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6
WILL
Two days after the bluebird incident, my face looks like I went two rounds in a boxing ring instead of ten. Luckily, the only in-person meeting I have to schedule this week is with Hope—and as long as I keep reminding myself that I don’t want her to care about my face, I’ll be fine.
As if the universe is calling my bluff, a headache pulses along the back of my skull. It’s equal parts physical pain and frustration.
Though I hate to admit it, Annette was partially right. Running a business is harder than daydreaming—at least for me. The last few days poring over the Inn’s books have made two things abundantly clear: the Inn’s in major financial trouble, and I have no idea how to fix it.
Maybe ... maybe ... the Inn can stay afloat for another few months, but based on the projected income versus the expenses, it won’t be treading water by this time next year.
It makes zero sense that my mother would let things get so bad. The Helen I knew—at least after my father’s death—was prudent and penny pinching. She paid cash and avoided anything that charged interest. She was deliberate and cautious and subscribed to the belief that days off were a luxury, not a necessity.
She’d never let things get so dire. And she certainly wouldn’t do anything that jeopardized the Inn. Her whole life is wrapped up in this place.
I plop into the office chair and search my mother’s Rolodex—because God forbid she computerize her contacts.
Terry, the only person who might know what the hell is going on, answers after the fifth ring. His hello is tinged with wariness.
“Hi, Terry. It’s Will—Helen Griffin’s son.” I tune into my best good guy, no-hard-feelings voice. “Delilah told me you left abruptly. I wanted to check on things.”
“Yeah, yeah. Family emergency. Sorry to leave you guys. Is Helen back?”
“Nope.” The word is traced with bitterness, which probably isn’t going to help warm Terry up for my request. “She’s still ... away. But I’m here.”
“Oh.”
In that “oh” I hear ten years of hurt. Terry was one of the people I should have taken the time to say goodbye to before I took off. He always stepped up after my dad died, when most people stepped away.
“Listen, I’m—” A dog barks in the background. A woman calls his name.
“Is that Lacey?” A memory of a little girl in oversize glasses filters into my thoughts. Lacey followed Darren around like a lovesick puppy.
A pain in the back of my throat trails the memory. Now is not the time to think about a long-gone version of Darren.
“Will, I gotta go.” Terry’s voice catches. “Thanks for checking in. Your family has always been good to me like that.”
“Wait—I ... uh ... I was calling for another reason too.” I push back the office chair and pace the area behind the desk the same way I saw my mother pace a thousand times before, pausing in front of a black-and-white photo of the Inn. Back then, the imposing Victorian house had been surrounded by farmland and a horse stable, and my great-grandmother had allowed ivy to grow up the walls. The farmland is now a gazebo and tennis court, and my grandmother had cut back the ivy to show off the house’s scalloped shingles.
“I need your help. The Inn’s in financial trouble, and I’m way out of my comfort zone here.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing, Will.” It’s not the response I expected.
Terry hesitates. I imagine him massaging the bridge of his nose, the way he always did when my mom began to pace. His stillness balanced her anxious energy. “Unfortunately, I’m not surprised things are falling apart over there. Your mother wasn’t herself before she left. She stopped coming in regularly, and when she did show up, she spent the entire time talking about adding meditation spaces and salt rooms.”
“Please.” Begging for help feels like being punched in the stomach.
“I wish I could help. It’s just not a good time.”
“There’s money missing.” Saying the words out loud makes my cortisol levels spike.
“What?”
“I noticed ... there are some odd payments to vendors but no proof of service or delivery. When I started digging ... I don’t know. One of my mom’s personal retirement accounts is closed too.”
“Have you asked your brother?” The edge in his voice could cut glass.
“Darren?”
