Page 10 of No Room in the Inn

The hinges on the door whine softly as we enter, and I know the second I step inside that this is where our squatter has been sleeping. Both of us just stand there for a minute, looking.

“Okay, there’s definitely someone staying here,” Sarah finally says.

“Definitely,” I agree, feeling a little indignant. The bed—a queen bed rather than a double, which is probably why our squatter chose this room instead of the other one—is unmade, the covers rumpled. Two large duffle bags rest on the bench at the foot of the bed, and a big trash bag appears to be serving as a clothes hamper. The closet door is open, revealing what looks like a bunch of red shirts hanging there.

I just look around for another second, folding my arms over my chest. Who on earth is squatting in my deceased grandmother’s bed and breakfast? Who does that? And since when has Woodfield had any sort of homeless population?

I turn to Sarah. “Well, this is going to be a nightmare to deal with. What should I do? Should I call the police?”

Sarah looks sympathetically at me. “Probably,” she says. She checks her watch. “Not right now, though. We need to go.”

“What?” I say, not quite paying attention to her. I was going to stay here tonight; what am I going to do now? I’m not sleeping in the same house as an unknown squatter. It’s not happening. I’ve seen that movie, and unlike Hallmark movies, it never ends well.

“We need to go,” Sarah repeats. “We have to pick up Flora and then go to the parade.”

“Oh, right,” I say, coming back to myself. “If it’s okay, I might need to stay with you tonight? I was going to stay here, but—”

“No way,” Sarah says. “Don’t stay here until the squatter is gone. You’re fine to stay with me.”

“Thanks,” I say with a sigh of relief. My mind races as we leave; I’m trying to formulate a plan. Getting the police involved sounds like a pain. I’ll do it if I have to, but it might be better to just talk to my squatter first and let them know they need to leave now that I’m here.

***

The outfit Sarah has brought me to wear to the parade is completely ridiculous, and I’m not at all surprised. Sarah is the queen of the ugly Christmas sweater, but it doesn’t stop there—she has some truly terrible Christmas dresses, too.

Which is why I find myself carrying a Grinch-green dress draped over one arm as I search for a place to change. The dress has a pattern of large, sequined Christmas lights all over, and it will look absolutely horrible on me.

The parade starts and ends at the Woodfield Community Center, which is a new addition to town. It’s a stark contrast from the funeral home earlier today; everything is simple and sleek without feeling too sterile or cold. It’s a nice building.

Can’t find the bathroom anywhere, but whatever. It’s still nice.

I finally breathe a sigh of relief when I see a door labeled “Dressing Room.” Sarah and Flora are waiting for me out front, and the parade should be starting in ten minutes or so. I knock on the door, wait a few seconds, and then enter.

It’s a small but comfortable room, with a large mirror, a couch, and a stall in one corner. It reminds me of a department store changing room. I go into the stall and lock the door—the other door doesn’t have a lock, which seems like a pretty big oversight for a dressing room, but whatever—and strip down. It feels good to get out of the black dress, almost like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders—grief made tangible, sliding down my body until it’s nothing but a crumpled heap at my feet.

I remove Sarah’s Grinch dress from the hanger and replace it with the funeral dress. Then I hold up the green dress, inspecting it more thoroughly. I can’t quite hold in my sigh of resignation as I look it over one last time.

There’s nothing for it, I guess, and it’s not like I’m going to see anyone whose opinion I care about, anyway. Plus putting this stupid dress on will make Sarah happy, and I bet Flora will like it too. What little girl wouldn’t like a crazy dress with lots of sequins, right?

I pull the dress gently over my head. I can tell it’s going to be tight, and the fabric is something cheap and scratchy with not much give, forcing me to move slowly so I can maneuver my way in. I manage to locate the holes for the sleeves and the turtleneck opening all right, but that’s where my problems start.

There’s a sharp pull at my ear, so I stop moving immediately. When I try to turn my head a little, I feel the painful tug again, and I groan. It would appear that my earrings—my innocent-looking diamond studs that have never before caused problems—have become acquainted with my dress while my head isn’t even halfway through the turtleneck yet.

Great. Just great.

My arms are already partway through the sleeves, jammed in like chicken wings, and now I start squirming to get them back out again. I’m all but jumping blindly around the dressing room now, no doubt looking like I’m doing some weird version of the hokey pokey. This is a ridiculous situation to find myself in, and I’m going to blame it completely on Sarah.

I’ve managed to get one arm out of my sleeve—whose idea was it to make this dress so dang tight?—when I hear the last sound in the world I currently want to hear: the door opening.

I whirl blindly toward the sound, fully conscious of the fact that I look insane right now, not to mention that my legs and possibly panties are on full display. There’s utter silence for a space of two seconds.

“Um,” I finally say.

“Hi,” a voice says, and heaven help me, it’s male—deep and smooth. I can feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment and humiliation.

“Uh, this room is occupied,” I say with all the dignity I can manage. Because what else am I supposed to do at this point besides muster up what’s left of my pride?

“Yeah,” the voice says, sounding bemused. “I can see that.”

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