Page 22 of Inn To You

Despite my dislike for processed food or powdered cheese, I say, “I’ll have you know I love M and C.” I glance down at Jonas. “Bring on the blue box.”

Jonas pumps his little arm. “Yes!” Then he surprises both Tessa and me by grabbing my hand and leading me down the hallway to the owner’s apartment.

8

[Noah]

“I’m sorry,” Tessa states. “He can be a lot.” Jonas has gone to his room for a moment, and she smiles while apologizing for her son’s twenty questions, give or take a hundred extra, which he asked during lunch.

In response to Tessa’s apology, I shake my head. “He’s great.” I’m sitting on one of two stools at a peninsula cabinet while Tessa stands on the other side.

How old was I? How long did I live in the house with the tree ship? How long did I live in Chicago? What was my favorite thing about living there? What was my favorite thing about being back here?

My first thought was the lake. While I’d lived on the other side of Lake Michigan, with a crystal-clear view of the water from both my condo and the hotel where I worked, the lake scene was different on this side of the water. The view was peaceful, calming, and rejuvenating.

I didn’t have a plan when I decided to move to the area after all these years. I only knew I needed out of Chicago. I’d been living off the severance package given to me when I was let go from the Magellen. Then I grew bored. When I saw the posting for a position at the inn, after months of doing nothing but searching for management openings at Caribbean resorts and European spas, I applied.

As I glance around Tessa’s apartment, my favorite thing about being back in Lakeside shifts. When we first entered her room, she was quick to fold up a blanket on the couch and tuck it along with a bed pillow into a trunk. Her eyes avoided mine as she hustled to clear her countertop of markers and paper, stashing the items in an upright metal basket. The space is tight for two people, and the pinch to my brow gave away my unasked questions.

Where the fuck is Jonas’s dad? And why are the two of them crammed into this one-bedroom apartment?

On the wall in her living room is photograph after photograph, but oddities are captured in every one of them. Books are rising up from a pile of leaves. The pages are open and flapping in the fall breeze, windblown like scattering of leaves.

Another image highlights Jonas standing in the lake, his arms rising and what should be water droplets spraying out around him are minnows. The tiny fish hang in the summer air as if springing from his skin, desperate to return to the lake.

“Those pictures are amazing.” My voice is full of awe. I’ve shifted on the stool to point in the direction of one. “Is that your father?”

A man stands behind a large tree trunk, peering around the base to look at the camera. On the other side is Jonas, glancing around the thick base in the same manner.

“My father never met Jonas, but through double exposure, I was able to put them both in the same image.”

I nod, concentrating on another row of images. Bent twigs. Heart-shaped rocks. A splash of sand. My eyes narrow. “Do you create images from things you collect in nature? Is that what was spread out on the table in the artist cottage that you didn’t want me to touch?”

When I turn back to her, her head hangs. She doesn’t look at me but shrugs.

“You’re an artist.” My tone sounds incredulous, but it’s more awe-filled. She’s creative and talented.

“Jonas’s father was an artist, not me.” She scoffs, dismissing the compliment as if I’ve insulted her. Her fingers drag along the edge of the counter much like they did the afternoon I found her in the artist cottage.

“Who says?”

Tessa shrugs. “Well…” She bitterly chuckles. “Jonas’s dad did.” Glancing over my shoulder at the wall of photos, she has that zoned-out look on her face. “Isaiah was a sculptor. Our resident artist, like my mother had been when I was born. And I took pictures for him. Amateur photographs,” she emphasizes. “But I like to play around in graphic programs and change up the images a bit.”

Her gaze drifts back to me.

“He was wrong. I’ve been to galleries. These are good.”

“It’s only a hobby,” she downplays. “The inn is my passion.”

“Can’t you have more than one?” I’m not certain where the question comes from. I can’t think of anything I’m passionate about other than having a good time. But even what I consider a good time has become questionable in the past nine months.

Tessa laughs. “I guess so, as I love Jonas more than anything.”

I smile, hesitant but needing to ask. “What happened to his dad?”

Tessa tips her head as if checking that Jonas can’t hear her. “He didn’t want children. When I ended up pregnant, he was furious. But he gave it his best.” She scoops her arm through the air emphasizing the ol’ college try.

“Meaning?”