Page 16 of No Room in the Inn

“Well, if you insist,” Gerty says, sounding reluctant.

“I really do.” My voice is as fervent as I’ve ever heard it.

She shrugs her hunched shoulders. “All right, then, sugar. You pass my love on to your mama and daddy, okay?”

I just give her a forced smile and walk away.

Chapter 8

Willow

It takes a considerable amount of persuasion—and a promise I don’t intend to keep involving a baseball bat now stashed in the back of my car—to convince Sarah that I’ll be fine going to see the squatter by myself later that evening. I’m anxious to get moving on this matter, because in the midst of all the chaos that is my life, this is one thing I can control.

Fix up the inn? No idea where to start. Find a new job? Totally up in the air. But evict my squatter?Thatis something I can do. It’s simple from start to finish.

To be honest I’d be more nervous about talking to my uninvited guest had I not seen the way he lived. Or I’m assuming it’s a man, anyway—the clothes in the closet look like men’s. If I had uncovered a pigsty of trash and filth, I’d be nervous. But whoever he was, he kept his space—myspace—tidy. That makes me think I’ll be dealing with someone at least sort of reasonable.

The sooner I get him out, the sooner I can get this place under repairs. Like I said, I have no idea how to do that—I’ll have to google it and call a company that deals with all this—but one step at a time. Because no matter what I decide to do with the inn, I have to repair it first. No one will buy it in this condition unless they want to tear it down, and nor could I turn it back into a bed and breakfast.

The inn, I have to admit, looks a little more menacing after nightfall, which is when I finally make my way over. It never used to look scary, but that was because Granny had it all lit up—the porch lights on, light spilling out of every window, and additional twinkly lights when the holidays rolled around. Not just Christmas, either; this place got decked out for whatever holiday was closest. Orange lights around Halloween. Pink or yellow near Easter. Green for St. Patrick’s Day. Granny went all out.

I take slow steps through the snow, feeling supremely grateful I wore my boots. I never travel to Woodfield without boots. To do so is to invite ill-timed snowstorms. I look at the snow around me for footprints or tracks, but I don’t see any. I guess that could just be because it’s dark, but looking back over my shoulder I can see the footprints I’ve made well enough thanks to the light of the moon. What will I do if my squatter isn’t here? Should I leave a note?

When I get to the front door, I have to fiddle with the key for a second before I get it unlocked. I move inside as quietly as possible, because if the squatter is here, I don’t want to frighten him away. I want to talk to him; I don’t want to have to come back tomorrow. I glance into the kitchen as I pass; the glass that was out on the counter earlier is gone now. He’s been here.

I make my way through the living room on my tiptoes. So far there aren’t any lights on anywhere, and I’m beginning to feel the effects of being here in the dark, potentially with a homeless stranger lurking somewhere. I feel a twinge of regret at leaving my baseball bat in the car, and I say a quick prayer for safety; it can’t hurt.

I stop at the fireplace, considering for a moment before I finally make up my mind and grab the fire poker from the hearth. Worst case scenario: I’ll look like an idiot for wielding a poker like a weapon. Best case scenario: I’ll save myself from certain death and look awesome doing it, like when Mulan is using a sword for the first time and that super intense music is playing in the background.

“I am Mulan,” I whisper to myself as I creep toward the hallway where Mr. Squatter’s bedroom of choice is located. “I am brave.” I round the corner, turning into the hall, and immediately spot a shaft of light shining from under the door of my squatter’s room.

I stifle a laugh when I realize I’ve started to refer to him as “my squatter,” the same way I’d refer to a pet parakeet or something. I clutch the fire poker a little tighter, lift it above my head, and open the door.

My first thought, before I’ve processed anything, is “What is it with this town?” It’s a strange question to ask about the place you grew up, but it’s valid, because I am now looking at the second Santa Claus I’ve seen in the last twelve hours.

“Whoa!” he yelps when I walk in. He scrambles off the bed with surprising agility, a hardback book falling to the floor as he moves. “Who the—”

“Another one?” It explodes out of me before I can stop it, startling Santa into silence. I had planned to approach this conversation calmly, but something about the sight of another Santa is throwing me off kilter. Because how many Santas does a tiny town need? One. Just one. And yet they seem to show up in all the places they don’t belong, like my deceased grandmother’s bed and breakfast, or the dressing room where I’m half naked.

The Santa in front of me is still quiet, but after just looking at me for half a second, he starts to laugh. And I meanlaugh.

So, you know, that’s great. He’s clearly insane, and I’m the one who has to deal with him. But it’s okay, because I am Mulan, and this Mulan is so done with Santa today.

I hold the fire poker a little higher over my head and back up slowly. I figure my best strategy here is to assess his level of mental competence from a safe distance before trying to get him out of my inn. He’s still laughing, his obviously fake white beard and mustache trembling with the movement.

He takes a step forward, and when I raise the fire poker higher, he puts both hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Relax,” he says in a vaguely familiar voice. “Chill. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Yeah—like I’m going to take your word for it,” I say. “You’re laughing like a maniac.” I grip the poker more tightly still. Would it be more effective to hold it in front of me rather than over my head? I try to remember how Mulan holds her sword, and I settle for a sort of baseball bat position, poised for swinging.

“No, look”—he waves his hands, still in a position of surrender, as though to emphasize that he cometh in peace—“I’m just surprised to see you, and it’s just my luck. That’s all.” He uses one hand to pull down his beard and mustache while the other takes off his hat and wig, and I’m left staring incredulously at the Santa from the dressing room earlier.

What the Hallmark?

And he’s still in the Santa costume? At home—atmyhome—just hanging out? Who does that? Aren’t those beards itchy? Doesn’t the pillow in his shirt get all sweaty?

“You,” I say, my eyes narrowing. “You’resquatting here?” I shuffle forward slightly.

His admittedly gorgeous eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “What? No,” he says, but his words are too defensive, spoken too quickly to be convincing. “No, it’s not like that. I’m just—”

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