If It Makes You Happy(18)

Easy enough.

But the demands that followed …

Every time I was finally in a rhythm, balancing finances at the desk or replenishing the homemade biscuits—which looked decent, if I do say so myself—some guest needed yet another accommodation, almost on cue, like they had a running checklist to test me. They wanted a window opened, or extra blankets, or even a recommendation for the best route to the fall festival in the square.

Down the sidewalk, I wanted to snap, but I instead cordially walked them to the front porch and pointed them in the direction of town with a polite “Can’t miss it.”

They gave a half-hearted wave in thanks.

I have a full day to unwind until my next guest arrives. I can only hope they will be kinder than the last checkout, where the parents wouldn’t stop their kids from constantly petting Rocket. I shut the front door before their minivan was even done puttering down the driveway.

There’s a lot to like about being an innkeeper. I don’t mind the cleaning all that much. The accounting aspect is comfortable for me, and I already have advertisements lined up for the next month.

But there’s also the discontented guests. And the crushing quiet of not being in a city. The distinct lack of another person. The simple fact that I’m alone.

It’s not that I miss Allen. He slept in the guest room for months; we discussed separating once or twice. I should have known what was coming.

But even so, when I walk into the kitchen, it’s devoid of the sound of his newspaper crinkling or the smell of our steaming morning coffee. I don’t hear about his scheduled surgeries for the day.

Just endless ladder commercials.

The Burke family is my only reprieve from silence despite not talking to them since the dinner. I know their schedule. Emily roams past their open kitchen window, laughing on the phone, at around seven o’clock every night. Brittany wanders through the bushes into our parking lot after school, peering near our windows, as if seeking out Rocket. And then there’s Cliff, arriving home from work late, mid-laugh as he steps out of his truck, like a crack of lightning in the empty sky.

They seem like fun, which is so different from the household I grew up in.

Regardless, I told the Burke family I didn’t need help, and I don’t. I’m not going to renege on that now. Things are going fine.

I spend the rest of my evening cleaning to the low hum of the radio. When I jerk open the creaking kitchen cabinets for an early dinner, only a half-empty bag of sugar and a tin of coffee stare back.

Right. I went through food quickly this week.

I might as well restock supplies while I’m at it, so I flip through Mom’s binder, and—jackpot—she has a list of essentials. Releasing it from the sheet protector, I grab my mom’s purse and Rocket’s leash, slung on the kitchen hook, then head out the front door.

Now firmly in the middle of September, Copper Run’s trees are a watercolor wash of golds and russet reds. Leaves wither and float to the ground, creating crunchy piles for Rocket to sniff through.

He shoots me a pointed glare. These leaves aren’t from the city, Shelly. They smell different. I don’t like different.

“I don’t either,” I whisper.

When are we leaving?

I sigh. “Not for a while.”

The town square is packed with bustling families overwhelming every sidewalk. Kids run across the street without looking both ways. There’s the video store, the post office, and … a pizzeria / coffee shop combo? I don’t want to know.

Mom romanticized this town so much that it started to feel untouchable. It’s like a little pocket of the universe that existed only in her imagination. A place with the best pumpkin pies in the world, festivals for every holiday, and perfectly breezy autumn weather.

I pull my cropped cardigan closer to my chest.

The square smells like apple pies and hay. Crunching leaves and maple syrup. A banner slung between two lampposts reads COPPER RUN HARVEST FESTIVAL. It’s packed with people. Teenagers laugh under the park gazebo, corded with orange lights. A child toddles through the haystacks. And near the pumpkin patch’s wooden fence are the only familiar faces I know.

The Burke family.

Cliff walks hand in hand with Brittany. She jumps, and Cliff swings her with one arm a couple of inches in the air for a moment before placing her back down. They repeat the game a second time, and she giggles so loud that I can hear it from here.

He looks around, as if searching for someone. I stiffen and pick up my walking pace toward the corner grocer. I tie Rocket’s leash around the lamppost.

“Stay,” I command.

His butt plops on the ground. You’ve got five minutes.

“Five minutes,” I agree in a whisper.

I slip through the door and grab a plastic basket before haphazardly tossing in items from Mom’s list. Baking powder, butter, milk …

Like scratching an itch, I finally cave and peer out the store’s floor-to-ceiling window. In the park, Brittany, Emily, and Cliff walk down an aisle of pumpkins. He’s beaming down at Brittany with that lopsided grin of his. I can’t decide whether he’s charming or … I don’t know … cocky. It’s like a whole comedy routine is permanently at his lips, ready to be unleashed without request.

Someone walks up to Cliff, and they exchange words. The woman is laughing, clutching her stomach, basically bent over.