Chapter 1
Spring comes late to New England. Snow lingers in
isolated patches. Trees begin their greening hesitantly,
tiny closed buds of leaves against naked branches. Early
blooms of color burst from the earth’s womb. The air is
fresh with promise.
B.J. tossed open her window with a flourish and
welcomed the early breeze into her room. Saturday,
she thought with a grin, and began to braid her long,
wheat-colored hair. The Lakeside Inn was half-full, the
summer season three weeks away, and if all followed
her well-ordered plans, her duties as manager would be
light for the duration of the weekend.
Her staff was loyal, though somewhat temperamen-
tal. Like a large family, they squabbled, sulked, teased
and stuck together like mortar and brick when the need
arose. And I, she mused with a rueful grin, am head
counselor.
Pulling on faded jeans, B.J. did not pause to consider
the incongruity of the title. A small, childlike woman
reflected in her glass, curves disguised by casual attire,
braids hanging impishly astride a heart shaped, elfin
face with huge smoky eyes dominant. Her only large
feature, they swamped the tip-tilted nose and cupid’s
bow mouth and were prone to smolder or sparkle with
the fluctuations of her mood. After lacing dilapidated
sneakers, she jogged from the room, intending to check
on breakfast preparations before stealing an hour for
a solitary walk.
The main staircase of the inn was wide and uncar-
peted, connecting its four sprawling stories without
curve or angle, as straight and sturdy as the building
itself. She saw with satisfaction the lobby was both tidy
and deserted. The curtains were drawn to welcome the
sun, needlepoint pillows plumped, and a vase of fresh
wildflowers adorned the high, well-polished registra-
tion desk. The clatter of cutlery carried from the din-
ing room as she passed through the downstairs hall,
and she heard, with a long suffering sigh, the running
argument between her two waitresses.
“If you really like a man with small, pig eyes, you
should be very happy.”
B.J. watched Dot shrug her thin shoulders with the
words as she rolled a place setting in white linen.
“Wally does not have pig eyes,” Maggie insisted.
“They’re very intelligent. You’re just jealous,” she added
with grim relish as she filled the sugar dispensers.
“Jealous! Ha! The day I’m jealous of a squinty-eyed
little runt... Oh, hello, B.J.”
“Good morning, Dot, Maggie. You rolled two spoons
and a knife at that setting, Dot. I think a fork might be
a nice touch.”
Accompanied by her companion’s snickers, Dot un-
rolled the linen. “Wally’s taking me to a double feature
at the drive-in tonight.” Maggie’s smug statement fol-
lowed B.J. into the kitchen, and she allowed the door
to swing shut on the ensuing retort.
Unlike the casual, old fashioned atmosphere of the
remainder of the inn, the kitchen sparkled with twenti-
eth century efficiency. Stainless steel glimmered every-
where in the oversized room, the huge stove attesting
that the inn’s main attraction was its menu. Cupboards
and cabinets stood like veteran soldiers, walls and lino-
leum gleaming with fresh cleaning. B.J. smiled, pleased
with the room’s perfection and the drifting scent of
coffee.
“Morning, Elsie.” She received an absent mutter
from the round woman working at a long, well-scrubbed
counter. “If everything’s under control, I’m going out
for a couple of hours.”
“Betty Jackson won’t send any blackberry jelly.”
“What? Well, for goodness sake why not?” Annoyed
by the complication, B.J. plucked a fresh muffin from
a basket and began to devour it. “Mr. Conners always
asks for her jelly, and we’re down to the last jar.”
“She said if you couldn’t be bothered to pay a lonely
old woman a visit, she couldn’t be bothered to part with
any jelly.”
“Lonely old woman?” B.J.’s exclamation was ham-
pered by a mouthful of muffin. “She runs more news
items through that house of hers than the Associated
Press. Blast it, Elsie, I really need that jelly. I was too
busy last week to go listen to the latest special bulle-
tins.”
“The new owner coming Monday got you worried?”
“Who’s worried? I’m not worried.” Scowling, she
confiscated another muffin. “It’s simply that as manager
of the inn, I want everything to be in order.”
“Eddie said you were muttering and slamming
around your office after you got the letter saying he
was coming.”
