The Perfect Hope by Nora Roberts Page A

dishwasher. Now she felt sad, sad and shamed.
    Tears burned her eyes, so she let them come. Why not? She was alone, wasn’t she? Dutifully she went into the basement, carried up bottles of water, cans of soft drinks.
    She restocked the refrigerator, then just rested her forehead on the door.
    And smelled the fresh, warm scent of honeysuckle, felt a hand stroke her hair.
    She squeezed her eyes shut. Not alone after all.
    “I’ll be all right. I’ll be fine. I just have to get through this little pity party.”
    Don’t cry over him
.
    Hope wasn’t sure if she heard the words, or if they played in her mind.
    “I’m not. Not over him, not for him. For me. For the three years I gave myself to him thinking it mattered. It’s hard to know it never did. Hard to realize, to really understand he thought of me as an accessory he could buy, use, set aside, and, worse, pick up again whenever he wanted.”
    She took a breath. “That’s done. I’m done.”
    She turned, slowly, saw only the empty kitchen. “I guess you’re not ready to let me see you. Maybe I’m not ready either. But it helps, having another woman around.”
    Better, she went into her office for the cosmetic bag she kept there. Once she’d freshened her makeup, she made a shopping list.
    She had a pie to bake.
    As she wrote, she heard The Lobby door open. Even as she rose, assuming her guests had returned, she heard Avery call out.
    “Right here.”
    She stepped out.
    “What’s going on?” Avery demanded. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “Ryder said Jonathan was here, and you were upset.”
    “He said that?”
    “Well, he said your ex-asshole came by and stirred you up. I figured it out. What the hell was that dickhead doing here?”
    “He—” She broke off when she heard the front door open, and the voices pour in. “I can’t explain now.” She pulled Avery out The Lobby door. “My guests are here. I’ll tell you later.”
    “I’m off at five. I’ll get Clare and—”
    “I can’t, not with guests here. And these ladies like to party.” But this took face-to-face, she thought. Texting or emailing wouldn’t cut it. “Tomorrow, after they check out.”
    “Give me a clue,” Avery insisted.
    “He thought I should move back to Georgetown, take my job back, and be his mistress.”
    “Big buckets of shit!”
    “At least. I can’t talk now.” She glanced over her shoulder.
    “Do you have check-ins tomorrow?”
    “No, actually, I don’t have guests tomorrow night.”
    “Now you do. Clare and I are coming, and we’re staying. I’ll bring food for a roast-Jonathan’s-shriveled-little-balls party.”
    “Yes.” The worst edge of her mood flew away as she threw her arms around Avery. “That’s exactly what I need. Just exactly. I need to go in.”
    “You call if you need me before tomorrow.”
    “I will, but I’m better—much.”
    A woman could always count on her girl pals, Hope thought as she turned to the door. They never let you down.
    But she hadn’t realized Ryder had the insight to understand she’d needed them.
    Maybe she should have.

    THAT NIGHT, WHEN the inn was quiet again—though she wondered if the echoes of six happily tipsy women playing Rock Band would swirl through the rooms for days—Hope settled down with her laptop.
    Carolee had the breakfast shift, she thought, so she could sleep late if she needed to. She wanted to give the search for Lizzy’s Billy an hour before bed.
    She remembered the sensation of a hand stroking her hair when she’d been low. Women friends didn’t let you down, she mused, and she supposed she and Lizzy were friends—of a sort.
    She brought up the website of the Liberty House School. Her ancestor Catherine Darby—whom she’d discovered was Eliza Ford’s sister—their Lizzy’s sister—had founded it. Hope had attended it herself, as had her siblings, her mother, her grandmother.
    Maybe that connection would bear fruit.
    She found the email address for the head