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Sheila sighed. “Fairness has nothing to do with it. We’ve never charged someone to stay here before, and I won’t start simply because you’re richer than God.” She cocked an eyebrow, daring me to disagree.
I swallowed, giving her a short nod. “If you’re sure there’s nothing I can do to change your mind.”
Sheila’s eyes gleamed. “You can repay me by coming over for dinner while you’re still here. Or just sit on the porch and have some tea with me, maybe.” She tucked the now empty basket up against her body again. “I’d like to get to know you more, Ivy Lynch.”
It was a direct command, and it did strange things to my chest.
Tight achy things.
Heavy pressure things.
Inexplicably, I wanted to run and hide from all of the above feelings.
My chin rose an inch, and I nodded. “I can do that. I like tea.”
“Good.” Then she grinned at my hair. “I think Amanda packed your brush in the front of your suitcase.”
My cheeks burned. “Thank you,” I said primly.
She gave me one last lingering smile. “You promise to let me know if you need anything else or feel like walking down to the main house for dinner, all right?”
“I will.”
Satisfied with that small promise, she took her leave, and after the door closed behind her, I sank slowly into one of the stools tucked up against the island.
Something about her reminded me of our housekeeper, Ruth. The no-nonsense energy was strangely comforting, even if I still didn’t know what the hell to do with all this … niceness.
I wasn’t sure I deserved it.
The longer I sat there, staring at the pile on the table, a cloying sense of shame stuck firm and hard to my insides.
I didn’t deserve it.
And maybe that was what made these random acts of benevolence so hard to understand when you weren’t used to them. The person delivering it wasn’t thinking about who deserved it and who didn’t.
In my world, niceness like this was typically bought and paid for.
But sitting there and stewing over it wouldn’t help anything, especially now that I could wash the grime of my evening away and change into something fresh and clean.
Once the leftovers were settled in the fridge with the cream, and a pot of coffee was brewing on the counter, I pulled the suitcase into the bedroom and unzipped the sides.
Stuck on top of my cosmetic bags was a small handwritten note from Amanda.
I hope you can forgive me for packing your things, I didn’t want to make you come back into the hotel in your pajamas.
I swear, mind-boggling thoughtfulness was a plague in this town, and I did not know how to react to that. As I hung up a few of my dresses, I tried to reconcile how to stay in this place without driving away people like Sheila or her daughter simply by being the version of myself that I’d been raised to be.
My dad didn’t teach me how to make friends. My etiquette teacher taught me how to speak properly and which Emily Post guidelines were worthy of memorization. How to fold my legs demurely and which fucking fork to use when setting a table for my guests.
I’d spent so many years of my life being taught how to own a situation, how to maintain control and seize it tightly enough that no one could wrench it from my grasp. I was taught how to keep the mask in place, the shiny, polite veneer that allowed for the least mistakes and the best showing.
But in all that teaching, I wasn’t sure how to find a middle ground. Letting go of those lessons felt like a recipe for failure when I was back into my world, and out of this one.
There was a suspicious lump in my throat as I finished half a blueberry muffin. I couldn’t help but stare at it in wonder.
“How are you so light and fluffy?” I whispered.
The muffin did not answer, but I snagged one more bite and sighed when it practically melted on my tongue.