“I was not...muttering... .” Moving to the refrigera-
tor, B.J. poured a glass of juice and spoke to Elsie’s wide
back. “Taylor Reynolds has a perfect right to inspect his
property. It’s just, blast it, Elsie, it was all those vague
comments about modernizing. Mr. Taylor Reynolds bet-
ter keep his hands off the Lakeside Inn and play with
his other hotels. We don’t need to be modernized,” she
continued, rapidly working herself up into a temper.
“We’re perfectly fine just the way we are. There’s not
a thing wrong with us, we don’t need anything.” She
finished by folding her arms across her chest and glar-
ing at the absent Taylor Reynolds.
“Except blackberry jelly,” Elsie said mildly. B.J.
blinked and brought herself back to the present.
“Oh, all right,” she muttered and stalked toward the
door. “I’ll go get it. But if she tells me one more time
that Howard Beall is a fine boy and good husband ma-
terial, I’ll scream. Right there in her living room with
the doilies and chintz, I’ll scream!”
Leaving this dire threat hanging in the air, B.J.
stepped out into the soothing yellow sunlight.
“Blackberry jelly,” she mumbled as she hopped on a
battered red bike. “New owners with fancy notions... .”
Lifting her face to the sky, she tossed a pigtail behind
her shoulder.
Pedaling down the maple lined drive, quicksilver
temper ebbed, her resilient spirits were lifted with the
beauty of the day. The valley was stirring with life.
Small clusters of fragile violets and red clover dotted the
rolling meadows. Lines of fresh laundry waved in the
early breeze. The boundary of mountains was topped
by a winter’s coat, not yet the soft, lush green it would
be in a month’s time, but patched with stark black trees
and the intermittent color of pines. Clouds scudded thin
and white across the sky, chased by the teasing wind
which whispered of spring and fresh blossoms.
Good humor restored, B.J. arrived in town with pink
cheeks and a smile, waving to familiar faces along the
route to Betty Jackson’s jelly. It was a small town with
tidy lawns, picket fences and old, well-kept homes. The
dormers and gables were typical of New England. Nes-
tled like a contented cat in the rolling valley, and the
brilliant shimmer of Lake Champlain to the west, Lake-
side remained serene and untouched by big city bustle.
Having been raised on its outskirts had not dulled its
magic for B.J.: she felt, as always when entering its lim-
its, a gratitude that somewhere life remained simple.
Parking her bike in front of a small, green-shuttered
house, B.J. swung through the gate and prepared to ne-
gotiate for her jelly supply.
“Well, B.J., what a surprise.” Betty opened the door
and patted her gray permanent. “I thought you’d gone
back to New York.”
“Things have been a bit hectic at the inn,” she re-
turned, striving for the proper humility.
“The new owner.” Betty nodded with a fortune tell-
er’s wisdom and gestured B.J. inside. “I hear he wants
to spruce things up.”
Resigned that Betty Jackson’s communications sys-
tem was infallible, B.J. settled herself in the small liv-
ing room.
“You know Tom Myers is adding another room to his
house.” Brushing off the seat of an overstuffed chair,
Betty shifted her ample posterior and sat. “Seems Lois
is in the family way again.” She clucked her tongue over
the Myers’ profligacy. “Three babies in four years. But
you like little ones, don’t you, B.J.?”
“I’ve always been fond of children, Miss Jackson,”
B.J. acknowledged, wondering how to turn the conver-
sation toward preserves.
“My nephew, Howard, just loves children.”
B.J. braced herself not to scream and met the bland
smile, calmly. “We’ve a couple at the inn now. Children
do love to eat.” Pleased with the maneuver, she pressed
on. “They’ve simply devoured your jellies. I’m down to
my last jar. Nobody has the touch you do with jellies,
Miss Jackson; you’d put the big manufacturers out of
business if you opened your own line.”
“It’s all in the timing,” Betty preened under the
praise, and B.J. tasted the hint of victory.
“I’d just have to close down if you didn’t keep me
supplied.” Gray eyes fluttered ingenuously. “Mr. Con-
ners would be crushed if I had to serve him store-bought
goods. He simply raves about your blackberry jelly.
“Ambrosia,” she added, relishing the word. “He says
it’s ambrosia.”
“Ambrosia.” Betty nodded in self-satisfied agree-
ment.
Ten minutes later, B.J. placed a box of a dozen jars
of jelly in the basket of her bike and waved a cheerful
goodbye.
