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I swing at the squawking bird with the broom I found stuffed in the janitor’s closet. The bird takes a sharp left, and its wings beat faster, a hysterical rhythm that’s beginning to match the tempo of my pulse.
How did a bluebird get into room 3? The guest staying in this room called down to the front desk, blubbering about the bird and the mess, swearing that she hadn’t left the window open while she’d been out. Fine. It doesn’t matter how the bird got in. All that matters is I have to deal with it.
I swing the broom again. The bristles graze the bottom of the bird, which pitches to the right and nose-dives toward me. I duck, protecting my head with my hands, and drop flat to the floor.
I scan the room for something to use to catch the intruder, but there’s nothing besides the antique lamps on either side of the bed and the frilly decorative pillows my mom is so fond of. The curtains might be useful, but my mother would kill me if I ruined her custom-made window dressings. The silk trim and gold tassels were special ordered around the time I was born to match the floral wallpaper in the parlor.
The comforter is my best bet. I pull it off and use it as a shield as I step onto the bed. I wait until the bird circles around, and then I jump, head, belly, and heart first. And damn me if I haven’t turned into a walking, talking metaphor for my life right now.
The comforter catches nothing but air as the bird swings right. I hit the floor with a crack, and pain vibrates through every bone in my body. The bird takes advantage of the reprieve and settles on the headboard. A boxing match opponent resting for round two.
The tension in my body fizzles as I right myself. Blood leaks from my nose onto the comforter. Each drop is a reason I shouldn’t be here.
“You win,” I say and exit the room, closing the door behind myself. The Inn is short-staffed, but there’s got to be someone better equipped to deal with this than me. I hate birds.
Two guests seated on my mother’s favorite gold-trimmed chaise longue look up as I enter the parlor, their card game momentarily forgotten. A third, who is curled onto a love seat speaking intently into her cell phone, goes silent. Their intense attention is a reminder that privacy doesn’t exist in Kingsette.
Even the visitors are somehow dialed into the gossip network. Another reason to leave.
Rather than make eye contact, I head straight for the porch.
Delilah Stoddard answers on the first ring.
My mother’s lawyer waves wildly as I pull open the door to the Friendly Bean. Most of the customers ignore her—used to her enthusiastic greetings—but a few people closest to her look up. I recoil at the recognition in their faces, the quick typing into their phones that follows.
Kingsette loves a good story, and I can’t help but think Delilah had that in mind when she chose to meet here. Or she likes to see me squirm.
“Will Reynard, in the flesh and blood.” Delilah stands and wraps her arms around me as if I haven’t been the only member of my family to decline her invitation to Thanksgiving every year for the last decade. “I cannot believe you’re really here. Let me look at you.”
She pulls away and studies me. Her brow furrows as she takes in my nose, which feels tender and swollen. “What happened to you?”
“I got in a fight with a bluebird. And I lost.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that bluebirds can be bullies.” She smiles at me, soft lines creasing around her mouth. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Aside from the nose, you look good.”
“It’s good to see you,” I say, and I mean it. Growing up, Delilah was the closest thing to an aunt that I had. She, my mother, and Annette Martina, the Friendly Bean’s fearless leader, grew up together. They were as good as sisters for most of my life. “I like the glasses.”
She touches her hand to the purple cat-eye frame, which complements her dark skin. “Well, apparently I’m old enough to need bifocals.” She blows out a sigh. “Don’t get old. It’s awful.”
She pats the seat beside her on the couch. “Annette’s in the back. I’m sure she’ll be out soon, though.”
I sit with my back to the restaurant and pull my hat lower. “She’s not going to be happy to see me here. We couldn’t meet anywhere else?”
Delilah studies me over the rim of a mug. Steam curls up and fogs her glasses. “I’m here every Monday for book club.” Delilah glances toward the door. “Which starts in just a few minutes, so ... what did you need to talk about, kid?”
No one has called me “kid” with that amount of affection in too long. Probably since I walked away from Kingsette the first time. “I need to get in touch with my mom. I can’t run the Inn.”
Delilah tilts her head in a way that’s eerily similar to room 3’s triumphant bluebird. “Why not?”
“It’s not ... I don’t know what I’m doing. That place needs a real manager, with experience. Like Terry.” Terry was the one who was supposed to run the Inn while my mother went off grid to “reconnect with nature and get in touch with her true self.” Or at least that’s what she’d said on the rushed voice mail she’d left me.
A family emergency caused Terry to quit less than a week after my mother had left, and in a state of desperation, Delilah called me.
Clearly, I chose the wrong time to actually answer my phone.
“So, hire someone. Did you read through the candidates for the position?” Delilah’s phone pings. She checks the lit screen and smiles at the message.
“You know none of them were qualified.” If they were, Delilah wouldn’t have called me.
