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11
Birdie pulled up to, unfortunately, the only B&B in town.
A sign hanging by Victorian scrolled metalwork had “Wayward Inn” printed on each side so you could see it from either direction.
An inn named after the town. How original. Like every other business within a five-mile radius.
Despite the name, less than unique, the house was as majestic as Birdie remembered. The sides covered in the original beaded clapboard and painted the palest of pinks. The paneled and elaborately carved front door a pale gray. A wraparound porch beckoned you to sit in one of the rocking chairs to drink a tall glass of sweet tea with a sprig of mint. To the left of the grand building was a three-story turret, with purloined windows dotting the sides for expansive views. The top floor provided a rare view of the ocean, less than a half mile away.
Birdie tapped her forefinger on the steering wheel with nervous energy. It was getting late and she needed to secure a room and sleep for a year.
However, she dreaded, with every school-age memory, the kraken within.
Erma Jeffries had always been a ballbuster. She had her daughter, Mary-Lou, late in life. The youngest of five children who had been spoiled to the point of no return and with the mean-spirited drive of a hyena on the hunt.
Mary-Lou could smell fear and vulnerability a mile away and Birdie had been easy prey.
She had also been Maisie’s best friend.
She could do this. She had faced government officials on the take and millionaires unwilling to give up a single shilling on a deal sure to make them millions.
Girding her loins, she took a deep breath, despite a tight grip on the steering wheel.
What was it that Angus had said?
If you want a freen, make a freen?
That had worked in Boston.
With Marshall by her side and having her back, she was able to navigate that world with a smile on her face and a positive attitude, while carrying a big stick in the human form of her husband and his imposing sidekick.
Coming back to Wayward, it was difficult for her to get back into that headspace.
It was also difficult to get past a childhood where she was reminded on a daily basis she was an abject failure. On special days, an abomination.
A mother who was legitimately unhinged. A father who went to the basement to play with model trains so as not to hear the caterwauling.
His words.
Caterwauling being a morbid combination of her mother’s fanatical ranting, with screams and sobs from one of her daughters, while the other stood by playing with her dolls with an eerie grin on her face.
The townspeople didn’t know the truth, but they certainly had their inclinations. Knew that something wasn’t quite right in a dark home with the blinds down twenty-four seven, where Shelby Wellborn presided as the arbiter of virtue and morality.
They chose to turn the other cheek.
How very Christian of them.
So Birdie stopped trying to convince people she was anything other than what was easy for them to believe. Allowing the good people of Wayward to sleep at night.
Yanking the car door open with unnecessary force, she pulled her bag from the back seat and made her way up the front walkway covered in pavers surrounded by crushed shells.
A nice aesthetic but not very practical for guests with rolling luggage.
Walking through the large oak double doors, which made a twinkling sound, she faced a frowning Erma Jeffries standing behind the ornate registration desk.
The woman’s hair had thinned. She wore a tight polyester dress, the likely result of a lifetime consuming the typical Southern fare of sugar, carbs, and saturated fat.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Erma said without a smidge of amusement.
