Page 27 of The Inn Dilemma

“Do you need me for that?” I ask.

“We’ll just need you for the muscle after it gets approved and we can get started.” Aunt Birdie winks at me.

My lips tilt up into a half-smile. “You can count on me for the muscle.” I make a show of flexing. Nova and Aunt Birdie both shake their heads at me, biting back smiles.

With that, I bid them good night and head back to my cabin to let my pups out. I send up a silent prayer that God will do the impossible and bring Aunt Birdie’s dream to life.

Chapter Nine

Nova

“Change of plans, Nova girl,” Aunt Birdie says as I step through the door of the inn. She’s wearing dress pants, a white blouse, and she’s putting on her nicest jacket. All of which is very different from the house dresses she usually wears.

“Where are you off to?” I ask.

“We’re off to meet with the historical society.”

My eyebrows shoot up at that. “You already got an appointment with them?” I ask, remembering the hoops Maya—the new librarian—and Des had to jump through to have necessary updates done at the library. “Don’t you usually have to wait for one of their monthly meetings?”

"Just for that tyrant Gladys Monroe to attempt to embarrass me in front of all of Rocosa like she tried to do with sweet Maya and the library?” She mirrors my thoughts as she waves a dismissive hand. “Absolutely not. When I want something done, I get it done!” she answers proudly. “I need you to change into something more business casual.”

I bristle at her request. For most of my life, I’ve worn what other people wanted me to wear to events.

Aunt Birdie must notice my distress. "Need I remind you, we’re meeting with Gladys Monroe? It would be best if we both go into this meeting looking ready to get down to business. You know how she can be.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to go.”

“I’m not doing this alone. We”—she motions between the two of us— “are. I thought you’d be happy to swap cleaning toilets to sketching out and designing the murals.”

“You’re talking me out of cleaning duty?” I ask, and Aunt Birdie loops her arm through mine as we walk down the path.

“This is going to better suit you and your abilities,” she answers.

I clench my jaw. And like the hawk she is, Aunt Birdie notices. She places a gentle hand on my shoulder as I unlock my door. “This is in no way meant to demean the work you’ve done for me already. You’re a hard worker and give everything your all, even scrubbing the bathrooms. This isn’t because you’ve done a bad job; this is because I know where your talents and passions are and I want to help nourish them.”

I nod, holding back the emotions swarming me, and we head inside. “I just don’t want to be treated like a little princess anymore.”

She gives me a playful smile. “You’ll always be a little princess to me. I’ll never forget your gap-toothed smile when you showed up here the first time.” She drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or how you looked at my Holt. As if he hung the moon, stars, and sun.”

My cheeks heat. Thankfully, Aunt Birdie’s back is tome as she rustles through my closet and pulls out a fitted cream sweater, which I pair with my favorite black maxi skirt. I then twist my hair into a neat bun.

“So what makes you think I can manage painting murals for you? I have no proper training. Are you sure you can trust me with this?”

“You are passionate about art and have always been a master with the paintbrush. The paintings you did for me are still the ones most complimented by guests. Several have even asked to buy them off me!”

Something unfurls in my chest at her praise. Dad tried to stifle my passion for art and painting. Beau slowly drained it out of me as he concluded that because I am a work of art, I should showcase that part of myself over the art I create. Looking back, it was obnoxious to be flattered by his compliment, but I’m not surprised that his view of me was so one-dimensional, so shallow.

“I know I should have asked you first, but you were an answer to my prayer,” she says, her expression softening. “And Ella Mae’s.”

I grab my purse from the coat rack and we step outside.

“It’s not that I don’t want to do it. I’d love to,” I say.

I lock up and we start our walk into town.

“But,” Aunt Birdie prompts.

“But I haven’t painted in years.” I bite my tongue. That’s not true. I have painted, but no one has seen the finished results. “I’m not sure I’m experienced enough to meet your expectations.” I revise my partial lie.

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