LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 5

      Carrie knew the first step in any insurmountable task was prioritisation. She’d written her list while touring the hotel the previous day, and she had Nancy’s survey, so she’d already identified what needed to be done. Now she just needed to make a schedule based on priorities and timescales.

      Really, it was just like organising a wedding, if you looked at it right. Most things were, Carrie had found.

      It was Sunday, so Carrie was hoping for a peaceful day pottering around the inn, working on her lists and drinking tea. Nate would probably be sticking to his garden, hopefully embarrassed by his audacity at kissing the boss the night before—an incident Carrie had decided to chalk up to the notorious effects of Nancy’s best whisky, and chosen to ignore. Even if his lips had been much softer than she’d expected.

      She shook her head. If it wasn’t on her list, it didn’t matter. That was the new philosophy.

      Dance night wasn’t until tomorrow, so there was no reason for the Seniors to be around, and no catering events planned, so Jacob shouldn’t be in. There were no guests, so no reason for Izzie to be scheduled to work, and even if she was, there were plenty of jobs for her to do far out of Carrie’s way.

      No, this was going to be her peaceful, planning day. She could review work schedules, figure out how Nancy had run the place, and then set about making things work her way.

      Even she was surprised at how excited she was at the prospect of so many lists, schedules and timetables. But first, there needed to be tea. And maybe toast. Or crumpets.

      Carrie had slept late, after the whisky, so it was gone nine when she slipped into the kitchen and found Jacob already prepping a huge joint of meat and another young man she hadn’t met peeling potatoes.

      “Who is that for?” Carrie asked, pausing in the doorway.

      “Sunday lunches,” Jacob said, flashing her a smile. Obviously he was hoping she’d forgotten about the childminder incident. “Even when we don’t have guests, there are a lot of locals who like to stop in for a decent roast. We get a few walkers and such, too.”

      She’d known that, Carrie realised, feeling stupid. Or she should have done, anyway. How many Sundays had she spent at the inn over the years?

      “Of course,” she said, wondering how this would affect her plans for the day. Not too much, she decided. She could hole up in the front drawing room, and the bedrooms were still empty for further inspection. And anything that brought money in had to be good. “I was just looking for some tea...”

      Jacob nodded at a white plastic kettle and toaster in amongst all the industrial kitchen equipment. “That we can do. Mugs and bags are on the shelf above, fridge is under the counter.”

      The corner he indicated was obviously the staff area of the kitchen. The small fridge held only spreadable butter, milk and a couple of Tupperware boxes with Nate’s name written on labels on their lids. The slanting, cursive print really wasn’t what Carrie would have expected from him.

      “There are some muffins in the bread bin, too,” Jacob called over. “Help yourself.”

      Carrie took her tea and hot buttered English muffins through to the front drawing room, settled in at the window table, and pulled out her list.

      “Okay. Where to start?” Realising she was talking to herself, Carrie turned to a blank page in her pad and started to write notes to herself instead.

      First question was, bedrooms or dining room? Which held top priority? They both needed doing, but which mattered most?

      Without decent bedrooms, the Avalon really wasn’t much of an inn. But without a great reception room, what wedding party would want to stay there anyway?

      On the other hand, most of the work in the bedrooms was cosmetic, so it might be quicker to get done. The dining room itself wasn’t bad, structurally, but the terrace outside needed considerable work, according to Nancy’s survey. And from what she’d seen that morning, the kitchen was going to need updating if they wanted to host full-on wedding breakfasts and evening suppers in addition to their normal fare.

      “How many can the dining room hold, anyway?” She’d have to measure it for herself, before the lunch crowd arrived.

      “We can fit seventy for our New Year’s Eve dinner dances,” Cyb said from behind her. “Although, to be honest, we don’t often get that many these days.”

      Carrie blinked, turned and said mildly, “You’re here very early.”

      Cyb grinned, and waved a handful of small, brightly coloured bunting at her. Carrie peered closer, and picked out the national flags of Brazil, China and Denmark in the mix. “Just dropping off the decorations for tomorrow night,” she explained. “I had to wash them after last month’s International Night. Walt managed to get Campari and soda all over the bunting during a particularly enthusiastic tango attempt. Stan’s always telling them to put their drinks down first.”

      “Sounds like…fun.” Carrie turned her attention to her list and, to her relief, when she looked up again, Cyb and her bunting were gone.

      So, seventy for a dinner dance. Maybe a hundred, a hundred and ten without the dance floor, then cart everyone off to the bar while

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