Chapter 4
Michelle
miss the honking cars and bright city lights beaming through my townhomeI window at night. It took four hours of sleeping among wind and silence— deafening silence—for me to turn on the TV in my suite. I woke up three hours later to an infomercial selling ladders.
One groggy shower later, I start coffee and crack open Mom’s thick instructional binder that I tucked beside the well-loved cookbooks and chopping block.
My chest pulls into a knot. Everything is so … her. The floral scrapbook paper. The thin cursive. The Sharpie ink hasn’t blurred along the edges yet, like she could have written this yesterday.
I flip the crinkling page protectors and find phone numbers, a daily task checklist, cleaning supply restocks, and then a letter.
Dear Sara … My breath catches in my throat as I slam the binder closed.
Sara.
I understand why my sister inherited Mom’s pride and joy. Her bubbly personality is perfect for hospitality.
I’m the woman who gets things done—not the fun daughter.
I know who I am. I’m proud of who I am. I built my advertising career from nothing. I was the first female manager in our office and the first advertising manager in our company overall. I’ve worked very hard to be in a position where people do what I tell them.
Sara got Mom’s carefree, optimistic gene. She even helped pick out this property. When Mom bought it, I didn’t find out until the signature had long dried.
I close my eyes. I just have to be here until Sara graduates. That’s it.
I slip a finger back in the binder and open it, bypassing the page with the letter. There’s a slip with numbers to different newspapers’ advertising offices. I exhale with a smile. Good. That’s my forte. I can tackle that this afternoon. I turn another page, spotting the daily to-do list.
“We’ll start there,” I announce to nobody but myself and Rocket.
He stretches out on the back door’s welcome mat, peering up at me, as if to lazily say, You will start there. I’m napping.
I snap yellow rubber gloves halfway up my forearms and scrub every surface. I toss bedsheets and pillowcases through the upstairs laundry chute. I vacuum, dust, and cough.
Three months ago, I was in my large corner office. I never would have guessed I’d be elbow deep in a toilet with my ex’s dog blinking at me from the bathroom’s threshold. Rocket’s laughing internally—I can feel it.
By lunchtime, I whip open my bedroom window, letting the outside autumn air filter in. I fall onto the bed. Its squeaking mattress springs feel like a whine of misery. Or maybe those are my own noises.
Dear.
Sara.
I roll my head to lay one cheek on the quilt and check my watch. It’s three hours until the first guest checks in, and I’ve barely looked at the reservation or even the instructions on how to log his visit. I need to call the office back in Seattle once they’re awake too. There’s no time to rest.
Sitting up, I glance out the window and notice the Burkes’ window propped open. Cliff paces through the kitchen, and my body freezes. Quickly, I stand and shut the window.
It’s not that I dislike my new neighbors. The little girl, Brittany, already has Rocket wrapped around her finger. The teenager, Emily, was funny and sarcastic. And Carol, the sister … well, she’s a mess, but she reminds me of
my own sister on a bad day.
The women aren’t the problem though.
It’s the brother—Cliff Burke—who keeps drifting through my mind.
Cliff Burke, with his veined hands raking through loose brown hair. Cliff Burke, with his crooked smile and deep laugh. Cliff Burke, who doesn’t understand personal space.
I shake out the irritated feeling in my hands, the remnants of warm sparks that skittered over my skin when he touched me once, twice, who knows how
many times yesterday. The palm curled around my waist. The breath in my ear when he steadied the uneasy plates in my hand. The solid body behind me when I fell into him.
The bedside phone rings, and I jump before grabbing it off the base.
“Bird & Breakfast. This is —”
“Shellfish!” my sister’s voice squeals through the phone. “You’re
actually there!”
I laugh. “Hi, Sara.”
“Ugh, it’s so weird, not hearing your voice every day.”
“I’ve only been here a day.”
“That’s twenty-four hours too long.”
It’s been a bit longer, but I don’t correct her. Between my drive and her commute back to college in California, it’s been closer to two days.
“Wait, what are you doing up so early?” I ask. “It must be …” I check my watch again. “Five in the morning.”
“Don’t go all big sister on me. I’m fine. I’ve been painting all night. God, I don’t want to graduate,” she says on a laughing whine.
“Haven’t you put off graduating enough already?”
