard of. He himself was doing exactly that after all.
Years of this hobby helped him get an idea of a person simply by observing them without having to interact. Unless he chose to. Something about the bombshell approaching the front door of his sort of, almost inn told him he had just chosen to. Whether it was the way she walked, tall and with purpose, even though she was entering the most restful place he’d ever been, or the way she carried herself, shoulders back, full of confidence, he didn’t know. Most likely it was a good deal of both. Either way, he was interested enough to leave the comfort of the fabric swing and follow her into the house.
Not wanting to intrude or appear as if he was eavesdropping, though he was one hundred percent eavesdropping, he walked across the large sitting room to the side table that the innkeepers set up every afternoon with two coffee urns and a plate of homemade cookies; today was chocolate chip.
The woman from the Mercedes stood on the customer side of the counter, across from Hattie, one half of the older couple who owned the Faraway.
Years spent traveling the world with his rock band, Undercover Angel, as well as his second career as a record producer, had him crossing paths with all manner of people, from the easiest of easy going, to insanely high strung, to entirely unlikable, and everywhere in between. But Hattie and her husband, Mitch, were genuinely decent people and two of the hardest workers he’d had the pleasure of meeting.
The work required to run a place like the Faraway was no joke, and it quickly became apparent why the older couple were eager to sell.
Hattie welcomed the new woman with her customary ear-to-ear smile, pointing out the amenities of the room, the map of local restaurants and attractions, and of course, the table of coffee and cookies where Aaron currently stood filling his cup and wrapping a cookie in a napkin.
“Thank you,” the woman said, taking the map from Hattie. Her voice was strong, but not loud. It had a pleasant sound and he wondered what it sounded like when she laughed. “I have to tell you,” she continued. “Your inn is absolutely spectacular. The grounds are gorgeous and—” she looked around the room, making brief eye contact with him before she returned her attention to Hattie, “the building itself is just so beautiful. It makes me feel like I’m in a fairy tale.”
In usual Hattie fashion, she blushed and thanked the woman profusely. “Okay, Miss Lathrop, here is the key to your room. You’ll be staying in Room 4, which is up the stairs, left around the banister, last door on the right.”
Aaron knew the inn was intermittently booked for the week, though he had no idea which rooms were assigned to which guests. A warm pleasure traveled through his body when he learned that the Mercedes woman, Miss Lathrop, was staying in the room across the hall from his own.
“You can leave your bags at the bottom of the stairs, and I’ll have Mitch bring them up for you in just a few minutes,” Hattie added as Miss Lathrop stepped away from the counter.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I can certainly carry them up one flight.”
Self-reliant? Stubborn? Or just polite? He couldn’t read the woman’s motivation from the tone of her voice, but he knew one way to find out.
As she approached the stairs, Aaron met her there. “May I?” he asked, nodding toward her large suitcase.
Victoria
She’d known he’d been watching her since she pulled into the driveway, yet she was still shocked by how obvious he was by approaching her as she attempted to go to her room. She tried to tell herself that she’d only noticed him because he was out there by himself, and not because he was so incredibly good-looking that she had to do a double take to make sure he wasn’t some kind of celebrity.
The hat and the glasses made that hard to do, but now that they stood face-to-face, no more hat or glasses, he was still extremely good looking, though she didn’t recognize him as anyone famous.
What she couldn’t do, however, was let him carry her suitcase up the stairs for her. First, she was more than capable of carrying it by herself, and second, this was her week to relax and focus on herself; classes to take, books to read, the chance to see if any of her creative ability had stayed intact after so many years of squashing it down. The one thing she didn’t need was to get sidetracked by a handsome stranger five minutes after walking in the door.
“I’ve got it,” she said, hanging her small bag over one shoulder, then lifting the suitcase from the rustic hardwood floor. “But thank you anyway.” She had one foot on the bottom step when he spoke again.
“I really don’t mind,” he said. “I’m going that way anyhow and I wouldn’t feel right letting you carry that while all I have is a coffee and a cookie.”
He held her gaze while she scrambled for a reason to keep saying no, until she remembered she didn’t need a reason. “No, thank you,” she said. “I’ve already told you I’ve got it.” She took another step. “Enjoy your cookie,” she said over her shoulder.
To her surprise he began walking right beside her. She threw him a questioning look.
“I’ve already told you I’m going up to my room,” he said with a smile, and she couldn’t help but wonder how much money he’d spent on dental work. His teeth were white and straight and damn-near perfect. They matched the handsomeness of his face, his hazel eyes that leaned a bit toward green. His slightly graying hair, that on anyone else would have looked like he was overdue for a trim, somehow fit this man to a T.
“I’m Aaron,” he said then looked down at his hands, a coffee in one and a cookie in the other, as if trying to figure out how to shake her hand. With a quick shrug he shoved the cookie into his mouth, wiped his hand on his jeans then stuck it out for a shake.
“Victoria,” she said, and against her better judgment, put her hand into his. He had a firm grip without being aggressive and she liked the way it felt. She’d shaken a lot of hands with a lot of people over the years. Being an entrepreneur was nothing if not a social job, but she’d never quite enjoyed a simple handshake the way she just had. “Nice to meet you.”
He swallowed down his cookie and once again flashed that smile, making her belly all fluttery and she knew if she let down her guard even for a minute, her carefully crafted week could be entirely unraveled before she knew the thread had been pulled. “Now that I have a free hand, I can take that for you,” he said and grabbed her suitcase and started up the stairs.
Briefly stunned into inaction by his gesture, Victoria jogged up the steps behind him and when they reached the top, took hold of the suitcase handle. “Thank you,” she said. “I can get it from here.”
She felt his eyes on her as she rounded the railing and headed toward her room, so she turned, caught him in the act, though he didn’t appear ashamed at all, and gave him her best Go away, I’m not interested face.
Rather than take the hint, he said, “Will I see you at dinner? Tonight’s Mitch’s specialty; burgers on the grill with corn on the cob.”
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “I don’t eat red meat.”
After she had taken a few more steps toward her room, he said, “How about pizza?” He was quiet for a moment before he said, “Around seven o’clock?”
Victoria didn’t know whether to laugh or tell this guy to go away, or both. Her opinion of him fluctuated from handsome and charming, to extremely pushy, and back again. Despite his charm and incredibly sexy body—tall, broad, and trim—the thought of having dinner with a stranger and having to be ‘on’ after a long afternoon of driving wasn’t in her plans. What she really wanted to do was take a long soaking bath, put on some comfortable clothes, and read a book on the couch in the cozy living room she’d briefly passed through.
