Page 26 of No Room in the Inn

“Tell me more,” I say, prompting her.

There’s a beat of silence before Willow speaks. “You’re trying to distract me,” she says. “Or maybe the opposite—you’re trying to help me with the idea that she’s gone by reminding me of my good memories of her.”

I blink in surprise, and my hand stops moving for just a second. Then it resumes its motion of stroking her hair, and I say, “I—yeah, I guess.”

Willow sniffles again. “That’s nice of you. I know you don’t like me.”

Wow. This girl has no filter.

I kind of like it.

“I just don’t like seeing people cry,” I say, fighting a smile. “It’s nothing personal. I still don’t like you.”

Willow gives a shaky laugh. “I don’t like you either.”

I nod. “All right. Now that we’ve established that, tell me more about Granny.”

“Well,” she says. “You know all those jokes and memes about grandmas? The fruit magnets on their refrigerators, the doilies on the coffee tables, the candies in the purse? Those all fit her completely. She kept those strawberry candies in her purse all the time, and she always slipped them to me when my mom wasn’t looking. My mom didn’t really like me to have candy,” Willow adds. “She’s pretty granola.”

I nod, feeling my scruff pull slightly at her hair. This is a good opening for my question, and I’m going to take it. “The hippie thing; you mentioned that.” I pause, then say, “That’s why you guys don’t get along?” Maybe that’s why she left Woodfield. There has to be a good reason she would leave someone like Granny.

Willow shrugs, and something in her posture changes. Where before she was totally relaxed, her body stiffens now. She straightens up and steps back, and I let go of her immediately. She clears her throat, looking around the room, wiping her cheeks.

“Um, sorry,” she says. She can’t quite meet my eyes, and I see embarrassment creeping over her features.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, and I’m surprised to find that I mean it. I might not like her, but no one should have to mourn alone. I amble slowly to the doorway; I can tell she wants to be by herself. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

Willow nods silently, but just as I’m stepping out of the room, she speaks. “Thank you,” she says, the words rushing out of her. “For…that.” She gestures vaguely at the picture of the cat. She finally looks at me, her face reddening.

I just nod, my eyes locking on hers, before leaving and closing the door behind me.

Chapter 14

Willow

After I’ve freshened up (read: washed my face three times and given myself a stern pep talk in the mirror about how it is okay to mourn but less okay to sob my heart out on a stranger’s chest, even if he is an extremely handsome and nicer-than-expected stranger), I grab a notebook and pen and head downstairs. I have a promise to keep.

Because I can’t guarantee I’ll make up with my parents. But Granny also wanted me to have a Hallmark-worthy Christmas season here in Woodfield, and I can do that. I settle on the couch, curling up in the corner. Nixon and Granny might not have spent any time down here after the fire and her accident—and it shows, what with the dust and the dust covers over the furniture—but when I was little, this couch was my favorite. I draped blankets over it and made forts, hiding with a flashlight and a book.

Nixon walks in just as I’m getting settled. He has what looks like yet another mug of hot chocolate in his hands.

“What do they always do in Hallmark movies?” I say.

He blinks, confusion furrowing his brow. “What?”

“Hallmark movies,” I repeat. “I’m trying to think of all the things they do in Hallmark movies. You know, ice skating, snowball fights—that kind of thing.”

He still looks confused. “I don’t get it.”

I sigh, because I can see I’m going to have to explain if I want him to be any help. And frankly, I would like us to have a normal conversation so that I can ease the weirdness I feel over having cried my eyes out while he held me in his arms. Luckily, I’ve already had an almost identical conversation with Sarah.

“So Granny left me the inn, right?” I say.

He nods slowly, coming to sit on the opposite end of the couch. He sets his mug on the end table before leaning back, relaxing into the sofa and looking at me.

“Well, she left me a letter too, with stuff she wanted me to do. And her letter was pretty Hallmark-y,” I explain. “Like, it feels like I’m currently in a Hallmark movie. Architect from a big city gets called back to her tiny hometown to take over her grandmother’s bed and breakfast, et cetera, et cetera,” I say.

He shrugs, frowning. “You mentioned the letter and something about Hallmark this morning. But it’s not that Hallmark-y.”

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