Page 24 of No Room in the Inn

“I found Mr. Nixon!” I say. “Sarah”—for some absurd reason I lower my voice even though I’m the only person in the house right now—“it’s Hot Santa! My squatter! He’s Mr. Nixon!”

“No way,” Sarah says, sounding shocked.

“That’s what I said!”

“Are you sure?” she says.

“I wasn’t until he showed me his ID. But it’s really him. Hot Santa, my squatter, and Mr. Nixon are all thesame person.”

“Weird,” Sarah says. “That’s completely bizarre. What about the tragic past? Were we right?”

“That’s still TBD,” I say.

“Hmm. Wedding ring?”

I think back, trying to remember. “I’m pretty sure not,” I say.

Just then my phone beeps at me, letting me know someone is calling.

“Hang on,” I say to Sarah. I pull my phone away from my ear. It’s just my mom, so I ignore it. “Okay, I’m back.”

“Well, if you really want to know, check his wallet for pictures,” Sarah says, sounding thoughtful. “People with tragic pasts always keep well-worn photos in their wallets.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “And they take them out and stare at them in a long montage overlaid with sad but uplifting music.”

“That’s true. Oh, hang on—Suzanne, sweetheart, let’s not do that, okay? Both of your fists won’t fit in your mouth, and you might make yourself throw up on accident.”

I give a snort of laughter. “Sarah, I’m going to let you go deal with that. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, but her words are distracted. “Suzanne, no, not one fist, either. Just keep your hands out of your mouth.”

I hang up, still laughing. Then I go to the guest room and gather my things. It’s only twenty minutes later that everything is in my rental car and my rental car is parked outside the three boutiques in Woodfield. They’re all on Main, all next to each other. If I want more options I’ll have to go out of town, but I don’t have the patience or energy for that. I just need to grab a few tops and maybe a pair of pants. When I came back to Woodfield I hadn’t planned on staying as long as it looks like I might.

After a quick shopping spree—in which I talk myself out of a gorgeous but unnecessary pair of heels, although I do cave and buy a cute little Santa dress—I head back to Granny’s inn. I go in through the front door since Nixon has been using the back entrance—or at least I assume that’s the case, since I didn’t see any footprints in the front last night.

I don’t want to run into him, but I’m also not going to let him drive me away from here. I won’t stay away just to avoid him.

I put my bags down just briefly enough to grab a drink from the kitchen. The water from the tap is lukewarm, but it still does the trick. I’m just loading my glass in the dishwasher when I see a leather wallet and some keys on the counter.

I stare at them for a second. Sarah’s suggestion runs through my mind:If you really want to know, check his wallet for pictures. People with tragic pasts always keep well-worn photos in their wallets.

I look over my shoulder, listening hard. I don’t hear Nixon anywhere, and I don’t see him. I look back to the wallet, debating.

One little peek couldn’t hurt, could it? Besides, if he does have a tragic past, photos could give me a clue about things I shouldn’t bring up or mention. I want us to be on civil terms so I can smooth over this whole selling-the-inn thing, especially after our fight this morning.

Without further consideration, I quickly grab the wallet. I flip it open, and I can see immediately that there’s no photo—just a few cards and the photo ID he showed me. I check the cash flap, just to be sure, trying not to look at the denomination of the bills, because this is already invasive enough without me knowing exactly how much cash he carries. There’s no picture there, either, so I close the wallet and place it carefully back where I found it, my pulse tripping.

I am so bad at doing bad things. I can’t even peek into a wallet that’s not mine without my heart pounding from anxiety. At least it made me a good student; I could never muster the courage to do something like skip class, much less cheat on a test.

As I drag my bags up the first of three flights of stairs, I start to think that maybe Nixon’s presence might be nice. I’m no weakling, but three flights of stairs is a lot of stairs, and my one duffle bag has turned into two sagging ones after my shopping trip. Still, I climb on.

By the time I’m halfway up the last flight of stairs, I’m positive that his presence right now would be the most wonderful thing in the world, and I’m heartily regretting buying more clothes that I’ve had to drag up the stairs. Who cares about variety? I know how to use a washing machine. I can rotate through the same three shirts for a month.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I let myself drop my bags. I sit clumsily on the top stair, rest my head on my knees, and think.

Because I really might be here for about a month.

I mean, if I want to sell this place—and I do—I’d rather stick around to make sure it’s getting fixed up okay so it’s in good shape to pass off to someone else. Plus if at all possible, I’d like to sell to someone who’s not going to just tear the inn down and use the land for something else. I owe that to Granny. Whatever Nixon might think, I do respect her love for this place. I don’t know how long repairs will take or how long it will take to sell, but if I want to get back to St. Louis in time for January hires, I’ve got a month.

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