“Yeah, but I could live in school forever.”
I grin to myself. I adore my sister’s love for the arts. It’s so different from how I think, and I wish I could bottle that fascination for myself.
“Get your degree already,” I tease.
“I should have called earlier.”
“This was perfect timing.”
“Yeah, but another day, and you’d have totally forgotten about your little sister, and that’s not acceptable.”
I huff out a laugh. “I’m always thinking of you. How’s Dad?”
“He’s … fine.” Sara’s voice lowers to a murmur. “Still watching a lot of
M*A*S*H.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” There’s a moment of silence before she asks, “How are you,
Shelly?”
“Good. Yeah, it’s fine over here.”
“Wow. Convincing,” Sara says with a laugh. “Met anyone?”
I swallow. “Mmhmm.” Sara will only ask more questions, so I add, “My neighbor invited me to dinner last night.”
She gasps. “You went to dinner? With the hot neighbor?”
My face heats. “I didn’t say he was hot.”
“Yeah, but Mom always said he was. The guy with daughters, right?”
I look over at the open kitchen window. I almost choke on air as Cliff passes by again.
He looks so … casual. He’s not like the men I’m accustomed to with blazers and snug ties. Cliff’s wearing a white tee, layered under an unbuttoned, long-sleeved corduroy shirt. The sleeves are rolled up his forearms. The little line beside his mouth is creased.
I feel ridiculous, holding my breath as I watch him, phone pressed to his ear like mine is, flipping a pen through his long fingers. After a moment, he tucks the pen behind his ear and pushes the free hand through his hair. He mouths words I can’t hear, then walks out of view.
“Shells?”
“Yeah, sorry. It’s … a little weird, being here.”
“Oh …”
That sticks in my chest more than it should.
Dear Sara.
“I should go,” I say. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Hey,” Sara says, suddenly quiet. “Do you wanna talk about it or something? The inn? Mom? … or Allen?”
I shake my head, then realize she can’t see me. “I really should go, Sara.”
“Mmkay,” she says, then softly adds, “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I place the phone back on its base, reaching up to trace Mom’s pendant over the thin chain. Rocket stands in the doorway again, staring at me.
“I don’t need your judgment right now,” I murmur.
Rocket huffs and walks down the hall.
Across the yard, Cliff paces in front of the window again. I pull the lace curtains closed.
“Drive safe,” I say.
I receive a mumbled, “Thanks,” in response.
This is only my second set of guests, but they left the same way the first group had—with a cold shoulder and grumbling under their breath. To add
insult to injury, the guest book is, once again, unsigned.
My parents never told me their guests were rude, but after four days of hosting two reservations under my roof, I’m convinced the busy season brings the worst kind of tourists.
The week started out fine. The first man arrived with a suitcase in tow and a beaming smile. He said he traveled here often, which was obvious by how casually he leaned on the desk with his elbow, almost nudging the call bell. I nodded politely, but didn’t ask where he was from because, well, he looked like another city native, like myself. I jotted down his card information and saw the note in my mom’s loopy scrawl, indicating he’d reserved his usual room—the master suite upstairs. I handed him the keys with a smile and wished him a happy stay.
Easy enough.
But the demands that followed … Every time I was finally in a rhythm, balancing finances at the desk or replenishing the homemade biscuits—which looked decent, if I do say so myself—some guest needed yet another accommodation, almost on cue, like they had a running checklist to test me. They wanted a window opened, or extra blankets, or even a recommendation for the best route to the fall festival in the square.
Down the sidewalk, I wanted to snap, but I instead cordially walked them to the front porch and pointed them in the direction of town with a polite, “Can’t miss it.”
They gave a half-hearted wave in thanks.
I have a full day to unwind until my next guest arrives. I can only hope they will be kinder than the last checkout, where the parents wouldn’t stop their kids from constantly petting Rocket. I shut the front door before their minivan was even done puttering down the driveway.
There’s a lot to like about being an innkeeper. I don’t mind the cleaning all that much. The accounting aspect is comfortable for me, and I already have advertisements lined up for the next month.
But there’s also the discontent guests. And the crushing quiet of not being in a city. The distinct lack of another person. The simple fact that I’m alone.
It’s not that I miss Allen. He slept in the guest room for months; we discussed separating once or twice. I should have known what was coming.
