Great Big Beautiful Life(44)

But if it is, it makes even less sense that Margaret referred to the hotel by its current name. Nicollet should’ve been burned into her brain.

I do a quick search of “Nicollet” paired with “Lawrence Ives,” and the results are scant. The only thing of note is the website for the current-day Ebner, whose “History” page proudly declares its former ownership by the famed family, where it also lists its previous monikers.

I shake my head. Most likely, Margaret read something years ago about the Nicollet’s new name, and simply called it by its latest name because that was what came to mind. And maybe Nicollet is a family name, but not one she’s familiar with.

It’s a far more likely explanation than the one my brain keeps circling: that Margaret Ives doesn’t want me looking closely at that hotel, even as she pretends to bare the Ives family’s history and soul.

What Hayden said keeps replaying in my mind.

Margaret Ives isn’t telling me the truth.

I shovel some now-cold lobster mac into my mouth and pull up the email address for the Ebner Hotel.



* * *



? ? ?

On Tuesday, we’re sitting out back in Adirondack chairs, sipping more of Jodi’s incredible mint lemonade, and I decide to take a big swing.

“What’s significant about the name Nicollet?” I ask.

Margaret’s glass clinks against her teeth. Rather than follow through with her sip, she returns the glass to the arm of her chair.

“What do you mean?” she says. Her tone is so innocent that, if not for that flicker of surprise in her reaction, I’d be sure I’d read too much into nothing.

“The Ebner Hotel,” I say. “It was called the Nicollet, for a long stretch of time when your family owned it. And Ruth Ives Allen’s unofficial middle name was Nicollet.”

Her head cocks, like she’s trying to anticipate where this is going.

“I’m curious why you’d call the inn by its new name,” I explain. “Have you been there recently?” I disregard the fact that she’s already told me she hasn’t. If she wants to give me new information now, I don’t want to call her a liar for withholding it earlier.

She considers for a beat, her eye contact unyielding. Then she sighs. “I suppose you’ll find out now, one way or another.”

“Probably,” I agree. “But remember: I’ve signed a nondisclosure. I’m not going to force you to publicly share anything you don’t want to. Whatever you tell me, it doesn’t have to go beyond this room.”

Her eyes narrow. Then, slowly, she leans forward and stops both of my recorders. “This includes the boy.”

“What boy?” I ask.

“I have two NDAs,” she says. “So whatever I tell you, you can’t take it to him. You understand that, don’t you?”

The word boy is so wrong that it takes me thirty seconds to track her train of thought. “Are we talking about Hayden here?”

She nods. “You’ve known I was here for months, and no one else has tracked me down, which makes me think I can trust you. But him, I’m not so sure of. I’m still figuring him out.”

I’m surprised by the swell of protectiveness in my gut. “You can trust him too. He won’t break your confidence.”

One of her silvery brows curves. It tugs on her lips, pulling her mouth into a sly smile. “Oh? So you’re campaigning for him to get the job now?”

“Definitely not,” I say quickly. “I want this. And I’ll do a great job. I know that. I just…You can trust him, that’s all.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she says. “But still, my point remains. You’re about to be the first person outside of my immediate family to hear something, and I don’t want it going any further just yet.”

I set my pen down. “I swear.”

She gathers herself for a second. “My grandfather Gerald was the one to rename the inn. In 1919.”

“The year your great-grandfather Lawrence died,” I point out—I noticed the correlation while I was on the Arledge/Nicollet/Ebner’s History web page.

Margaret nods. “I told you that in those final days of Lawrence’s life, he was raving to his former business partner and apologizing to his little brother. But there was one more thing he kept saying.” A look of resolve steals over her, her shoulders relaxing as if whatever she’s just decided to share has given her some measure of relief. “Nicollet.”

I’ve read it dozens of times in the last couple of days, but still the way she says it, almost reverentially, sends goose bumps prickling down my arms. “Who was that?”

“The one it was all for.” The corner of her mouth twitches into a smile, small and fleeting. “That’s what Lawrence told her. Nicollet, this was all for you. Tell me to come home, and I’ll leave all of this behind. Gerald had never even heard his father say the name before. And he only found out who Nicollet was after Lawrence died, when Gerald read his father’s journals.”

A lover, I think at first, but then it dawns on me. “His sister.”

She nods confirmation. “In my family, that’s what the name came to represent: the person you’d do anything for. The only one who could make you give it all up. That’s why they gave Ruth that middle name.”