Page 37 of Dandelion Sighs

My gaze landed on the boxes. There were more of Mom’s in the garage. I rose. My plate went by the smaller plate from this morning by the sink. I pulled the six-pack of Reservoir Barrel beer I had gotten earlier this week out of the fridge.

I put my shoes back on and was out the door before I could think too hard, beer tucked under my arm. Without the oppression of the endless to-do list in the house, my steps were bouncier.

This time, I went through the side door. No other employees were on-site other than Jasper, the desk clerk, and the restaurant staff. The room Jasper worked in was closed and taped off, but there were dull thuds and the small bangs of equipment getting moved around filtering through the door.

I hesitated. Should I do this?

It was getting late, and he wouldn’t be able to work that much longer. The bumps and scrapes would carry too loudly in the quiet building.

I used my master key and pushed inside, knocking as it opened. The window was cracked wide and a fan blew in the direction of it, keeping the worst of the paint fumes down. Jasper turned, a rag hanging from his back pocket, paint roller in hand. He was such a neat painter he hadn’t needed to cover anything due to splatter. With the furniture moved out of the way, he made good time with the roller.

My belly flipped over at the way he wore his ball cap backward. A new thing to admit when I got drunk next.

I held up the six-pack. “I need to clean out some of Mom’s stuff, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Care for a beer?”

His brows lifted, and he put the roller down. “I’d love a beer.”

He took the one I handed him, and I shoved the rest in the little fridge every room had. A to-go container from the restaurant was in the garbage. Good, he’d eaten.

After he cracked the top, he took several pulls, his strong throat working up and down. Mesmerizing. Who knew that did it for me? Seemed that everything Jasper did was a kink of mine. Backward hat and rag in the back pocket? I was wet. Drink a beer? Let me spread ’em. Stand in his gritty shirt and blue jeans, looking all blue-collar? I was already naked.

“Cleaning out your mom’s stuff?”

His question doused my desire. “Yeah.” I sat on the bed and cracked open my beer. Housekeeping would need to tackle the room with a fine-toothed comb before we could rent it again. “It’s her place. From top to bottom. I feel like I’m a visitor, and it’s just a reminder that she’s gone.”

“Why do you have to clean it out?”

“It’s not mine. Her style; her choices. But I don’t want it to not be hers either.” The back of my throat burned raw. If I could, I’d get a place in town and figure out what the hell to do with Mom’s place. Give myself more time to grieve, but I couldn’t dwell. I had to figure out what to do. Did I sell it and invest the proceeds back into the resort, or would that be tossing cash into a pile of flames? I wouldn’t be able to buy marshmallows when I was done.

He settled on the bed next to me, but we weren’t touching. Still, I soaked up comfort from him.

“Without thinking about what of your mom’s you’d clear out, what would you do to make it your home?”

I worried my lower lip. I never thought about it that way. Just about cleaning out Mom’s stuff. “Um…I like to do my own art.”

Surprise lifted his brows. “You’re an artist.”

“No.” I scoffed. “But I like doing crafty stuff. ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ type signs.”

He chuckled, then his lips formed a troubled line. “Where’s your stuff? Didn’t you have a house to move?”

“In the cabin. I didn’t have a lot. The breakup was shortly before Mom died, and I moved out. Wanted a fresh start. So it’s all wedged into the garage. But I don’t know, none of it calls to me either.” I couldn’t picture the various craft signs I’d made over the years hanging on the walls of the house that was now mine. “Maybe I need to make a new sign.”

“What would it say?”

My mind spun over a bunch of syllables that never solidified into a real word, much less a phrase. “What if that’s the test? Once I come up with a phrase, then it’s time to clean out her stuff?”

His smile was understanding. “I think it’s tempting to put clarifiers on it. Maybe pick one phrase that’s yours and that feels right to sit among your mom’s things.”

“How about ‘All the Groceries Are Mine’?”

“I’m setting the bar higher, boss.” He finished his beer and tossed it into the trash. I’d make sure to clean that out, or we’d be the talk of the resort. “You could make one for the resort. ‘Live, Laugh, Rent a Room.’”

Laughing, I handed him another from the fridge.

“Getting me drunk, Bishop?”

“Fair play, Duke. Then maybe you can spill all your embarrassing thoughts about me.”