But even so, when I walk into the kitchen, it’s devoid of the sound of his newspaper crinkling or the smell of our steaming morning coffee. I don’t hear
about his scheduled surgeries for the day.
Just endless ladder commercials.
The Burke family is my only reprieve from silence despite not talking to them since the dinner. I know their schedule. Emily roams past their open kitchen window, laughing on the phone, at around seven o’clock every night.
Brittany wanders through the bushes into our parking lot after school, peering near our windows, as if seeking out Rocket. And then there’s Cliff, arriving home from work late, mid-laugh as he steps out of his truck, like a crack of lightning in the empty sky.
They seem like fun, which is so different from the household I grew up in.
Regardless, I told the Burke family I didn’t need help, and I don’t. I’m not going to renege on that now. Things are going fine.
I spend the rest of my evening cleaning to the low hum of the radio.
When I jerk open the creaking kitchen cabinets for an early dinner, only a half-empty bag of sugar and tin of coffee stare back.
Right. I went through food quickly this week.
I might as well restock supplies while I’m at it, so I flip through Mom’s binder, and—jackpot—she has a list for essentials. Releasing it from the sheet protector, I grab my mom’s purse and Rocket’s leash, slung on the kitchen hook, then head out the front door.
Now firmly in the middle of September, Copper Run’s trees are a watercolor wash of golds and russet reds. Leaves wither and float to the ground, creating crunchy piles for Rocket to sniff through.
He shoots me a pointed glare. These leaves aren’t from the city, Shelly.
They smell different. I don’t like different.
“I don’t either,” I whisper.
When are we leaving?
I sigh. “Not for a while.”
The town square is packed with bustling families overwhelming every sidewalk. Kids run across the street without looking both ways. There’s the video store, the post office, and … a pizzeria/coffee shop combo? I don’t want to know.
Mom romanticized this town so much that it started to feel untouchable.
It’s like a little pocket of the universe that only existed in her imagination. A place with the best pumpkin pies in the world, festivals for every holiday, and perfectly breezy autumn weather.
I pull my cropped cardigan closer to my chest.
The square smells like apple pies and hay. Crunching leaves and maple syrup. A banner slung between two lampposts reads Copper Run Harvest Festival. It’s packed with people. Teenagers laugh under the park gazebo, corded with orange lights. A child toddles through the haystacks. And near the pumpkin patch’s wooden fence are the only familiar faces I know.
The Burke family.
Cliff walks hand in hand with Brittany. She jumps, and Cliff swings her with one arm a couple of inches in the air for a moment before placing her back down. They repeat the game a second time, and she giggles so loud that I can hear it from here.
He looks around, as if searching for someone. I stiffen and pick up my walking pace toward the corner grocer. I tie Rocket’s leash around the
lamppost.
“Stay,” I command.
His butt plops on the ground. You’ve got five minutes.
“Five minutes,” I agree in a whisper.
I slip through the door and grab a plastic basket before haphazardly tossing in items from Mom’s list. Baking powder, butter, milk … Like scratching an itch, I finally cave and peer out the store’s floor-to- ceiling window. In the park, Brittany, Emily, and Cliff walk down an aisle of pumpkins. He’s beaming down at Brittany with that lopsided grin of his. I can’t decide whether he’s charming or … I don’t know … cocky. It’s like a whole comedy routine is permanently at his lips, ready to be unleashed without request.
Someone walks up to Cliff, and they exchange words. The woman is laughing, clutching her stomach, basically bent over.
Okay, Cliff’s not that funny.
But then he talks to another person—a man with a thick mustache and a small gut—and the two of them grin ear to ear. The man lightly hits him on the shoulder. Cliff loops an arm around the man in return.
Once again … charming … or cocky?
Finally, Cliff pinches the fabric of his pants to squat down to Brittany’s level. She points out a booth behind him. He nods over and over with a grin, rolling his finger in the air, as if saying, Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, sure.
Emily looks in the same direction as Brittany did. Cliff stands up, gesturing two fingers from his eyes to theirs before walking off with the
mustached man.
I don’t realize I’m frozen in the narrow soup aisle until someone bumps into me. We collide, and an apple atop their grocery basket topples out.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I shake my head and bend to pick it up.
