“You will feel joy again,” he repeated, “and much of it will come from owning Rose Harbor Inn.”
I frowned. I knew I was dreaming, but the dream was so vivid I wanted to believe it was real.
“But …” My mind filled with questions.
“This inn is my gift to you,” Paul continued. “Don’t doubt, my love. God will show you.” In the next instant he was gone.
I cried out, begging him to come back, and my own sharp cry woke me. My tears were real, and I could feel moisture on my cheeks and pillowcase.
For a long time afterward I sat upright in the dark wanting to hold on to the feeling of my husband’s presence. Eventually it faded and almost against my will I fell back asleep.
The next morning, I climbed out of bed and traipsed barefoot down the polished hardwood floor of the hallway to the small office off the kitchen. Turning on the desk lamp, I flipped through the pages of the reservation book the Frelingers had given me. I reviewed the names of the two guests due to arrive that week.
Joshua Weaver had made his reservation just the week before I took ownership. The former owners had mentioned it at the time we signed the final papers.
The second name on the list belonged to Abby Kincaid.
Two guests.
Paul had said this inn was his gift to me. I would do my best to make both guests comfortable; perhaps, in giving of myself, I would find the joy Paul had promised. And maybe, given time, it would be possible for me to find my way back to life.
Debbie Macomber, White Lace and Promises
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