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Authors: Alicia Hunter Pace
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and beat her up.”
At that, he dissolved into laughter. He couldn’t help it. Christian Hambrick was 5'10" in her bare feet and had been the best basketball player Beauford High School had ever seen; she had gone on to play for Pat Summitt at UT. The thought of this little puff of a thing beating her up was too funny to ignore.
“You’re pretty when you laugh,” she said.
“I’m pretty when I don’t!” And he laughed harder, but it wasn’t feel-good laughter. It might even be bordering on hysterical laughter. He bit the inside of his cheek and shook it off.
“I guess that’s over,” Emory said and all of a sudden she looked very serious. “Eighty-seven percent of Firefly Hall’s business is directly related to events held at Beauford Bend.”
“You’re making that up.” He reached for another scone. Sugar made him sluggish but so what? He didn’t have to push his body to the limit for three hours tonight in front of twenty thousand people. Or tomorrow, the next day, or ever.
“I am not.” She opened her laptop, stroked a few keys, and spun it around. “I asked Christian to track Firefly Hall guests and their reasons for staying there. She sends it to me to analyze.”
“Damn, Emory. You have a spreadsheet—with numbers and everything.” Probably manufactured.
“And it’s color-coded. Green is for miscellaneous. People pass through and show up for no reason. Or they have family in the area. That’s the smallest percentage. Next is orange. That is directly related to the artisans in town. Most of that is made up of people who come here to shop or pick up something they’ve ordered. Occasionally, a master craftsman will come to town to do a demonstration or seminar. They’re also included in this category.”
“I would have thought shoppers alone would keep Firefly Hall busy.” Beauford was forever being touted in travel literature as one of the best artisan boutique towns in the country. In high season, the streets overflowed.
Emory shook her head. “For the most part, people coming from any distance stay in Nashville. We may have some of the best craftsmen anywhere, but the same people who are interested in leather goods don’t necessarily care about furniture, blown glass, or jewelry. They come, they buy, they go back to Nashville for music and fine dining. And it only takes a day for those who do want to poke around and look at everything.
Unfortunately, that made sense. But Christian and Firefly Hall were not his responsibility. Were they?
Emory scooted her chair around closer to him in order to manipulate the touchpad.
That smell again!
“You’ll see the blue is by far the star of the show. Those people stayed with Christian because of something going on here.”
“This is only for three months,” he pointed out.
She pushed the computer closer to him. “Scroll down. I have two years’ worth of data. Trust me. If you close down Around the Bend, Firefly Hall won’t be far behind.”
He scrolled through page after page, searching for clues that this was a sham, that she had put it all together in an hour. But no. Sometimes she wrote out the name of the month; sometimes she used a number. Sometimes she abbreviated names and functions, other times not. True, she
could
have thought of all that to make it look authentic, but that was doubtful.
“Why do you only have two years’ worth?” he asked, mostly to give himself time to think.
“I’ve only been here two years.”
“I guess Aunt Amelia didn’t keep a lot of records.”
She nodded. “Amelia was more concerned with the creative aspect. There were good records up to a point and then—”
She stopped and looked at her hands. They both knew when those good records had stopped. When his mother burned to death in a fire that was his fault.
He took a deep breath. “Look, Emory. This is my home.”
“You have three others.”
“No. I have one
home
. I have three other houses, two of which I haven’t seen in
At that, he dissolved into laughter. He couldn’t help it. Christian Hambrick was 5'10" in her bare feet and had been the best basketball player Beauford High School had ever seen; she had gone on to play for Pat Summitt at UT. The thought of this little puff of a thing beating her up was too funny to ignore.
“You’re pretty when you laugh,” she said.
“I’m pretty when I don’t!” And he laughed harder, but it wasn’t feel-good laughter. It might even be bordering on hysterical laughter. He bit the inside of his cheek and shook it off.
“I guess that’s over,” Emory said and all of a sudden she looked very serious. “Eighty-seven percent of Firefly Hall’s business is directly related to events held at Beauford Bend.”
“You’re making that up.” He reached for another scone. Sugar made him sluggish but so what? He didn’t have to push his body to the limit for three hours tonight in front of twenty thousand people. Or tomorrow, the next day, or ever.
“I am not.” She opened her laptop, stroked a few keys, and spun it around. “I asked Christian to track Firefly Hall guests and their reasons for staying there. She sends it to me to analyze.”
“Damn, Emory. You have a spreadsheet—with numbers and everything.” Probably manufactured.
“And it’s color-coded. Green is for miscellaneous. People pass through and show up for no reason. Or they have family in the area. That’s the smallest percentage. Next is orange. That is directly related to the artisans in town. Most of that is made up of people who come here to shop or pick up something they’ve ordered. Occasionally, a master craftsman will come to town to do a demonstration or seminar. They’re also included in this category.”
“I would have thought shoppers alone would keep Firefly Hall busy.” Beauford was forever being touted in travel literature as one of the best artisan boutique towns in the country. In high season, the streets overflowed.
Emory shook her head. “For the most part, people coming from any distance stay in Nashville. We may have some of the best craftsmen anywhere, but the same people who are interested in leather goods don’t necessarily care about furniture, blown glass, or jewelry. They come, they buy, they go back to Nashville for music and fine dining. And it only takes a day for those who do want to poke around and look at everything.
Unfortunately, that made sense. But Christian and Firefly Hall were not his responsibility. Were they?
Emory scooted her chair around closer to him in order to manipulate the touchpad.
That smell again!
“You’ll see the blue is by far the star of the show. Those people stayed with Christian because of something going on here.”
“This is only for three months,” he pointed out.
She pushed the computer closer to him. “Scroll down. I have two years’ worth of data. Trust me. If you close down Around the Bend, Firefly Hall won’t be far behind.”
He scrolled through page after page, searching for clues that this was a sham, that she had put it all together in an hour. But no. Sometimes she wrote out the name of the month; sometimes she used a number. Sometimes she abbreviated names and functions, other times not. True, she
could
have thought of all that to make it look authentic, but that was doubtful.
“Why do you only have two years’ worth?” he asked, mostly to give himself time to think.
“I’ve only been here two years.”
“I guess Aunt Amelia didn’t keep a lot of records.”
She nodded. “Amelia was more concerned with the creative aspect. There were good records up to a point and then—”
She stopped and looked at her hands. They both knew when those good records had stopped. When his mother burned to death in a fire that was his fault.
He took a deep breath. “Look, Emory. This is my home.”
“You have three others.”
“No. I have one
home
. I have three other houses, two of which I haven’t seen in
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