“I came, I saw, I conquered,” she told the sky with
audacious pride. “And I did not scream.”
“Hey, B.J.!”
She twisted her head at the sound of her name, wav-
ing to the group playing sand lot ball as she pedaled to
the edge of the field. “What’s the score?” she asked the
young boy who ran to her bike.
“Five to four. Junior’s team’s winning.”
She glanced over to where Junior stood, tall and gan-
gly on the pitcher’s mound, tossing a ball in his glove
and grinning.
“Little squirt,” she mumbled with reluctant affec-
tion. “Let me pinch hit once.” Confiscating the boy’s
battered cap, she secured it over her pigtails and walked
onto the field.
“You gonna play, B.J.?” Suddenly surrounded by
young bodies and adolescent faces, B.J. lifted a bat
and tested it.
“For a minute. I have to get back.”
Junior approached, hands on hips, and grinned down
from his advantage of three inches. “Wanna bet I strike
you out?”
She spared him a brief glance and swung the bat to
her shoulder. “I don’t want to take your money.”
“If I strike you out,” he yanked a pigtail with fifteen-
year-old audacity, “you gotta kiss me.”
“Get on the mound, you apprentice lecher, and come
back in ten years.”
His grin remained unabashed, as B.J. watched, sti-
fling a smile as he sauntered into position. He squinted,
nodded, wound up and pitched. B.J. swung a full circle.
“Strike one!”
She turned and scowled at Wilbur Hayes who stood
as umpire. Stepping up to the plate again, the cheers
and taunts grew in volume. She stuck out her tongue
at Junior’s wink.
“Strike two!” Wilbur announced as she watched the
pitch sail by.
“Strike?” Turning, she placed her hands on her hips.
“You’re crazy, that was chin high. I’m going to tell your
mother you need glasses.”
“Strike two,” Wilbur repeated and frowned with ad-
olescent ferocity.
Muttering, B.J. stepped again into the batter’s box.
“You might as well put the bat down,” Junior shouted,
cradling the ball in the mitt. “You’re not even coming
close to this one.”
“Take a good look at the ball, Junior, ’cause it’s the
last time you’ll see it.” Shifting the hat lower on her
head, B.J. clutched the bat. “It’s going clear to New
York.”
She connected with a solid crack of bat and watched
the ball begin its sail before she darted around the bases.
Running full steam, head down, she heard the shouts
and cheers to slide as she rounded third. Scott Temple
crouched at the plate, mitt opened for reception, as she
threw herself down, sliding into home in a cloud of dust
and frenzied shouts.
“You’re out!”
“Out!” Scrambling to her feet, she met Wilbur’s
bland blue stare, eye to eye and nose to nose. “Out,
you little squirt, I was safe by a mile. I’m going to buy
you some binoculars.”
“Out,” he repeated with great dignity, and folded
his arms.
“What we need here is an umpire with two working
eyes.” She turned to her crowd of supporters and threw
out her hands. “I demand a second opinion.”
“You were out.”
Spinning at the unfamiliar voice, B.J. frowned up at
the stranger. He stood leaning on the backstop, a small
lift to his well-formed mouth and amusement shining
from his dark brown eyes. He pushed a lock of curl-
ing black hair from his brow and straightened a long,
lean frame.
“You should have been content with a triple.”
“I was safe,” she retorted, rubbing more dirt on her
nose. “Absolutely safe.”
“Out,” Wilbur repeated.
B.J. sent him a withering glance before turning back
to the man who approached the heated debate between
teams. She studied him with a mixture of resentment
and curiosity.
His features were well defined, sculptured with
planes and angles, the skin bronzed and smooth, the
faintest hint of red in his dark hair where the sun caught
it. She saw that though his buff-colored suit was casual,
it was obviously well tailored and expensive. His teas-
ing smile widened at her critical survey, and her resent-
ment deepened.
“I’ve got to get back,” she announced, brushing at
her jeans. “And don’t think I’m not going to mention
an eye exam to your mother,” she added, giving Wil-
bur a final glare.
“Hey, kid.” She straddled her bike and looked around
idly, then smiled as she realized the man had grouped
her with the teenagers. Restraining her smile, she looked
up with what she hoped was the insolence of youth.
