If It Makes You Happy(16)

I nod slowly. “Well, this was fun.”

Her eyes swivel to me, and I think I see a bit of humor there. “Absolutely.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

“Wait, why?”

Then it’s my time to pause. “For … breakfast? At the inn?”

“Why?” she repeats, more direct this time.

I laugh. “Well, normally, I drop off pastries each morning.”

I wonder what pastry she likes. I wonder if it smells like the burnt sugar on her neck. Maybe her favorite is obvious, like crème br?lée—on the fancier side with literal burnt sugar—but something tells me it’s not that simple.

“There are pastries every morning?” she asks.

“For breakfast, yeah. I’m the baker around these small-town parts,” I joke with a faux accent. “Birdie was never too great at baking herself, so …” My words fade off at her confusion.

Michelle stares at the empty inn through the crowd of bushes. I’ve never seen a person think so loud.

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” she says, blinking back. “I have a lot to learn.”

“I was serious before. I made a promise to Birdie that I’d help,” I say.

She shakes her head. “I don’t need it.”

“It’s not an offer. I’m fulfilling a promise. At least let me help during your first couple of weeks.”

“Really, I don’t—”

“Then at least let me drop off recipes.”

She nods. “All right.”

“All right, then.”

“Thanks again for dinner.”

“Anytime.”

As she walks away, patting her hip for her dog to follow, my eyes dart to her ringless finger once more.





CHAPTER 4





Michelle




I miss the honking cars and bright city lights beaming through my townhome window at night. It took four hours of not sleeping among wind and silence—deafening silence—for me to turn on the TV in my suite. I woke up three hours later to an infomercial selling ladders.

One groggy shower later, I start coffee and crack open Mom’s thick instructional binder, which I tucked beside the well-loved cookbooks and chopping block.

My chest pulls into a knot. Everything is so … her. The floral scrapbook paper. The thin cursive. The Sharpie ink hasn’t blurred along the edges yet, like she could have written this yesterday.

I flip the crinkling page protectors and find phone numbers, a daily task checklist, cleaning supply restocks, and then a letter.

Dear Sara …

My breath catches in my throat as I slam the binder closed.

Sara.

I understand why my sister inherited Mom’s pride and joy. Her bubbly personality is perfect for hospitality.

I’m the woman who gets things done—not the fun daughter.

I know who I am. I’m proud of who I am. I built my advertising career from nothing. I was the first female manager in our office and the first advertising manager in our company overall. I’ve worked very hard to be in a position where people do what I tell them.

Sara got Mom’s carefree, optimistic gene. She even helped pick out this property. When Mom bought it, I didn’t find out until after the signature had long dried.

I close my eyes. I just have to be here until Sara graduates. That’s it.

I slip a finger back in the binder and open it, bypassing the page with the letter. There’s a slip with numbers to different newspapers’ advertising offices. I exhale with a smile. Good. That’s my forte. I can tackle that this afternoon. I turn another page, spotting the daily to-do list.

“We’ll start there,” I announce to nobody but myself and Rocket.

He stretches out on the back door’s welcome mat, peering up at me as if to lazily say, You will start there. I’m napping.

I snap yellow rubber gloves halfway up my forearms and scrub every surface. I toss bedsheets and pillowcases through the upstairs laundry chute. I vacuum, dust, and cough.

Three months ago, I was in my large corner office. I never would have guessed I’d be elbow-deep in a toilet with my ex’s dog blinking at me from the bathroom’s threshold. Rocket’s laughing internally—I can feel it.

By lunchtime, I whip open my bedroom window, letting the outside autumn air filter in. I fall onto the bed. Its squeaking mattress springs feel like a whine of misery. Or maybe those are my own noises.

Dear.

Sara.

I roll my head to lay one cheek on the quilt and check my watch. It’s three hours until the first guest checks in, and I’ve barely looked at the reservation or even the instructions on how to log his visit. I need to call the office back in Seattle once they’re awake too. There’s no time to rest.

Sitting up, I glance out the window and notice the Burkes’ window propped open. Cliff paces through the kitchen, and my body freezes. Quickly, I stand and shut the window.

It’s not that I dislike my new neighbors. The little girl, Brittany, already has Rocket wrapped around her finger. The teenager, Emily, was funny and sarcastic. And Carol, the sister … well, she’s a mess, but she reminds me of my own sister on a bad day.

The women aren’t the problem though.