Page 7 of The Magical Bed & Breakfast

He walked in on a meeting of the Hazard Historical Society and almost laughed. Some things never changed. He watched for a minute as Hazel Bestwick pounded her solid wood gavel on the expansive cherry wood dining table, the feather on her hat bouncing with each strike. The grandfather clock at the far end of the room began to chime the hour. “Meeting is adjourned,” Hazel said, and the other three elderly members let out a collective sigh. A tall, angular woman that Rory didn’t recognize rose and began clearing away their tea service.

Surely his granddad hadn’t hiredstaff.

When the fortyish woman saw him standing there, she narrowed her eyes. “May we help you?” She stood a little straighter, emitting decided disapproval at his sudden appearance.

Mrs. LaFleur squinted in his direction. “Seymour, isn’t that your prodigal grandson?”

“Oh,” said the artificially redheaded member. Rory struggled to remember her name as she approached to give him a warm hug.

“Mrs. Hopewell?” he said, “Is that you? My, you look younger than when I left at nineteen.”

She laughed and patted his arm, “Rory Throckmorton, you always were a charmer. So lovely to see you. Are you here for a visit? A long one, I hope.”

Rory tensed at her use of his birth surname. He had long since changed it to Rollins, so his name sounded more in keeping with his image. Whoever heard of a rock star with the last name Throckmorton? But he realized early on that he would need to go by it while he was here in order to stay under the radar. He held back a sigh.

“Yes, Rory is here to help me.” Granddad rose to his six foot two, albeit slightly stooped, height, which was still impressive and close to Rory’s own.

Rory moved forward to exchange a manly backslapping hug with him.

Hazel toddled over and peered up at him through her thick spectacles. “Hmm, what will you do while you’re here? You can’t stay here. We’re redoing all the rooms. Construction is well underway.”

Rory threw his granddad a puzzled glance.

Seymour blustered, “We’ll work it out.”

As everyone else left, Rory gave his granddad a questioning look.

“I’ll give you a tour. So much work to be done to get ready for tours, but we’re almost there. Problem is, I packed up all the colonial furniture from the family rooms. We’ve acquired era appropriate pieces for the tours, and those are only to look at. Our docent who handled the acquisitions would eat me alive if we so much as scratched any of it. But you could sleep on the couch in the third-floor family room. I’m keeping the third floor to myself.”

Rory remembered that old lumpy couch. “Really? Grandma’s furniture is gone?”

“Not gone, oh no, just repurposed and going back to where it belongs. It was all historically inaccurate to the era. So we packed it up.”

And so the tour began. It was impressive and beautiful. Rory had always thought the flamboyance of the Beaux-Arts era nonsensical, but whoever had transformed the rooms had done a stellar job. All the wood was polished; the paneling shone in exquisite detail. Even the wallpaper looked fresh, and he suspected it was original to the house. How had that been accomplished? Newly painted walls throughout the hallways still had that odor of freshness. And the rugs were all cleaned and thick and gorgeous under his feet. He could see why he wouldn’t be allowed to hang out on the first two floors. They were now showcased as authentic to the era.

When they finally made it to the third floor, he could see how its condition had deteriorated. It made him wish he had been here more to help his granddad, but he thought his father had been seeing to that.

“I see your disapproval. Your father takes care of the business from Providence and does a great job. And your uncles all manage stores. Some of your cousins are now moving up in the business.”

“I’m the only holdout, aren’t I?”

“Well, I did build a small empire to keep the future generations of my family fed if they manage it wisely. I wanted a legacy. What’s more important than bringing quality food to small communities? But you’re building your own legacy, bringing music to the world. It’s not a problem, not at all. You need to share your talent. You get that from your…”

Rory held up a hand, afraid to hear his mother praised.

“…grandmother,” said Seymour. “She had talent. She could sing like a nightingale, my Margot. But she chose family over performing. It was harder in those days, I think, for women with musical talent. They had to choose between family and fame.”

“It’s still a choice,” said Rory, “and not just for women. Performers who value family have to find that balance. It’s easy for either one—family or fame—to overtake the other.” Rory thought of Dustin expecting the imminent birth of his first child and hoped he’d choose to stay with the band, but he could understand if he didn’t. Touring took months and if it took you away from the ones you loved, well, you had to love the life or you couldn’t maintain it.

Rory loved the life. He never wanted to settle into one place for long. And small towns held zero appeal. No way could they compete with his wanderlust.

Rory paused and put a hand on his granddad’s arm to make sure he knew that what came next was important. “I’m not looking to come back here to stay. This is just a visit.”

“Oh, I know, I know.”

“And we need to keep my presence here in town on the down low.”

“The down low, is it?” Seymour waggled his brows.

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