Page 5 of No Room in the Inn

Except maybe your parents.

And speak of the not-quite-devil…I try to smooth the grimace off my face when I first spot my mother.

“You don’t look so great,” Sarah says, frowning at me.

“I don’t feel so great,” I admit.“I don’t feel like hashing it out with them.”

“No one is going to do that right now,” Sarah says, and her voice takes on that soothing quality that she always uses when Flora is upset. “Your parents are just as sad about Granny’s passing as you are. Just be polite. Maybe try to show them some love. Just a little,” she adds hastily when I narrow my eyes at her.

“You’re talking to me like you talk to your two-year-old,” I mutter.

Sarah gives a little smile. “Sorry,” she says, and I can tell she means it. “I’m only saying it’s hard on them too. Just go to them, okay? You’ll feel better when you get it over with. I’ll be right next to you, sending you emotional support vibes.” She pauses. “And get that expression off your face before you go over there. You look constipated.”

“Right,” I say, taking a deep breath and nodding as I try to relax my features. “Right.” With one last grateful nod to her, I stand up straighter and prepare myself to see my parents for the first time in seven years.

Chapter 3

Willow

Getting across the room takes a little maneuvering since the place is so packed. I’m stopped by several people offering condolences, and I try to ignore the looks some of them give me—like I’m a new television show that has just rolled into town. A new source for potential drama. It’s the small town factor coming into play; everyone knew about my falling out with my parents when I left after graduating high school, and I’m sure some of our more gossipy citizens are waiting to see what happens now that I’m back for the first time some seven years later. I just nod at these people, smiling and thanking them for their well wishes. I don’t have the energy or desire to do anything else.

When I reach my parents, anxiety rises up inside me—anxiety that’s been curling within since I pulled into Woodfield—and my shoulders tense. I take a deep breath to quell both the tenseness and my churning stomach, throwing in a quick prayer for good measure. Then I just stand there for a second in front of my mother and father, taking them in.

They look pretty much the same; a little grayer, maybe, and it looks like my dad has put on a bit of weight, but other than that not much seems to have changed. My mother still has her long, wavy hair and is wearing one of her signature flowy, floor-length boho skirts. She’s the picture of contrast next to my father, who’s dressed in one of the only two suits he owns. The buttons of his crisp white shirt strain a bit over his belly, but he still looks every inch the businessman. And heisa businessman, but at his core, my dad, like my mom, is a bit of a hippie.

And that was always part of our problem. We wanted different things—I wanted different things from my life than they wanted for me. They didn’t want me to leave Vermont to go to school. They didn’t want me to go work in a big, bustling city for a big, soulless company.

It’s not like they’re farmers and I have to be here to help with planting and harvest each year or something. They just…didn’t want me to leave. They didn’t want me to “sell out” and abandon the family for materialistic endeavors.

Their lack of support was a tough pill to swallow. Even harder to accept were their overt attempts to stop me from going the direction I wanted to go. When I told them I was going to school in St. Louis, Missouri, they flat out refused to help with tuition.

And it would be one thing if theycouldn’thelp with tuition, or if supporting me financially had never been the plan. But it hadalwaysbeen the plan. They wanted me to apply to college forty minutes away in Johnson, but I never dreamed it would be that big of a deal for them if I decided to go elsewhere.

My mother clears her throat, and I realize with a start that I’m still just standing here, staring at them. I clear my throat too.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, but I cringe slightly as soon as the words leave my mouth. They’re stiff and formal and make me sound like a total jerk. I sigh, and my shoulders slump a little as I step forward, cautiously wrapping my arms around my mother. It’s not a particularly affectionate hug, but it will do. She hugs me back hesitantly, but I can feel her shoulders shake. I give it three seconds before stepping away again, disentangling myself from her arms. She doesn’t seem keen to let go, and when I look at her, her jaw is clenching and unclenching. On most people that would signify anger, but on my mother it means she’s trying not to cry. It’s an uncomfortable sight for me, so I turn to face my dad instead.

No sooner have my eyes met his than I’m being swept up in a giant bear hug.

One thing about my dad is that he doesn’t really get offended by much. In some ways he’s a pretty go-with-the-flow kind of guy. He has strong ideas about what’s best for his daughter, and he’ll fight to make sure things go his way, but when I push back—or move away for seven years—it doesn’t seem to faze him. He doesn’t hold grudges. So his hug is completely genuine and wraps me in a warmth I haven’t felt in a long time.

“Hi, Dad,” I say. My words are muffled from speaking into his shoulder, but he seems to understand just fine.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, finally letting go of me. He smells like shampoo and aftershave. It’s a fresh scent that’s hard to describe, but I’ve always loved it. And for a second I feel the tiniest twinge of homesickness—for Woodfield, but for my parents, too. I push it away. I can’t be close to people who actively refuse to support me. I love them, but I’ll do it from a distance, both emotional and physical.

“How are you holding up?” my dad says, wrapping one arm around my mother’s shoulder.

I shrug. “Okay, I guess,” I say. “Still a little hard to believe she’s gone. I know she was eighty-something—”

“Eighty-seven,” my mom says, sniffling.

I nod. “Eighty-seven. But she didn’t seem that old.”

“No, she didn’t.” My mom’s words are sad, her voice small. She and Granny had their disagreements, but on the whole I think they got along all right. In fact, I think their biggest falling out was over me—Granny wanted to help pay for my college, but my parents wouldn’t let her.

I swallow, casting around for words to fill the silence between us. “Have you gone through her things yet?”

“Most of them,” my dad says, hugging my mom a little tighter to his side. “We haven’t gotten to her room.” He casts a look at my mom, and I can tell that they probably haven’t gotten to Granny’s room because my mom isn’t ready yet. “But we’ll get there.”

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