Page 15 of No Room in the Inn

“Yes!” I say, looking with more interest now at where Sarah was pointing. I squint, stepping to the side a bit for a better angle. “In the red hat?”

“I think so,” Sarah says.

“Great,” I say. I reach over my head and pass Flora to Sarah; she’s heavier than I would expect a two-year-old to be. Then again, the last time I babysat was in high school, so what do I know?

I thread my way through the crowd, apologizing several times as I bump into various different people. I almost trip over one man’s cane, and even though it’s entirely his fault for sticking his cane way out in the middle of the sidewalk, I apologize to him too. When I finally come up behind Mrs. Nixon, I’m bordering on out of breath. She stands a full head shorter than me; half a head if you take into account the large pompom on her hat. She’s a stout little woman with a penchant for talking louder than necessary, if I remember correctly.

“Mrs. Nixon,” I say, speaking loudly so I can be heard over the sounds the crowd is making. It doesn’t work, though, because I get no response. “Mrs. Nixon,” I say again, more loudly this time.

Still nothing. I finally just tap her on the shoulder, and that gets her attention. She gives a start and turns to me.

“Willow Scott?” she says, her eyes going almost comically wide. “Little Willow?”

I hold back a sigh of resignation, settling in and preparing myself for the inevitable onslaught of inappropriate questions elderly people think they can get away with just because they’re old.

“Yep, that’s me,” I say, forcing a smile. “How are you, Gerty?”

“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she says, waving my question away with one plump, age-spotted hand. “But how are you, sugar? Last I heard you ran off in a hissy fit after high school.”

And there it is. “I’m doing just fine, Gerty,” I say, purposefully ignoring that last part.

“I’m so sorry about Gladys,” Gerty says, patting my arm sympathetically. “We sure will miss her around here.”

“She was very loved,” I agree. “In fact, I wanted to ask you something about her.”

Gerty nods expectantly, so I go on.

“She mentioned a Mr. Nixon to me in a letter she left.” I watch Gerty’s face for any sign of recognition, but the old lady just smiles up at me, looking politely confused.

“Mr. Nixon?” she says.

I nod. “Yes. Mr. Nixon. I wondered if you knew who she was talking about—if it could be a family member or something.” My thoughts from earlier come to mind, and I add, “Or a pet. A fish, maybe?”

Now Gerty looks really confused. And even to me the pet bit sounds ridiculous, but it can’t hurt to ask.

“No pets,” she says with a frown. “And no Mr. Nixon either. Not that I’d say no to one,” she says, leaning toward me with a conspiratorial wink. “A girl gets lonely on these cold winter nights. Need someone to warm my bed, if you take my meaning.” She winks again.

Gross.

“All right,” I say loudly. “I think that was all I needed to ask you about.”

“Well, if you’re sure, sugar. Now you tell me—who’s warmingyourbed these days? Have you got a beau running around somewhere?”

My mind flashes to Chauncey, but something in my expression must change, because Gerty gives a howl of a laugh and says,

“I guess that’s a no.” She hesitates, then goes on. “You know, I know a nice boy—”

“No,” I say quickly, because the last thing I need is Gerty playing matchmaker for me.

Except she’s still going. “He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s a good boy deep down—”

“Gerty, I’m really not—”

“And I know he could just use a sweet thing like you. His parole officer says he shows real promise—”

“Gerty, no,” I say quickly, my eyes widening in panic. For thelove—this woman doesn’t stop.She’s going to have me married off to an ex-convict before I even know what’s happening. “I am absolutely not interested. I wish him all the best, but I am not the woman for him. I actually just got out of a relationship, and I’m really not ready to dive back in right now.”

It’s the first excuse I could think of, but it’s also true. I have no room in my life for a man right now. I’ve got this whole bed and breakfast thing to figure out, I’m unemployed—I’ve got enough to worry about right now without a man complicating things, no matter what his parole officer says.

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