If It Makes You Happy(54)

“Hey, and if your sister comes in, you kick her out immediately, okay?”

“Okay. Bye!” The last word is a little too pushy, but I wave them off and join Michelle in the kitchen.

She takes the other door right back into the foyer. She does this a lot—circling the house to double-check things she’s already done.

In the entryway, she adjusts the fresh-cut flowers. Fanned around the vase are brochures for Copper Run’s annual Halloween party in the square. It’s kid-friendly and not nearly as scary as the haunted maze Winston creates for his yard each year, but Brittany is spooked by both events, so we’ll be keeping to the houses and sidewalks.

The front door is propped open, letting in the hiss of quiet afternoon rain. Water thunks through the gutters above the porch, and kids outside cycle through splashing puddles. Brittany is at a friend’s birthday party down the cul-de-sac. She’ll probably come back covered in mud.

I lean my forearms on the front desk, looking at the delicately arranged paperwork and three cubbies with keys for each room. I reach out to ring the front-desk call bell, but Michelle slaps my palm away before I can. She peers at me under her lashes and smiles.

“All right. Well, I’ve got to head back before Carol kills me,” I say. “But what are you doing tonight?”

“I don’t know. What am I doing, Cliff?”

I sputter out a laugh. “What do you mean?”

Michelle tilts her head to the side. “You’re my social planner.”

“Since when?” I ask on a chuckle.

“You make the plans; I show up. And if I don’t, you always seem to find me anyway. So, what are we doing?”

“Emily’s making spaghetti for dinner. Want to come over?”

“Yes, sir, social planner,” Michelle teases, which does something to me I can’t explain.

I huff out a laugh, then add, “Is it that bad? Me always bugging you with things?”

She shrugs. “You keep me busy.”

“Well, good.” I shift on my feet. “But I’m not too … I don’t know … overwhelming?”

“Are you kidding?” she asks, darting her eyes to meet mine even though her head stays pointed down at the papers. “You’re so overwhelming.”

I bite my bottom lip and attempt a smile. “Right.”

She shrugs again and keeps writing. “But I’m underwhelming, so it’s fine. We balance out.”

I’ve never had someone be so blunt yet so unintentionally kind at the same time. But that’s the kind of woman Michelle is.

“You’re not underwhelming,” I say, smiling.

The side of her lip twitches up, but she doesn’t acknowledge my compliment. I let it slide. I’m too busy watching as she shifts papers to the side, tucks envelopes into cubbies, and slides out the guest book. She places her pen in the coffee cup, which has little handprints along the sides, reading THANK YOU, BIRDIE.

I smile at the mug, touching some of the pens circling the edges. “I remember this.”

She blinks up at me. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

When she doesn’t go back to working, I lean back. Michelle rarely wants to talk about her mom, but she’s been more open about it lately. She’s taking small crumbs, like maybe the crumbs will lead her somewhere. Where, I’m not sure, but I’ll leave behind any she needs.

“Yeah,” I repeat. “She hosted Thanksgiving last year. We got all the neighbor kids to make this for her after. She loved it.”

Michelle stares at the mug while she reaches up to play with her ball earring. Maybe she’s considering something to say in response, but nothing comes out.

“All right, then.” I knock on the desk. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Hmm,” she muses before pulling open the guest book. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

I’m almost to the door when her sudden yelp stops me. I turn on my heel. Michelle stands behind the desk with both hands pulled up to her mouth. Her eyebrows are raised up to her hairline, and she’s breathing heavy. My heart sinks.

“What?” I ask, walking over. “What happened?”

“I got my first good review,” she says. “I got— Cliff, look!” She exhales a laugh, hoisting up the guest book and attempting to hold it in my face.

I take it from her. “No kidding.”

“Read it!”

I clear my throat and read, “This is by far the best bed-and-breakfast in Vermont, if not all of New England. Michelle is a darling to talk to and is perfect company while having an already excellent breakfast.”

Michelle waves her hands. “Keep going!”

I read the next line to myself first, then laugh and announce, “The morning cinnamon rolls were divine.”

“Di-vine,” Michelle repeats, punctuating each syllable with a pump of her hand in the air.

“Divine,” I repeat, setting the book down.

“Divine!” she squeals, rounding the desk and barreling into my arms.

The breath rushes out of me on impact. Her hands loop around my neck. I let my palms settle on her waist, squeezing her sides, inhaling the soft burnt-sugar perfume. The hints of rosemary—rosemary—in her hair. The soft strands that fall over my nose.