“Yeah?”
“How far is it to the Lakeside Inn?”
“Look, mister, my mother told me not to talk to
strange men.”
“Very commendable. I’m not offering you candy and
a ride.”
“Well.” She frowned as if debating pros and cons.
“O.K. It’s about three miles up the road.” Making her
gesture vague, she finished with the obligatory codicil.
“You can’t miss it.”
He gave a long stare into her wide gray eyes, then
shook his head. “That’s a big help. Thanks.”
“Any time.” She watched him wander toward a sil-
ver-blue Mercedes and, unable to prevent herself, called
after him. “And I was safe. Absolutely safe.” Tossing
the borrowed hat back to its owner, B.J. cut across the
meadow and headed toward the inn.
The four stories of red brick, with their gabled roof
and neat shutters, loomed ahead of her. Pedaling up the
wide, curving drive, she noted with satisfaction that
the short cut had brought her ahead of the Mercedes.
I wonder if he’s looking for a room, she thought.
Parking her bike, she hauled out her treasure of jel-
lies from the basket. Maybe he’s a salesman. No, she
contradicted her own thoughts, that was no salesman.
Well, if he wants a room, we’ll oblige him, even if he
is an interfering busybody with bad eyes.
“Good morning.” B.J. smiled at the newlyweds who
strolled across the lawn.
“Oh, good morning, Miss Clark. We’re going for a
walk by the lake,” the groom answered politely.
“It’s a lovely day for it,” B.J. acknowledged, parking
her bike by the entrance. She entered the small lobby,
and moving behind the front desk, set down the crate
of jelly and reached for the morning mail. Seeing a per-
sonal letter from her grandmother, she opened it and
began to read with pleasure.
“Get around, don’t you?”
Her absorption was rudely broken. Dropping the let-
ter, she lifted her elbows from the counter and stared
into dark brown eyes. “I took a short cut.” Unwilling
to be outmatched by his height or faultless attire, she
straightened and lifted her chin. “May I help you?”
“I doubt it, unless you can tell me where to find the
manager.”
His dismissive tone fueled her annoyance. She strug-
gled to remember her job and remain pleasant. “Is there
some problem? There’s a room available if you require
one.”
“Be a good girl and run along.” His tone was pa-
tronizing. “And fetch the manager for me while you’re
about it. I’d like to see him.”
Drawing herself to her full height she crossed her
arms over her chest. “You’re looking at her.”
His dark brows rose in speculation as his eyes swept
over her incredulously. “Do you manage the inn before
school and on Saturdays?” he asked sarcastically.
B.J. flushed with anger. “I have been managing the
Lakeside Inn for nearly four years. If there’s a problem,
I shall be delighted to take it up with you here, or in
my office. If you require a room,” she gestured toward
the open register, “we’ll be more than happy to oblige
you.”
“B.J. Clark?” he asked with a deepening frown.
“That’s correct.”
With a nod, he lifted a pen and signed the regis-
ter. “I’m sure you’ll understand,” he began, raising his
eyes again in fresh study. “Your morning activity on
the baseball diamond and your rather juvenile appear-
ance are deceptive.”
“I had the morning free,” she said crisply, “and my
appearance in no way reflects on the inn’s quality. I’m
sure you’ll see that for yourself during your stay, Mr... .”
Turning the register to face her, B.J.’s stomach lurched.
“Reynolds,” he supplied, smiling at her astonished
expression. “Taylor Reynolds.”
Struggling for composure, B.J. lifted her face and
assumed a businesslike veneer. “I’m afraid we weren’t
expecting you until Monday, Mr. Reynolds.”
“I changed my plans,” he countered, dropping the
pen back in its holder.
“Yes, well...Welcome to Lakeside Inn,” she said be-
latedly and flicked a pigtail behind her back.
“Thank you. I’ll require an office during my stay.
Can you arrange it?”
“Our office space is limited, Mr. Reynolds.” Curs-
ing Betty Jackson’s blackberry jelly, she pulled down
the key to the inn’s best room and rounded the desk.
“However, if you don’t mind sharing mine, I’m sure
you’ll find it adequate.”
“Let’s take a look. I want to see the books and re-
cords anyway.”
“Of course,” she agreed, gritting her teeth at the
stranger’s hold over her inn. “If you’ll just come with
me.”
