Page 28 of The Inn Dilemma

My chest hurts as I think about my paintings sitting in the extra bedroom of Beau’s apartment. After overhearing Beau on the phone bragging about how he was receiving all the benefits of being married withoutthe actual commitment, I couldn’t leave fast enough. Unfortunately, that meant my paintings were collateral damage and abandoned in my haste to get out. The signs had been popping up everywhere, telling me it was time to leave Beau. That not only were we living in sin, but he was never going to commit. So I came home. Then lost all my bravado as I landed at the Denver airport and realized I had no one to pick me up. So I took a taxi to Rocosa—my home—and was reminded once more that I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. I was a coward not to go to Christian and beg his forgiveness before facing Dad. Thankfully, when I ducked into the library, I ran into Reese who forgave me much more quickly than I deserved and then offered her home to me.

Aunt Birdie loops her arm through mine, pulling me from my thoughts. “Don’t be ridiculous. I only expect you to exceed my expectations.”

The historical society offices are just two blocks away from us now.A terrible sense of dread trickles down my spine.

I scoff. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Well, I don’t plan on having you jumping head first into a full wall mural. I figured you could make some sketches and do some small-scale paintings before digging into the project.”

“You’ve made quite a few assumptions, Aunt Birdie.”

She only looks slightly embarrassed. “Well, excuse me for wanting to help you pursue your passions.”

We walk up to the ornate door that saysHistorical Societyin an elegant script.

“Are you in?” Aunt Birdie asks.

At the look in her eyes, I can’t say no. “Let’s do it.”

A smile spreads across her face as we enter the building.

“Absolutely not!” Gladys Monroe says, slamming her fist onto the table. “The Storybook Inn has been a staple in Rocosa since the founding of this town! How could you want to desecrate that place with murals done by a silly amateur?”

I bristle at her comment. Not her calling me an amateur—I couldn’t care less what this woman thinks of me—but to call artwork a desecration is absurd. Aunt Birdie laid out her thought-out plans for renovating the inn and—to her credit—Gladys listened without interruption, but the moment Aunt Birdie finished, Gladys immediately turned us down.

Gladys Monroe is one of the board members of the historical society. Since she married into a founding family, she believes she is better than everyone else. Even though Aunt Birdie also married into a founding family, she doesn’t throw that weight around. Gladys has been a thorn in pretty much everyone’s side since before I can remember. This is my first encounter with the tyrant, and I’m hoping it’s also the last.

Mr. Smith, the historical society’s new president, looks to each of us, remaining silent, allowing Gladys to take control of this meeting. I thought he was the leader of the historical society and that they’d need to meet with the rest of the board before making a decision, but as usual, Gladys Monroe has bulldozed over everyone else

“The murals would be done in the style that wasprevalent at the time. They would only enhance the beauty of each room and give the place a uniqueness to separate it from other bed and breakfasts near Denver,” I say, straightening in my seat.

Gladys crosses her arms over her chest and raises an overdrawn eyebrow. “You think quite highly of yourself, Miss Price.” She wags one of her manicured fingers at me. “I don’t think the rest of the board will be too keen to hear that the prodigal rich girl has come back only to ruin a historical landmark.”

Despite the turmoil consuming my insides, I sit up straighter, tilt my chin up, and apply every ounce of pride that comes with the Price name.

Before I can say anything, Gladys goes on. “That’s right, princess. I heard Kent cut you off when you ran off with that Frenchman and became his little?—”

“Enough!” a booming voice says from behind us.

Holt strides in as if he owns the place, brimming with confidence and controlled anger. “You will not disrespect either of these women again.”

I swallow the lump of emotion in my throat. Gladys’s words are no different than the thoughts I’ve had about myself since leaving Beau. I turned into someone I could no longer recognize in the mirror. At the confirmation, shame slams into me, and I’m left reeling in the aftershock. No one around me can see my turmoil. Numbness is something I’ve perfected over the years and hidden behind whatever mask fit the expectations of every occasion.

“Well, Mr. Graves. So nice of you to finally join us,” Gladys says dryly.

Gladys’s statement pulls me from my inner turmoil. I furrow my brows and look from Holt to Aunt Birdie. Isthere a reason why Holt would need to be present for today’s meeting?

“I should have known you were up to something when I got the call that the meeting was rescheduled.” He shakes his head and looks at Mr. Smith. “Do you have anything to say?”

Mr. Smith raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just here as a formality. Gladys already told me?—”

He flinches, and I assume Gladys either stepped on his foot or kicked him beneath the table to cut him off.

“This is an absolutely ludicrous request. You are asking for permission to mar a perfect canvas with this unaccomplished girl’s paintbrush.”

A low rumble sounds from Holt’s chest. When I look up at him, he resembles a grizzly who’s ready to charge.

“Have you ever seen Nova’s paintings?” He directs this at Gladys, his thick right eyebrow raised, his other hidden beneath his patch. “They are some of the most beautiful works of art you’ll ever see.”

---