Page 19 of Room for Us

I did a few trial runs over the weekend for the sake of things running smoothly this morning. With my brain only half-awake, I’m extra glad I took the time to prepare.

By 7:00 a.m. on the dot, there’s fresh coffee percolating on the sidebar in the dining room. There’s also an electric water heater and an assortment of teas, and chilled carafes of orange juice, ice water, and milk. Next is a platter with muffins, croissants, and bagels. A toaster. Fresh local bread. Jams and jellies and cream cheeses. He’ll also have a choice of three hot meals—the only three I can make reasonably well. Steel-cut oatmeal, buttermilk pancakes, or eggs. A selection of sides: fresh fruit, maple bacon, or cottage cheese. Thanks to the internet and practice, I know how to make the simple fares look and taste gourmet.

Yes, I’ve gone all out.

Over the top, you might say.

But really, what’s the worst thing that could happen? He’s too impressed?

I have my answer ten minutes later, when a bespectacled Mr. Hart, in sweatpants and the same sweater from yesterday, steps into the dining room. His eyes sweep over the sideboard before snapping to me. With the light coming from the windows, I see what night concealed—gray mingling with dark at his temples. He can’t be more than forty, but like his eyes, his hair seems to disagree.

I wonder if he sees the same in me. If I’m a distorted mirror—my gray roots, my jaded eyes. A soul too old for its body. A body too young for its burden. The thought makes me dizzy.

My heart gives a mighty lurch.

It’s the lack of sleep.

I’ll take a pill tonight.

In an impressively normal voice, I say, “Good morning, Mr. Hart. How did you sleep?”

“Just fine.” His rich voice is distracted, his gaze wandering around the room like he’s searching for something. “I thought you said there’d be espresso. I don’t like coffee. Just espresso.”

My confidence falters. I never said any such thing. Stay positive. “No espresso machine, unfortunately. I’m sorry if something I said led you to believe otherwise. But I’d be happy to run into town and bring back some, if you’d like.”

He blinks at me—like he has no idea what I just said—then shakes his head. “I need fresh air, anyway. How far away is it?”

“The closest coffee shop is about half a mile. Beans & Books. It’s a super cute place that has a small bookstore attached. If you’re headed down the main road toward town, you basically walk into it. Can’t miss it.”

“Great. Thanks.”

He skirts around the dining table, movements almost skittish, and snags a muffin from the tray, then swivels on his heel and retreats toward the door. Almost like he’s afraid of me. Like I’m contagious. What the hell?

“Can I offer you some eggs? Or—”

“Nope! I’m good.”

He tosses the words over his shoulder before disappearing into the hallway. I listen to the familiar creak of the stairs as he climbs them, then hear a door open and close.

“That went well,” I tell the empty room.

My aunt answers, “About as well as my second marriage.”

I’m so happy to hear her voice, it takes a second for me to register what she said. “What? You married again after Uncle Jack?”

“I try not to think about it. Two words: Las Vegas and annulment.”

“That’s four words.”

“I know. Just making sure you haven’t lost your damned mind. You’ve never been a quitter before.”

“What?” I gasp, indignant. “How am I a quitter?”

“That city boy clearly doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. He’ll probably get lost on a straight road. Go get him his fancy espresso.”

The command lands like a whip, complete with the stinging reminder of the number one rule of being an innkeeper: Serve the guests and don’t make it personal.

“Thanks, Aunt B,” I whisper.

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