Page 37 of The Inn Dilemma

“O-Okay,” I find myself saying.

“We can go out to lunch somewhere. My treat.” He attempts to give me a smile, but it’s weak and awkward.

“I have my own money.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

I cross my arms over my chest and stand taller. “Aunt Birdie has me working around the Storybook Inn.”

He grimaces and shakes his head. “Nova. A Price doesn’t?—”

“A Price does whatever needs to be done to survive. And believe it or not, working at the Storybook Inn helps me do more than survive. I thrive there.”

He forces another smile that barely touches his eyes. But he’s clearly trying, and I should respect that.

“Right.” He grabs his suit jacket off the coat rack next to his door and slides it on. The material that once used to fit him like a tailored glove hangs off hisshoulders.

He motions with his hand, and I let him lead me out of his office’s waiting room and into the elevator that takes us to the bottom floor.

The walk to the restaurant is spent in awkward silence, and he moves a little slower than he used to. Part of me wants to ask him more about his condition, though the little girl in me doesn’t want to see her dad as anything but invincible. But it’s mostly the bitterness I feel from our history that has me clamping my mouth closed.

When we reach the restaurant, he opens the door and motions me in.

“Table for two,” he says to the hostess, who quickly grabs two menus and tells us to follow her.

Someone at a table we pass greets Dad. I turn and give them a polite smile before focusing my attention forward to give them privacy. He rarely wanted me involved in conversations with his associates unless it benefited him in some way. So instead, I scan my surroundings, taking in the pop of white tablecloths that contrasts with the deep red wallpaper. Dimmed crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, barely illuminating the dining room. Each of the seated patrons is dressed in business attire, not a single person in jeans from what I can see. When my gaze sweeps to the far corner of the room, my heart stops at the couple tucked into the intimate table for two.

Mom is sitting at the table facing me, and Trevor sits across from her, his hand softly gripping hers. I can tell from the profile and the distinct slick pompadour hairstyle it’s him. She wears a flirty smile and gazes at him in a way I don’t remember ever seeing her look at Dad.

I rub my chest, feeling a pang of sympathy for my parents’ dying marriage. Then another pang of sympathyfor Dad, who probably deserves it. Regret slams into me. It’s not a thought or belief I should have.

It’s a funny thing about knowing Jesus—it changes us without us even realizing it. With that thought, I say a silent prayer.Lord, give me wisdom on how to handle this. Do I allow it to play out? Or distract Dad?

I look over at Dad when he turns back to me. This time, a genuine smile is on his face. And even though I truly do believe the truth will set us free, I don’t want to forfeit the potential of this lunch. He doesn’t seem to notice Mom at all. The hostess takes a turn, diverting us away from Mom and her companion.

The hostess seats us on the other side of the dining room, Mom and Trevor far enough away to not be in focus. Just as a precaution, I sit on the side of the table facing them.

We haven’t been sitting a full minute when our waiter comes over.

“What can I get you to drink?” he asks.

“Just a water for me, please,” I answer.

“A water with lemon for me.”

The waiter dips his head and leaves Dad and me to talk. Dad folds his hands on top of the table and leans forward.

“So, tell me. How was Paris?”

His question shouldn’t surprise me or take me off guard, but it does. I want to leave Paris and all the mistakes I made there in the past. It’s why I haven’t reached out to Beau’s assistant Elise despite my promise to stay in touch.

“It was…Paris.”

Dad lifts his eyebrows as if encouraging me to continue. In the dim lighting, the bags under his eyes andthe shallow pallor of his skin are barely noticeable. I can almost pretend he doesn’t look sick at all.

The waiter returns and places our waters in front of us, as well as a basket of breadsticks. Then he takes our order. I order lasagna, my favorite Italian dish. Dad orders chicken parmesan and pasta, his usual.

The moment our waiter walks away, Dad asks me again, “Well, I’ve only ever been to Paris for work. So tell me what it is that appealed most to you.”

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