Asking For Trouble. Millie Criswell

had admitted in a roundabout way that she’d sown her share of wild oats—a shocking concept in her day and age, when women were expected to be circumspect and ladylike—but had never found a man she deemed worthy enough to marry.

      Apparently, Ivy was still looking.

      Since that fateful day last year when Beth had given Ivy her old computer and she’d discovered the Internet, Ivy had become fascinated, then obsessed, and finally incorrigible, not to mention unrepentant, about visiting pornographic Web sites. And no matter how many times Beth had teased, cajoled and begged her not to, Ivy hadn’t listened. Fortunately, she seemed interested only in naked men, nothing more sordid.

      One had to be grateful for small favors, if one had an elderly aunt into porn.

      Beth placed a plate of hot scones, fresh from the inn’s kitchen, on the small round mahogany table in her aunts’ suite of rooms on the fourth floor. Sipping the hot tea, she felt lucky to have these wonderful ladies in her life.

      The Two Sisters Ordinary, named in honor of her aunts, had been the Swindel sisters’ former home. Iris and Ivy had encouraged Beth to turn the historic Victorian into an inn so that others might enjoy it. She, in turn, had given them a life estate.

      As was her usual custom, Beth proceeded to fill her aunts in on the day’s upcoming events. “We have a new couple checking in today. The Rogers are from Columbus, Ohio. He’s a dentist. They’re coming to celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

      “How wonderful! Will they be staying long?” Aunt Iris asked with no small amount of enthusiasm. Her aunt was an intriguing mixture of Mary Poppins and the Wicked Witch of the West and was quite possibly the most upbeat person Beth had ever met, though she was a stickler for the proprieties. Good manners were expected, as was circumspect behavior, which usually created problems where Ivy was concerned.

      Ivy Swindel didn’t know the meaning of the word circumspect.

      “Just two days, possibly three,” she replied, hoping for three because she needed the extra money.

      “Is the man well endowed?” Ivy wanted to know, leaning forward to stare intently at Beth, who bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. “All the young men on the Web sites I visit seem to be. I do hope so. Maybe we can get those Chippendale dancers to come stay at the inn. Wouldn’t that be lovely? I’ve been saving my dollar bills, just in case.”

      Iris gasped. “Sister, shame on you! What kind of talk is that, and in front of your niece? Children have very impressionable minds. I’ve told you that numerous times.”

      At thirty-four, Beth didn’t think her mind was all that impressionable—warped, maybe; confused, at times; filled with self-doubt, always—she had her ex-husband to thank for that.

      Greg Randall’s constant criticism and verbal abuse had taken its toll. “You’re so stupid, Beth! Why the hell did I ever marry you? If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

      “I haven’t met Mr. and Mrs. Rogers yet,” Beth explained. And she certainly had no idea about any of her male guests’ physical attributes, nor did she want to know. “This is their first visit to the inn.” And would probably be their last, if Ivy started staring at the poor guy’s…um…equipment, and she wasn’t referring to dental drills. It was hard to believe that this male-nudity-addicted spinster was the same sweet old lady who used to read bedtime stories to her.

      “I’m also expecting a young honeymoon couple to arrive at the end of the week,” she announced. “Joan and Charles Murray are from Virginia. They sounded very nice on the phone.”

      “Oh good, that’s sure to liven things up around here. Put them in the room with the big brass head-board, so we can—”

      “Ivy Swindel!” Iris shook her head in warning. “Merciful heavens! That will be quite enough. What would Papa think to hear you say such things? I’m sure he’s rolling over in his grave at this very moment.”

      Looking hopeful, her older sister grinned. “Do you think so?”

      Sniffing the air several times at the acrid odor filling the air, Beth scrunched her nose in distaste. “What’s that awful smell?” The lemon sachet, which usually permeated the large suite of rooms, had been replaced by something that smelled suspiciously like marijuana. Not that she’d ever smoked the potent weed, but her ex-husband had indulged, from time to time.

      “Incense, dear. I’m trying out a new incantation and thought it would help set the mood.”

      “Iris is trying to raise the dead.” Ivy grinned, which increased the multitude of wrinkles on a face that looked like a well-traveled road map. “I told her to start with Phinneas Pickens. That old coot could use some resuscitation. Why, I ran into him at the bank the other day and he pretended he didn’t remember that I’d taught him eighth-grade English. Can you imagine? The man must be senile.”

      Iris was trying to raise the dead? Why on earth would she want to do that?

      Beth decided she might have to reconsider which aunt was the nuttier of the two.

      “Maybe Mr. Pickens is growing a bit forgetful,” she offered, glancing at the ormolu clock on the mantel and knowing what she’d suggested was very unlikely. The man had a mind like a steel trap. “At any rate, he’ll be here soon to inspect the inn for the loan I’ve applied for.”

      And she had no doubt he’d remember every debt she owed. Beth wasn’t sure what she would do if she didn’t get the additional funds or how long she could keep operating the inn. Business had been slow these past six months. And though she had bookings for the upcoming Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, she wasn’t sure the revenue would be enough to sustain her through winter, when tourism slowed down in the rural Pennsylvania township.

      Mediocrity received its share of snow, but it wasn’t reliable enough to base an entire industry on; and so the skiers and snowboarders went farther north, leaving only the die-hard antique lovers and Civil War buffs to spend tourist dollars in the quaint community.

      “I wish we were able to help out more financially, Beth dear,” Iris said, biting her scone daintily, and then wiping crumbs from her lips with an embroidered napkin. “We never meant for this house to become a burden when we gave it to you. Did we, sister?” Ivy shook her head.

      “Don’t be silly. I love this house. But it takes time to grow a business. There were repairs and alterations that needed to be done before we could open as an inn. This relic is a century old, after all.”

      Iris still didn’t look convinced and Beth patted her hand reassuringly. “You’ll never know how grateful I am that you and Aunt Ivy chose to share your home with me. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t made the offer. You’ve always been there for me.” Their generous gift had been a godsend to Beth, whose life had fallen apart after finding out that her husband of three years had been having an affair with one of his coworkers.

      Greg was the athletic director for Mediocrity High School and head coach of the Miners football team. Penelope Miller, his paramour, was a physical-education teacher who coached girl’s basketball and soccer.

      Beth supposed their pairing had been inevitable. She’d never shared her husband’s enthusiasm for sports, while her husband’s lover fit his fantasy image of a female jock to a tee: big boobs, long legs and no brains, or at least none Beth could discern.

      What seemed disastrous at the time had actually turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to her. Greg’s nasty moods and the venom that spewed forth from his mouth were now Penelope’s problem to deal with. They deserved each other, as far as Beth was concerned.

      Unwilling to turn tail and run after her husband’s affair had become public knowledge, Beth had focused all of her energies on opening the inn, which had given her a chance to regain her self-worth and sanity, and a reason to get her life back in order, which hadn’t been easy on many levels. But she was determined to succeed.

      “This house was