Here Lies a Wicked Man Snippet 9
Roxanna adjusted the mini-blinds and stepped back to study the effect. Slivers of fading sunlight reflected on the ceiling, where the whup-whup-whup of a fan put her in mind of a thatch-roofed tropical cabin. Nice, but not the effect she wanted. Not Masonville.
She tilted the blinds toward the polished oak floor with its oval braided rug. Taking a box of matches from her apron, she decided candlelight would suffice. She lit candles on each table, swept one last admiring glance around the room, fluffed her hair in the antique mirror and flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN. The Masonville Bed and Brunch dining room was ready to serve.
She sure hoped a few people in town were ready to eat out tonight.
Pushing aside the lace curtain that draped the sidelight, she peeked at the parking area and walkway. Townsfolk were not lining the street.
She’d made such a nice roast. A turkey salad with honey-lime dressing. Dilled tomatoes. Butter-crust rolls. Fresh peach pie with homemade ice cream. Most of it would keep until tomorrow, but many more days with expenses higher than income and she’d have to close the doors before she was truly, completely open. Two of the bedrooms upstairs were ready for overnight guests. The other three would have to wait until she made enough profit to finish refurbishing.
She wished the inn fronted the square, so people would notice it when they popped into Cappie’s Drugs for Tylenol or Thea’s Beauty Shoppe for a trim. Many folks in town weren’t yet aware that the old house had been turned into an inn with dining facilities. The ones who had noticed her posters and fliers probably ate out only on special occasions. Not like the city, where busy people dined in restaurants nearly every night. August was the worst month of the year for special occasions—no holidays.
There had to be something she could do to bring people in.
She stepped into the kitchen and peeked out the back window, which opened on the square. One of her hand-painted signs was mounted on the fence. Nobody seemed to be aware of it. Plenty of people walking around the square could become aware if they’d only turn their heads and pay attention.
Something… had to be done. If folks could smell the wonderful aromas in this kitchen—
Roxanna studied the table fan she used when the kitchen heat became unbearable. She studied the window. She studied the butter-crust rolls and thought about the delicious smells that always permeated the air near a bakery.
She clicked the oven on, adjusted the temperature, then set a pan of freshly baked rolls on the sill and opened the window. Turning the fan to blow across the tops of the rolls, she imagined people passing on the square, getting a whiff of that wonderful hot-bread aroma. How could they resist it?
Then she popped another pan into the oven to bake. If that didn’t bring people in, she might have to try a lasso trick she’d used in her former life.
Watching the door, Roxanna resisted an urge to bite her fingernails. Minutes passed, then more minutes. And more.
The door opened.
Emaline Peters, from Lakeside Estates, entered with a tall Texas hunk Roxanna remembered meeting once before. Smoothing her white apron over her long green gingham skirt, she swept toward them flashing her glad-to-meet-you smile.
