If It Makes You Happy(9)

“What’re you gonna do all the way out here?” Louis asks.

“I’m running a bed-and-breakfast.” A sentence I would have never uttered thirty days ago.

He chortles out a “No kidding?”

“No kidding,” I echo.

I unfold my map, tracing my finger along the roads highlighted in yellow and blue. This place is minuscule on a map. I bet there are only two stoplights, and we’ve probably passed both of them.

“Left up here,” I say.

The square transitions into long sidewalks lining two-story houses with turrets and wraparound porches. Leaves collect on the ground, some yards raked and some not. A group of kids fly past on their bicycles, sitting high on the pedals. A toddler waddles past a tree swing. A woman aims a camcorder behind him. On the opposite side of the street, an older couple walks hand in hand.

“Cute little place, eh?” Louis muses.

I glance down at the map again. “Turn right up ahead.”

I fold up the map, but when the creases don’t line up perfectly, I shove it haphazardly into my bag. My hands are shaking, and I know exactly why.

My uneasiness reaches a pinnacle in my throat when I recognize the large white house at the end of the street. Swinging on two chains from a white post is a wooden sign painted with the cursive words Bird & Breakfast.

The two-level colonial house is immaculate. A white picket fence closes off the cobblestone walkway, leading toward the wraparound porch, where two chairs and a swinging bench rock in the breeze. A bay window protrudes on one side, and through the glass, I spot a bench seat and lace curtains. Perfect rosebushes line the driveways between the inn and the house next door.

I’m so distracted that I almost forget to say, “This is it.”

Louis slams on the brakes, and I fling my arm out to block Rocket from barreling onto the floorboard.

I swear his brown eyes narrow with an expression of I hate all of this.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter.

When we’re fully stopped, I grab Rocket’s leash from my purse and hook it onto his collar. We both slide from the car.

The crisp air is a reprieve from the smoky taxi. Copper Run smells like crunching leaves and breezes that bite. There’s a hint of something warm in the air too—baked bread of some kind. Maybe a pie or biscuits in the oven. Mazzy Star hums from my neighbor’s open window.

Louis opens the trunk, unceremoniously dropping two suitcases onto the sidewalk. Not a single goodbye is exchanged. It isn’t until he pulls away that the weight of my decision finally hits me.

Shit.

Rocket glances up at me.

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m fine.”

Stepping forward, I swing open the gate in the white picket fence. Rocket reluctantly trots through before me. We crunch across the newly fallen leaves on the rocky path as I roll my patter-pattering suitcases behind me, stopping only to lug them up the creaking front steps with a bag slung over my shoulder.

I dig in my pocket to pull out the key ring my dad gave me before I left.

He’d thumbed through them with a stressed “This one opens the front door. This one opens the back, but you have to give it an extra jiggle. This one is the cellar, but don’t mix it up with the attic—they look the same …”

I told him I’d figure it out and not to worry.

I eventually locate the front-door key, turn the lock, and push the stained-glass door inward.

A rush of stale air hits us. I wonder when the last time was that someone walked in, if it was my dad locking up after my mom’s hospital visit two months ago.

Rocket gingerly steps inside, sniffing the air.

“See anything?” I whisper.

His ears twitch backward, as if to say, Don’t rush me.

I hold up my palms. “All right, all right.”

I walk inside and flick on the lights. The foyer is illuminated by a chandelier above. To the left is a front desk with wooden cubbies. A stairwell ascends to a bare landing, then rotates up to a second floor. A carpeted runner paves a path to the parlor past the front desk, where sunlight filters in through the pulled-back sheer curtains over the bay window. Decorative china plates and teacups are locked inside glass cabinets in a large hutch. In the center, a floral rug is tucked underneath beige furniture with low skirts and padded arms.

I can work with this. I’ve advertised much less appealing things.

I trail down a small hall to the right, pushing inward a door that reads STAFF ONLY. Past it is a decent-size kitchen. Tan hand towels adorned with grapes and vines are folded on the counter. Dark purple half curtains hang across the window to the backyard. An empty coffeepot is plugged in.

I walk to the back door and open it. Another stone footpath trails through a small garden, ending at an enclosing white fence that separates the grass from the gravel parking lot. The lot fits maybe four cars. A single car—my mom’s silver Honda—takes up the space under a tree farthest from the house. The hood is coated in a thin layer of curled brown leaves.

Rocket tugs against his leash. I unclip it and let him run in the fenced area.

Before stepping out myself, I walk down a narrow hallway to the right. At the end is a closed door with a framed cross-stitch sign reading HOME SWEET HOME. I gently twist the handle, and the door whines open. A quilt-covered queen bed sits against the wall. A small TV with a built-in VHS player is on the dresser in the corner. On a side table is a cordless phone and a small stack of Chicken Soup for the Soul books, topped with a tiny Precious Moments porcelain figurine—one of many Mom collected.