Page 7 of No Room in the Inn

I nod. “Good for him.”

We go inside, where the receptionist—a lady named Matilda whose husband golfs with my dad every Saturday, or at least used to—smiles at me and lets me know someone will be with me in a minute. So Sarah and I sit and wait.

I don’t know what Sarah thinks about while we sit there, but all I can think about is what I could possibly do with this bed and breakfast. Why on earth did Granny leave it to me? Why didn’t she leave it to my mom?

Matilda offers us coffee, but I shake my head, one knee bouncing impatiently until finally one of the doors off the waiting room opens, and a man steps out. I stand, looking at Sarah.

“You can come with me if you want,” I say, and she stands up too.

The name on the man’s door is at least ten letters long and definitely foreign in nature. There’s no way I can pronounce it—out loud or internally—and I’d be dumb to try. I file him away as Mr. Lawyer Man in my head instead. He’s on the shorter side, thin, with a beak-like nose and wispy hair combed over a balding head that shines slightly in the illumination of the overhead light.

“Hi,” I say, holding out my hand to shake his. His grip is firm but a little cold and clammy, and when I let go, I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my pants.

We enter his office, and he closes the door behind us. “Can I please verify your ID?” he says, sitting down behind his desk. He doesn’t gesture to either of the chairs in front of his desk, so I just pick one and sit, Sarah sitting next to me. Then I pull my wallet out of my bag and pass my ID to him.

He pushes his glasses down his nose a bit, glancing at my card briefly before nodding and giving it back. “I have a few things for you here, as well as some paperwork you need to sign.”

“That’s fine,” I say.

“First is the paperwork,” Mr. Lawyer Man says.

Let me just say that I hate paperwork. It’s dull and tedious and the worst. Mr. Lawyer Man has about a billion forms for me to fill out, and at one point I contemplate just tearing up all of them and leaving. I make it through, though, with a cramped hand for a souvenir.

Then Mr. Lawyer Man pulls an envelope out of a desk drawer. He gives the envelope a little shake. “These are the keys to the inn. Your grandmother left a note in there as well, telling which door each key opens.” He slides the envelope across the desk, and I take it, putting it in my purse.

“She also asked that I give you this.” He passes me another envelope.

“More keys?” I say, holding it up.

He shakes his head. “A letter, I believe. She instructed that it not be given to anyone other than yourself.”

“Huh,” I say, glancing at Sarah, who just shrugs. I frown down at the envelope. My name is written on the front in Granny’s cursive, shaky from her essential tremor. I can see her hands in my mind’s eye—spotted with age, skin papery and thin. I start opening the envelope, stopping partway through to look at Mr. Lawyer Man. “Do you mind if I—”

“Of course,” he says, waving at the letter.

I nod and finish ripping open the envelope, pulling out a folded piece of paper.

The letter is short, but Granny’s handwriting is a little hard to read, and it takes me a minute to make everything out.

“Willow,” I read under my breath. I can feel tears stinging my eyes, and I blink them away impatiently. “I want to leave you the inn in the hopes that you’ll be able to fix it up and return it to its former state. Think of this as my way of making reparations for not being able to support you when you left Woodfield all those years ago.” I break off here, swallowing down the hurt this memory brings. Then I keep reading. “Please also help Mr. Nixon; he’ll be lonely without me.”

I frown at this, looking up. “Mr. Nixon?”

Mr. Lawyer Man just shrugs.

I go back to reading. “Please don’t run away from Woodfield again—at least not yet. Spend a bit of time here. Enjoy the Christmas season. And consider this my last request: while you’re here, please try to make up with your parents. Give me the Christmas miracle I’ve always hoped for. I love you with everything I am, Sweet One. All my love, Granny.”

Sweet One. That’s what Granny used to call me. Seeing it written in her handwriting feels like a strange mixture of a hug and a punch to the gut.

I swallow hard, willing myself to get it together. Then I look at Mr. Lawyer Man, because I have some questions. I hold up the letter and give it a little wave. “Do you know anything about this?”

“Only that she left you a good amount of money to put toward an inn of some kind,” he says.

Well, that’s good; I can’t afford to pay for any of that on my own. I frown. “It mentions a Mr. Nixon. Do you know him? Or where I can find him?”

“Unfortunately not.” His voice is quiet and politely regretful.

“Hmm,” I say, thinking. “You don’t know him, or you don’t know where to find him?”

---