Page 11 of Inn To You

He said the only way I’d be a better artist was to devote myself to my craft, but I was too busy working the inn while he diddled with his art.

“May fourth, Tessa. I turn sixty years old, and I’ll be celebrating that milestone here in Florida. I don’t want to return to the inn. I don’t want Bluebird Hollow.”

I wish I could ask him to just give me his half or allow me a payment plan on his share, but Joe doesn’t trust me, and he wants his portion in one lump sum to live off in the orange state.

“May fourth,” I mumble to my uncle.

We say goodbye, and I cover my face with my hands.

May fourth. The force may not be with me by then.

5

[Noah]

She’d stunned me.

I hadn’t a clue she was a mother, and while it shouldn’t matter—it didn’t matter—I was still perplexed. Something like this was usually on my radar. I didn’t do sad or desperate or needy. Not that single mothers, in general, are this way. Not that Tessa is any of those things, but I remember my own mother when she became a single parent, falling into a funk so deep she’d lost weight but not her faith in my father. Blind, unwavering faith. She preached about endless love and deep devotion despite what he’d done to her, to us as a family. Even when he hit her that one time—only once—and proclaimed it would never happen again, she was adamant he loved her, and she loved him. There was never another wicked slap, but that first strike was one too many and enough to rock me to my core.

They’d been arguing about money. Money he didn’t have and blamed her for wanting. She claimed their love was enough.

But it wasn’t.

He always wanted more. And all the desire for more only led to a lot less.

As I protectively stood over my mother and yelled at my father that one time, I’d lost my faith in love, marriage, and trust.

Why would you do that? I’d been pointing at my mother, who was holding the side of her face, cowering on the floor against a kitchen cabinet. Tears we’d never seen before streamed down my father’s face as he professed his love for her, all while blaming her for pushing him to the brink.

He didn’t mean to hurt her.

He loved her.

He’d never do it again.

He loved her.

We’d never know if he was sincere in his apology and his promise because he was gone months later.

+ + +

When I see Tessa the next day crossing the large backyard of the inn, I follow her. A small pond with a fountain centers the space. To the right is a set of two-story townhouses. To the left is a small cottage that I wasn’t able to see inside due to the dirt on the windows and a lock on the door.

After Tessa disappears this cottage, I step through the entrance, needing to dip my head as the door frame is low.

She doesn’t hear me at first, and I watch as she waves her hand through the dust dancing before the dirty window. When I kick something by accident, she spins to face me. “What are you doing in here?”

I’d like to ask her the same question. “What is this place?” The ceiling is low, and the rectangular space dimly lit. The only light is currently filtering through two dirty windowpanes. One window sits above a worktable of sorts with jars of paintbrushes and tubes of paint underneath. Other art utensils rest in a bin on the worktop. A folded easel and stacks of covered canvases line the opposite wall beneath the second window. In the center of the room is a narrow table covered with twigs and rocks and a sprinkling of sand.

“This is the artist’s cottage.” Tessa’s voice is quiet as if her thoughts are far away. She stares at the dirt-covered glass pane.

I can’t take my eyes off the table and the strange arrangement of pieces from nature. Reaching out for it, I ask, “What is this?”

Tessa spins and grips my hands. “Don’t touch it.”

My head snaps up as her fingers squeeze mine, pulling them away from the table.

“Do you rent this space?” The website for Bluebird Hollow Inn boasts about the hotel but doesn’t mention some of the additional features for the property. It took me days to realize the rowhouse building wasn’t part of the inn’s estate.