“B.J., B.J.” She watched with an inward shudder as
Eddie hurtled down the stairs and into the lobby. His
glasses were slipping down his nose, his brown hair
was flopping around his ears.
“B.J.,” he said again, breathless, “Mrs. Pierce-Low-
ell’s T.V. went out right in the middle of her cartoons.”
“Oh, blast. Take mine in to her and call Max for the
repair.”
“He’s away for the weekend,” Eddie reminded her.
“All right, I’ll survive.” Giving his shoulder an en-
couraging pat, she guided him to the door. “Leave me
a memo to call him Monday and get mine in to her be-
fore she misses Bugs Bunny.” Feeling the new owner’s
penetrating stare in the back of her head, B.J. explained
apologetically. “I’m sorry, Eddie has a tendency toward
the dramatic, and Mrs. Pierce-Lowell is addicted to
Saturday morning cartoons. She’s one of our regulars,
and we make it a policy to provide our guests with what
pleases them.”
“I see,” he replied, but she could find nothing in his
expression to indicate that he did.
Moving quickly to the back of the first floor, B.J.
opened the door to her office and gestured Taylor inside.
“It’s not very big,” she began as he surveyed the small
room with desk and file cabinets and bulletin board,
“but I’m sure we can arrange it to suit your needs for
the few days you will be here.”
“Two weeks,” he stated firmly. He strolled across
the room, picking up a bronzed paperweight of a grin-
ning turtle.
“Two weeks?” she repeated, and the alarm in her
voice caused him to turn toward her.
“That’s right, Miss Clark. Is that a problem?”
“No, no, of course not.” Finding his direct stare un-
nerving, she lowered her eyes to the clutter on her desk.
“Do you play ball every Saturday, Miss Clark?” He
perched on the edge of the desk. Looking up, B.J. found
her face only inches from his.
“No, certainly not,” she answered with dignity. “I
simply happened to be passing by, and—”
“A very courageous slide,” he commented, shock-
ing her by running a finger down her cheek. “And your
face proves it.”
Somewhat dazed, she glanced at the dust on his
finger. “I was safe,” she said in defense against a ridicu-
lously speeding pulse. “Wilbur needs an optometrist.”
“I wonder if you manage the inn with the same te-
nacity with which you play ball.” He smiled, his eyes
very intent on hers. “We’ll have a look at the books
this afternoon.”
“I’m sure you’ll find everything in order,” she said
stiffly. The effect was somewhat spoiled as she backed
into the file cabinet. “The inn runs very smoothly, and
as you know, makes a nice profit.” She continued strug-
gling to maintain her dignity.
“With a few changes, it should make a great deal
more.”
“Changes?” she echoed, apprehension in her voice.
“What sort of changes?”
“I need to look over the place before I make any con-
crete decisions, but the location is perfect for a resort.”
Absently, he brushed the dust off his fingers on the
windowsill and gazed out. “Pool, tennis courts, health
club, a face lift for the building itself.”
“There’s nothing wrong with this building. We don’t
cater to the resort set, Mr. Reynolds.” Furious, B.J. ap-
proached the desk again. “This is an inn, with all the
connotations that includes. Family-style meals, com-
fortable lodgings and a quiet atmosphere. That’s why
our guests come back.”
“The clientele would increase with a few modern at-
tractions,” he countered coolly. “Particularly with the
proximity to Lake Champlain.”
“Keep your hot tubs and disco lounges for your other
acquisitions.” B.J. bypassed simmer and went straight
to boil. “This is Lakeside, Vermont, not L.A. I don’t
want any plastic surgery on my inn.”
Brows rose, and his mouth curved in a grim smile.
“Your inn, Miss Clark?”
“That’s right,” she retorted. “You may hold the purse
strings, Mr. Reynolds, but I know this place, and our
guests come back year after year because of what we
represent. There’s no way you’re going to change one
brick.”
“Miss Clark.” Taylor stood menacingly over her. “If
I choose to tear down this inn brick by brick, that’s pre-
cisely what I’ll do. Whatever alterations I make or don’t
make remain my decision, and my decision alone. Your
position as manager does not entitle you to a vote.”
“And your position as owner doesn’t entitle you to
brains!” she was unable to choke back as she stomped
from the office in a flurry of flying braids.
