“We changed time zones,” I say with a groan.
“Yeah, so?”
I take off my hat and massage my scalp. “We missed our reservation. We had to check in by midnight.”
A whimper escapes Poppy’s lips, but then she rolls her shoulders. “It’s okay. We’ll just … keep going!”
“No,” I bite out, annoyed. Annoyed with myself, with this stupid toy car, with this crappy weather, with these dumb time zones. “I saw a sign in the gas station for a hotel here in town. We can stay there.”
“Are you sure? Your brother’s wedding?—”
“Is in three days. Or two days, now? Either way, we’ll make it fine.”
Her eyes meet mine, like she’s worried to hope. Like she’s looking for reassurance that I mean what I say.
“I mean it. We’re doing fine on time.”
She nods. “Okay. Okay! Great. We have time. And heck, we can probably drive most of the way tomorrow! Today? Whatever.”
I don’t contradict her. We’re still nineteen hours from home, and that’s assuming no accidents or delays.
It’s not the end of the world. I have plenty of time to make the wedding.
But I don’t see us making up most of the time tomorrow. The universe doesn’t like me enough for that.
I pull up the hotel on my map and then chuckle to myself.
“It’s a tenth of a mile away,” I say, “on the right. Do you need me to hit ‘go’ on the map?”
She shoots me a look that’s more teasing than annoyed. “I think we can manage.”
The car bumps over train tracks, and after a quick turn, we’re pulling up to an old hotel.
“Is that the Statue of Liberty?” Poppy says, rubbing her eyes and looking out my window to where a replica of the famous statue rests in a snowy park, holding a street lamp instead of a torch.
“Uh, yes.”
She blinks. “Okay.” She pauses, her eyes lingering on it. “I thought it would be bigger.”
I snort.
I grab our bags and we trudge through the cold snow into the Wilson Railroad Hotel. The lobby is warm, with polished wood trim and the kind of sturdy limestone walls that have clearly been here for more than a century. The place has been restoredby someone who cared enough to keep the bones intact. A few framed black-and-white photos of old trains hang on the wall, and there’s a bowl with painted eggs that feel more Easter than Christmas.
The front desk clerk looks up from his phone and offers a tired smile.
“We’re looking for two rooms,” I say, standing closer to Poppy than I probably should, but we’ve been huddled together in the car all day.
He pulls up his computer, and his eyes scan the screen. “Ooh, looks like I’ve only got one room left,” he says.
I blow air through my lips. “You’re kidding, right? A hotel in Wilson, Kansas has one room left?”
Poppy puts her hand on my forearm. “Oliver Fletcher,” she says in a voice of soft warning. Her hand is gentle, but firm, draining some of my annoyance from the long day.
The man tuts. “We had a family reunion check in earlier, and with a couple of housekeeping staff out, we’re behind on getting the other rooms ready. Would you like the room?”
“We’ll take it,” Poppy says, putting her license and credit card on the counter before I can grumble us into trouble.
I frown at her, and she glares at me, and I know exactly what that glare means.
