The Inn on Amelia Island (Seven Sisters)

Chapter One

Susannah

Susannah angled her phone in the sunlight, slowing her step to read a text that had come in just as she reached the end of Wingate Way. Then she let out a soft groan.

Chloe was canceling to go to Jacksonville with her boyfriend? Oh, that was a disappointment.

Susannah had set aside this entire morning to spend with Chloe and two of her other daughters to discuss the wedding that would be taking place right here at their family-owned inn on…on…she sighed because they hadn’t yet set a date. It would be sometime this summer. And that was daunting, because they were well into May.

If they didn’t start planning the details now, they’d never pull off Raina and Tori’s “double-ring ceremony”—which sounded to Susannah’s ears like something they’d played as little girls. Okay. This would still work today without Chloe, even though she’d volunteered to help with the logistics. Susannah would spend the time with the brides, and they’d bring Chloe up to speed later. They had to, at the very least, pick a date.

And they’d do that today. Nothing could stop them.

Tucking her phone back in her bag, she stood with one hand on the wrought-iron gate outside of Wingate House, taking a moment to gaze at the three-story Victorian mansion with the swelling heart of a mother. No surprise, since Susannah sometimes thought of this glorious place as her eighth daughter.

Like those seven wonderful women, this Wingate was a great lady—classically beautiful, deeply appealing, always charming, occasionally quirky, and forever a tremendous source of pride to the family.

Silly, she knew, to ascribe human characteristics to a building, especially one tucked into a tree-lined neighborhood that boasted many century-old houses. Every corner in this historic section of Amelia Island featured a sprawling home painted in pastels, topped with turrets, and wrapped in precious porches built to comfort and impress.

But not every house had this family’s history, reputation, and legacy, nor did any share the name of the street it was on, the riverfront avenue known as Wingate Way.

Wingate House had been built as the stately home of the first Reginald Wingate, her husband’s grandfather, who’d arrived on this island at the turn of the twentieth century. Mid-century, it had been redesigned as a venerable inn, one of the finest on Amelia Island. But this past year, Susannah had reimagined the sprawling property into a glorious backdrop exclusively for picture-perfect weddings.

Since transforming the aging B&B into a weddings-only venue, Susannah had been pleasantly surprised by the success of her venture.

But why should she be? With wide white beaches along the eastern coast and the deep blue waters of the Intracoastal Waterway on the west, Amelia Island had long been a highly in-demand destination for weddings. Brides had plenty of options for larger events, but few for what the trade called “micro weddings.”

Like her marketing materials said, Wingate House offered “a small wedding option with an elegant Victorian atmosphere and Instagram-worthy manicured grounds on the banks of the Amelia River.”

Over the past few months, several top bridal websites had run feature stories on the inn, pronouncing Wingate House ideal for intimate weddings. Those nuptials were frequently older couples getting married for the second time—like two of her daughters would do right here…soon.

There always seemed to be a delay in their planning sessions, usually because the venue was booked. But that, Susannah reminded herself, was a high-quality problem to have.

One more time, pride in her work, the outcome, and the inn’s exciting future zipped through her, enough that she pushed the gate wide open and chastised herself as she entered. Hadn’t she listened to the pastor on Sunday when he’d talked about the sin of pride? It went before the fall, after all.

Following the stone walkway to climb the steps of the wraparound porch, she forced herself to think about the day’s work, not bask in her resounding success. After Tori and Raina left today, she would—

“You must be Susannah.”

Startled by the voice, she whipped around to see a woman lounging on one of the porch sofas. She held a cardboard cup in one hand while she casually twirled sunglasses with the other. “Hello.” Susannah stepped out of the morning sunshine into the shadow of the overhang, flipping through a mental snapshot of today’s appointments. Only her daughters were on the schedule, she was certain.

But all that success she’d just been thinking about frequently made some brides pushy when they wanted a date that wasn’t available.

“Can I help you?” Susannah asked when the visitor stayed silent.

For a long moment, the woman stared back at her, a direct dark gaze that could be described as beady, however uncharitable that might sound. She had shoulder-length black hair and a fringe of bangs, and looked to be in her forties.

Thin to the point of scrawny, she wore a yellow tank top, white shorts, and filthy sneakers…currently resting on Susannah’s coffee table.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” the stranger finally said, slowly pushing up to no more than five-foot-three. “But I’m right? You’re the great and glorious Susannah Wingate?”

The bitter sarcasm wasn’t lost on Susannah, who winced, briefly wondering if her overdose of pride had brought on that insult.

“I doubt anyone would call me great or glorious,” she said with a smile that felt necessary if not natural.

“Surely Rex would.”

Susannah drew back, more from the ice in the tone than the fact that this stranger knew her husband’s name. Many people did, that was for sure. Few spat it out like that.

“Do I know you?”

“Not yet, but you will.” She tipped her head toward the double leaded-glass doors that led to the inn’s entry hall. “I’d like to see it.”

“I’ll be happy to make an appointment, Miss…” She lifted her brows, waiting for the name.

“Button. Ivy Button.”

The name was so precious and unexpected she almost smiled. But nothing about this woman made her relax. She had a razor’s edge and Susannah didn’t want to get cut.

“Hello, Ms. Button. I am Susannah Wingate, as you’ve guessed.”

“The one they call Suze,” the other woman said.

Had her nickname been in one of the articles written about Wingate House? Possibly. She didn’t remember, but how else would this stranger know?

“Yes, that’s what they call me. When is your wedding?”

She gave a derisive snort. “Never again, thank you very much. Once was enough for me, along with the cliché ugly divorce. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?” And then it made sense. “Ah, Ms. Button. I realize Wingate House is still listed in many directories as an inn, which we were for decades, but now we’re exclusively used as a wedding venue,” Susannah told her, relieved that this was likely a mistake. “Perhaps I can refer you to another of the many fantastic B&Bs on Amelia—”

“I’d like to see it.” She ground out the words and pointed to the doors. “Now.”

Despite the early summer heat, chills blossomed on Susannah’s arms. “I can’t show it to you now.” Not true, but she didn’t want to be alone in the house with this off-putting woman. “Why don’t you give me your number—”

“My name is Ivy Button,” she repeated, slathering the name with significance, as if Susannah had to recognize it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t…”

The other woman muttered a curse under her breath. “Of course she never mentioned me. Or her sister, did she?”

“She…” Now Susannah was completely confused. “Who are you talking about?”

“Doreen Parrish. Please tell me you haven’t forgotten her.”

“Doreen?” Okay, maybe this was starting to make sense. “Of course I haven’t forgotten her. Doreen’s only been gone a year but gave us a lifetime of service at this inn before a heart attack took her last year. You knew her?”

“She was my aunt.”

“Oh…oh.” Susannah pressed a hand to her chest, suddenly ashamed for any unkind thoughts she’d had about this person. “I didn’t know she had a niece.”

The other woman rolled her eyes. “Please. You didn’t know a lot about her, it seems.”

Finally, the puzzle pieces began to fall into place.