Page 31 of Debt of My Soul

Voices from downstairs signal the first new check-ins have arrived, and I quickly close all the doors after the final mints are placed on the pillows. After dumping the old linens and towels down the chute, which I still find oddly satisfying, I head down the stairs to start some of my tidying of the main breakfast area.

Careful to stay out of the way—I don’t want to scare away the guests with my frizzy hair and tired eyes—I take the back service stairs. They aren’t very wide or grand in opulence like the front steps leading down into the main foyer. Nope. These are narrow little buggers with stained old carpet the color of my reddest lipstick.

I pass stacks of books and new linens still in their plastic pouches. Travel-sized shampoo and lotion from an old brand the bed-and-breakfast used to stock sit inside baskets lining the steps. It’s like Russian roulette. You never know what could bring you down.

I dart off the last step that leads into the kitchen and walk right past the back door filled with Mr. Northgate’s work boots and a pile of items that need to go outside.

When the back door opens unexpectedly, I startle, falling backward into something that topples over with a loud splintering crash and rattles through the kitchen. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Please don’t have broken something important.

Please don’t let it be expensive.

“Goodness, Fleur. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” Mr. Northgate’s friendly voice is drowned in concern. I open one eye, looking at him and wincing.

“You frightened me. I’m so sorry, I—” I turn around to see a pile of sweaters and coats on the floor. But I grimace at what’s underneath. A beautiful oak coat rack is now split at the top. Several pieces lie around the main post, and I slap my hand over my mouth. “Oh no!”

I’m on my knees in an instant, reaching for the pieces and cradling them in my arms like an idiot.

“What was that sound?” Mrs. Northgate pushes through the swinging kitchen door from the other side of the room, and her eyes widen.

“I gave Fleur I fright, I’m afraid. Walked straight through the door as she was walking past.”

“I’m so sorry. If you tell me where you got this, I’ll have it replaced.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mr. Northgate says. “It was an accident.”

“Besides,” Mrs. Northgate chimes in, “Ed made that.” Thankfully, her tone doesn’t hint at being upset, but something more like pride laces the timbre of her voice.

My eyes drag over the smooth finish and the beautiful details. “You made this? Well, now I feel even worse.” I pull my hands over my face, rubbing my forehead. Mr. Northgate chuckles as he kneels to examine the breaks.

“Don’t. I made a bunch. Gave them to family and friends—all that. Looks like I can easily repair this. Don’t sweat it.” He gives me a sweet smile, his dark brown hair peppered with gray falling in front of his face as he leans down further to inspect.

“Broken things can be fixed,” Mrs. Northgate singsongs as she pulls chocolate fudge out of the blast chiller.

Can they?

I hope they aren’t only talking about the coat rack.

It’s late by the time I end up leaving work.

Wind whips the leaves across the road. They dance and tumble into my headlights before disappearing into the darkness surrounding the Natchez Trace.

During the day, the Trace is picturesque, and the fifty-mile-per-hour speed limit creates a leisurely drive. Bicycles and hikers are often on the road, exploring the historical sites along the way that veer off into the numerous hiking trails.

At night, though, it’s different. There are zero lights, and towering trees line the two lanes weaving through the state. An eerie tone settles on the road. Few cars drive the Trace at night,trying to avoid the chance of hitting a deer or falling asleep at the wheel. But it’s the fastest way home and I’m tired.

Movement to the right of me brings three deer hopping across the road several feet in front of my car. I lift my foot off the gas, slowing down to make sure there aren’t any more.

When I determine there are none, I step back on the gas. A sudden burst, a pop, then a hiss scare me, and I jump, swerving to the right. Gasping, I fist the wheel and jerk to the left, correcting my loss of control.

No. No, no, no. Crap.Adrenaline shoots straight to my chest and my heart thumps rapidly.

The car wobbles as I slow to a stop, pulling off on the nonexistent shoulder.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, hands shaking, still clutching the wheel.

Flashlights aren’t something I typically keep in my car, but with several late-night hardware runs for Adam and the all too scarce lighting around this town, I came to the conclusion keeping one in the glove box was a necessity. Reaching across the console, I fumble with the glove box and open it to retrieve the flashlight.

---