Page 45 of No Room in the Inn

Is that what Nixon has become to me? A friend? I hadn’t considered that possibility. I don’t know him, and what I do know, I don’t like.

This feeling is quite the surprise. I’m not sure if it’s a pleasant one or an unpleasant one. Because you’re supposed to trust your friends. I don’t trust him, do I? I barely know him. Right? I mean, I don’t know anything about his family, for example. He could have twelve siblings. Heck, he could have twelvetoesand I’d never know. It’s like I said—I know nothing about him.

So how come my brain is trying to claim him as a friend?

I try to watch him surreptitiously as he and Sarah finish singing while Flora and I just observe. He’s attractive, but it’s more than that. He has a kindface—kind eyes and a genuine smile. Sure, he does some obnoxious smirking and whatnot, and sometimes it feels like his gaze is burning a hole right through me, but it’s never malicious. Even I can see that, and I’ve only known him for a handful of days.

“Willow?”

I jump when I realize that they’re done singing and that I’ve just been caught staring at Nixon like a creeper.

Speaking of his smirks, here comes one now, just pulling at the corners of his mouth. Infuriating man.

“Willow?” Sarah says again.

“Yeah,” I say, tearing my eyes away from Nixon’s knowing smile.

“Mildred asked how long you were in town.”

“Oh. Um, I’m not sure,” I say to Mildred. “About a month, probably. I’ll get the inn fixed up and sold and then head back to St. Louis.”

I’m not even looking at Nixon, and I can still see his body tense up. Mildred shakes her head, giving me such a look of disapproval that I have to fight the urge to cower.

But come on. It’s not unreasonable for me not to want to own a bed and breakfast. It’s just not.

“Well,” Nixon says, his voice maybe a little strained. “We’ll let you get on with your evening, Mildred. Thanks for letting us serenade you.”

Mildred just grunts, backs up, and closes the door in our faces.

We stand there for a second, looking at each other, until finally Nixon says, “I thought that went well.”

Sarah nods. “Me, too.”

I sigh. “Let’s just get back to the car, please,” I say, because I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t alittleembarrassed by Mildred’s treatment of me.

We troop back to the car and then go to Gerty Nixon’s. When she sees us, she beams.

“Willow, sugar, come in, come in!” she says, beckoning us in with enthusiasm. “Sarah, how are you? And how are you, Miss Flora?” she goes on.

We give her our chorus of “fine” as we shuffle into her foyer. She bustles to close the door, and then she turns to us, her eyes finding Nixon.

“And I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” she says. “What’s your name, sugar?”

“Nixon,” he says promptly. “Nixon Hallstrom. I’m—” He breaks off, and I don’t understand why until he goes on. “I was a friend of Gladys’s.”

Gerty nods slowly, looking him over. “Well, well…you’re certainly a handsome devil, aren’t you?” She glances at his Santa suit, her eyes then jumping to my dress. She turns and fixes me with a stern look.

“Willow, you said you weren’t ready to jump back into a relationship,” she says, and she actually wags a finger at me as though she’s telling me off.

“I’m not!” I say quickly. “We’re not—I mean, I’m—we’re—we’re not together,” I finish weakly.

Nixon, I notice, doesn’t lift a single finger to help me correct Gerty’s incorrect assumption.

“Well, why not?” Gerty demands. “You’re both young and beautiful. And if you didn’t wear that outfit for him, missy,” she says, rounding on me, “then who did you wear it for? My mother had a name for heels like that”—she points to my boots—“and it’s a name I can’t repeat in the presence of tiny ears. So who did you wear them for?”

Nixon’s gaze swings to mine, his eyebrows lifting as a challenging smirk spreads over his lips. “Yeah, Willow,” he says. “Who did you wear them for?”

“I wore this outfit for me,” I say, stomping my foot before I can stop myself. “Because it makes me feel good about myself.”

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