Page 33 of Once Upon a Fall

My consultant brain wants to ask her if she is capable of saying the word no. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard it come out of her mouth. Anytime anyone has asked her to do anything, the answer is always some form of yes. I’ve noticed it for a while.

It rankles. Probably because her yeses remind me of my mom, whose propensity to say yes—especially when it came to the men in her life—would often upend my own life. She moved us for a man a few times. Quit jobs for a couple of them. Even changed her hair color for one. I spent my childhood watching her rearrange herself around other people until there was nothing left that was just hers.

Is that what Rosie is doing?

It doesn’t fully line up, though. Not exactly. My mom did it for love, or at least what she was hoping was love. But Rosie just said yes to a quilting circle. There’s no man she’s trying to hold onto. No one she’s trying to make stay.

So then, what is she getting out of it?

“Hey, Rosie,” I say, deciding to quickly test my theory.

“Yes?” She looks up at me, her rag stopping mid-swipe on the side table.

“I was thinking this picture might look better on the wall over here,” I say, picking it up from the floor and taking it to one of the smaller walls that frame the large window that looks out over Main Street.

“Why there?” she asks, her nose scrunching.

Why there? I have no idea. I don’t know the slightest thing about the placement of room decor.

“Well, because then when you walk in the door, your eyes will catch it right away. It’ll be the first thing your guests see.”

This actually seems plausible. I’m impressed by my own quick thinking.

Her eyes travel from the door to the wall and back to the door, her lips twisting as she concentrates. This is the part where she says yes. Where she abandons a perfectly good plan because someone with an opinion offered it to her.

“Nope, I think I like it where I first wanted it,” she finally says, pointing to the original spot, her lips pulling up into a smile, as if she’s trying to soften her answer. “I think it’s better across from the bed.”

She goes back to wiping the side table like she hasn’t just blown a massive hole in my entire theory.

Because she can say no. She just did—easily, without apologizing or launching into an explanation.

She can defend where a picture belongs. It’s disappointing people she seems unable to do.

“Everything okay?” Rosie asks, and I realize I’ve been standing there staring at her, the framed picture of a shoe in one hand, a hammer in the other.

Like an idiot.

“Yeah,” I say. “Across from the bed. Got it.”

“Listen, if your consulting thing doesn’t work out, and I actually make some money from this inn, would you be interested in being my head chef?” Rosie asks me after eating the last bite off her plate.

“I don’t think you could afford me,” I quip, and she smiles. “But also, it’s just spaghetti with some ground beef and store-bought pasta sauce. I’m not sure people would run here for my culinary expertise.”

She sets her fork down on her now-empty plate, only remnants of sauce left behind. “I don’t know. I think you might have the magic touch.”

Ever since I made the stir-fry, I’ve been cooking dinner every night. It’s become sort of a routine, if you can call it that after only four days. But it’s been the same each time. At some point after the sun goes down, I leave Rosie to her work and go make us dinner. We eat together at the island, then have the leftovers for lunch the next day.

“I think you’ve been deprived of actual food for too long,” I tell her.

She chuckles. “You’re probably right. A frozen pot pie can really hit the spot if you’re starving, though.”

“Frozen pot pies never hit the spot.”

“I think you’re wrong about that,” she says.

“Do you want more?” I ask, my eyes darting to the empty plate and then back to her.

She rubs her stomach. “I think I’d better stop now. I’ve still got more work to do tonight.”