An older female voice responds shakily, “Oh, don’t you worry …” She pauses and gasps. “Oh my goodness, Michelle?”
I look up to find a woman I don’t recognize at all. She blinks down at me, crouched on the floor with my hand wrapped around the apple. Her cropped white hair is soft along her jaw, but her oversize glasses drown her eyes into
pinpricks.
I straighten up. “Do I know you?”
“George!” she calls into the air. “George, it’s Shelly!” I raise a single eyebrow as she yells again, “George!”
The aisle is already tight, but when a man shuffles around the corner with glasses as large as this woman’s and pants tugged up to his ribs, it suddenly feels too cramped.
“Christ,” he grunts. “What is it, woman?”
“It’s Shelly!” She holds her palm up to present me. “Birdie’s girl.”
George squints. “I thought Sara was —”
“Hi,” I interrupt. “I’m Michelle. It’s nice to meet you.”
I extend my hand, but when I realize I’m holding the apple, I drop it back into her basket. Her smile is wide.
“I’m Lisa. This is my husband, George. We’re really close friends with your parents. You must have heard all about us.”
“Yes,” I lie.
I only know them from Cliff. The man’s helping, even when I don’t want him to.
“We didn’t know when you’d make it,” Lisa says. She elbows George.
“From what Paulie said, it should have been a month ago, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with him since then. I assumed he was busy … well, you
know …”
Grieving.
“Dad’s in California now,” I explain. “He’s staying with my sister
temporarily.”
She gapes. “So, it’s just you?”
“Just me.”
The two words settle in my stomach. I came to terms with the fact that
it’d be just me after the divorce. Honestly, it felt more comfortable than me and Allen. But having it said out loud again pinches my chest. My thumb twitches against my bare ring finger.
I glance out the window again—suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here—and I spot Emily talking to a teen boy. Her cheeks are flushed as she leans closer. Brittany runs through the pumpkin patch behind her.
“Oh goodness, you poor thing,” Lisa coos, her palm wrapping around my wrist, snagging my attention back. “George, did you hear that? She needs
help.”
My face falls. “Oh, no —”
George grunts, “I can hear fine.”
“No,” I repeat quickly. “No, thank you. I’ve got a list.” I flash it with a forced smile. “Mom left instructions, so I’m set.”
Lisa’s lips turn down, and I wish they hadn’t. Lately, that expression forebodes tears, and I can’t handle any more emotions.
“We miss her, you know,” she says, her hand tightening on my arm.
Yeah, I definitely can’t do this.
“She was the best lady,” Lisa continues. “Volunteered at the festival.
Drove the mayor’s Fourth of July float. Hosted Thanksgiving for the
neighborhood last year …”
“A real class act,” George finishes.
“She was,” I respond, except I was never close with this version of my mother—the one that belongs to Copper Run. The bed-and-breakfast mother hen. The town sweetheart.
Sara knows her, but I only know the woman who kept a garden with my little sister and tried—tried so hard—to do the same with me.
Rocket barks. I jerk my eyes to the window to see he’s tugging against the leash, eyes locked on Brittany, who stands in the pumpkin patch by
herself.
Wait, where did Emily go?
Lisa pats my arm. “We’ll stop by the inn soon, okay?”
I shake my head. “You really don’t have to.”
A boy approaches Brittany in the pumpkin patch. Rocket whines, tugging against his leash restraint.
“No, we help each other around here,” Lisa insists. “Now, here. I’ve got coupons,” she announces, splaying them out like a magic card trick. “Take them. Please.”
“Thanks, but I should go.”
“Dear—”
“I’ve got to —”
“If you would —”
“I’m all set,” I snap.
George’s head jerks back.
And then I hear Allen’s words cycling through my head once more. “You deserve to be alone.”
Outside, there’s a high-pitched wail. I look to the window. Brittany is sprawled on the ground between two pumpkins. And that same boy stands over her.
Maybe I do deserve to be alone. I could spend the next few months running the inn by myself and do fine. Apparently, alone is my specialty. But my blood boils at the sight of a little girl getting knocked down. She doesn’t deserve that.
I push through the corner market’s door with my basket discarded and without a single goodbye on my lips, untying Rocket’s leash and running toward the park with him by my side.
