Page 29 of No Room in the Inn

I gape at him, momentarily forgetting about my list. “It was hideous!”

“All right.” He holds up his hands in a placatory manner. “The dress itself wasn’t great. But youinthe dress…” He shrugs again. “Not bad.”

I’m honestly not sure what to say to that, and I tell him so.

He just laughs, stretching his legs out and propping them on the coffee table, which is still covered with a dust cover. “You don’t have to say anything. It didn’t require a response.” He looks over at me, but if I’m not mistaken, he doesn’t quite meet my eye. “Let’s get back to your list, shall we?” He reaches out and takes the notebook from me.

“Mm-hmm,” I say, looking carefully at him.

He glances at the list we’re curating, and he’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “You know, we didn’t establish what kind of Christmas experience you’re looking for.”

I frown. “A…good one?”

He grins, shaking his head. “No, I mean, whatkindof Hallmark Christmas are you looking to have?”

“I still don’t know what that means.”

“All right. There are two types of Christmas activities,” he says comfortably, tapping the pen against the notebook. “Inspirational activities and festive activities.” He holds up his right hand. “Caroling to lonely people at a nursing home is inspirational. It’s service oriented and uplifting.” He holds up his left hand. “On the other side, think about a snowball fight, for example. It’s a fun winter activity but not necessarily ‘uplifting’ or whatever.” He pauses, looking at me. “Which kind of activities are you looking for?”

“Huh,” I say, because I haven’t thought about it like that before. I tilt my head. “What doyoulike?”

He shrugs. “I prefer a healthy mix of both, but to each their own; what’s your preference? That will help with finding things for you to do.”

I just look at him for a second, trying to picture him Christmas caroling at a nursing home. Surprisingly, the image fits, somehow. This man is an enigma.

An enigma whose eyes, currently piercing straight into my soul, send a nervous jolt through me. I ignore it—push it away, in fact—and break eye contact.

“I think I’d like a mix, too,” I say, as though I’m ordering a drink off a menu.

He nods. “In that case, let’s start here.” He tapsGingerbread Cookieson the list. “We can take the cookies to a couple ladies. Some of Granny’s friends,” he explains. “People who live alone. They probably get lonely this time of year.”

I can’t help but notice that he’s speaking as though he’s going to be doing this list with me, but I don’t point it out. I’m not sure what I think about the prospect of spending more time with him.

I’d be lying if I said the idea wasentirelyunappealing. I don’t like him; I don’t. But he does keep me guessing, and that’s kind of…well, fun.

“Okay,” I say, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “Let’s do it.”

Chapter 15

Willow

While Nixon runs to the store to get ingredients for gingerbread cookies—the man keeps a bare kitchen; I’m surprised he had whipped cream for the hot chocolate earlier, because he doesn’t even have butter, much less molasses—I turn on Christmas music and then go to my bedroom and pull out Granny’s letter. I read it twice before sighing and tucking it safely back in my purse.

Flopping down on the bed, I glance at a picture of Granny and Gramps hanging on the wall. It was taken probably ten years ago, and they’re smiling like they’ve just won the lottery. It’s how they always smiled at each other.

As I consider that, a little wave of peace washes over me. I hadn’t thought about it, but Granny is back with Gramps now. I find myself smiling; there’s nowhere Granny would rather be.

Because I’m alone and there’s no one here to judge me, I grab the list of Christmas activities from the nightstand and then take it over to the picture of Granny and Gramps.

“Look,” I say to Granny. “I’m doing what you asked me to do. I’m hanging out with Nixon, for one. You could have been more specific about who that was, by the way,” I add sternly. “And I’m going to try to do all of these activities.”

I pause, thinking back to Granny’s letter. “Because I can’t—” My voice falters, and I swallow before going on. “I don’t know if I can fix things with my mom. But I can experience Christmas in Woodfield. So this is for you,” I say, holding up the list.

Granny just smiles serenely at me, and I feel like an idiot for talking to a photograph. But I have to think that wherever Granny is—Heaven, undoubtedly, probably cooking chicken and dumplings for all the angels—she hears me.

“Talking to a picture?”

I jump at the sound of Nixon’s voice behind me. I turn around, expecting to see some sort of teasing in his expression, but he just smiles.

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