Page 31 of No Room in the Inn

“It’s not like it’s uncommon to go to college out of state,” I say. “And it’s not like I had to be here for any reason. They just didn’t want me to go. And maybe that would be okay, except they refused to help me, and they wouldn’t let Granny help me, either.” I take a deep breath and let it out roughly. “I probably sound like a spoiled brat,” I say to Nixon.

He shakes his head, looking deep in thought. “No, you don’t.”

“It’s not just that they wouldn’t help with tuition,” I say, trying to keep my voice from rising as it always seems to do when I talk about this. “It’s the fact that theysaidthey were going to help me but chose not to—just because I did something they didn’t like. It’s the fact that Granny wanted to help me, but they wouldn’t let her. That’s what I’m angry about. Is that unreasonable?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to be angry. But…” He trails off, then goes on. “Do you think when you’re on your deathbed you’ll be glad you stopped talking to your parents because at least you got a good job and education out of it?”

His words hit me like a slap to the face, and my jaw drops. “Education is important, Nixon! Work is important—but especially education. I can’t—” I break off, shaking my head slowly. “I can’t believe you’re saying they’re not.”

“I’m not saying that at all, Willow!” he says, unfolding his arms and standing up straight. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with leaving your family to go to school or to get a job. In fact, in a lot of cases it’s a smart decision. I think your parents were wrong about that, and I think they were wrong not to support you. But cutting them off because they didn’t—” He breaks off, looking at me with a little too much understanding. “Well, I don’t think shutting them out—shutting Granny out—has made you a happier person, has it?” He shrugs. “And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was the best decision for you.” He hesitates.

“But?” I say, because I can see a “but” coming from a mile away.

“But maybe I’m not wrong,” he says, taking a step toward me. “And maybe it’s something you should reconsider.”

Unbelievable.

“I’m going to go take a nap for a bit,” I say. The words come out automatically, and I have no doubt Nixon can tell it’s just an excuse to leave the room. I don’t even care.

Because who is he to give me advice on a situation he doesn’t understand?

I leave the kitchen at top speed, trying to avoid stomping my feet like an angry child. I’m just starting up the stairs when Nixon calls to me.

“Willow,” he says from behind me. I stop, but I don’t turn around.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding frustrated. There’s a beat of silence, then, “I just—I’m not the person who’s going to tell you what you want to hear all the time. You asked what I thought; I answered truthfully.”

All very good qualities under normal circumstances, but right now those qualities are making me want to turn around and throw my shoe at his head. I don’t answer him; I just plod my way up the three flights of stairs and throw myself down on the bed, eventually falling into a restless sleep.

Chapter 16

Willow

When I wake up, my anger has cooled, and I feel a twinge of shame that I reacted the way I did. If Nixon and I are both going to be living in the inn, he has the right to feel safe expressing his opinion. And, though it makes no sense to me, I don’t want him to think poorly of me. So I go downstairs, intending to talk to him. I decide to bake the cookies first, then surprise him with a plate of gingerbread men. It’s too late to take cookies to anyone this evening, but we can do that part tomorrow.

Look at me, being all domestic. I’m freaking Betty Crocker.

I roll the dough out and cut it into shapes using the cookie cutters I dig out of a drawer in the kitchen. I grew up with some of these cookie cutters; though my original plan was to do gingerbread men and women, I decide on stars and angels instead, because those are what Granny and I always used when I was a little girl.

Once the cookies are in the oven, I wander out of the kitchen and into the living room, settling myself on the couch. I pull out my phone and begin looking up local real estate agents.

I try two numbers before I get someone who specializes in properties like the inn, and I’m lucky enough that I call five minutes before their office closes.

“I have a bed and breakfast I’d like to sell,” I say. “It’s going to go through some repairs, and then—” But I break off as something catches my attention: the smell of smoke.

Crap. The cookies!

“I’m sorry, I have to call you back tomorrow,” I say into the phone, hanging up without waiting for a response. I jump off the sofa and hurry into the kitchen.

Not one second later, the shrieking of the fire alarm is stabbing my eardrums.

I yank open the oven, cursing way more than my mother would approve of. I search the drawers frantically for oven mitts, but I can’t find any, so I grab a towel instead.

Out of nowhere, Nixon rushes into the kitchen. “What the—” he says, breaking off. He looks oddly upset, and his face is a couple shades paler than normal as he stands, frozen, watching the scene before him.

“I forgot about the cookies,” I say, using the towel to pull the tray out of the oven. “I was—ow!”

More cursing follows the slip of the towel and the searing heat against my skin as I burn my thumb on the tray. I quickly get the cookies out and all but toss the cookie sheet onto the stove range.

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