Page 11 of Room for Us
My eyelid twitches. Since I don’t want to go to jail today, or lose all credibility as a local business owner by kicking an old man in the balls, I pretend my phone is ringing. Turning away from him, I rummage through my purse, pull out my cell phone, and answer the imaginary call, “Zoey Kemper speaking.”
With a harrumph, smile critic moves on.
I wait until he’s rounded the corner, then lower the phone. It buzzes to life in my hand, and I almost fling it at a row of cake mixes. Heart pounding, I stare at the number on the screen.
New York area code.
Uh, no. There are a limited number of people who could be calling me and I don’t want to talk to any of them. Ever. Even if we’re the last people on earth.
I decline the call.
7
That’s odd. I study the screen of my newly replaced cell phone. The number I called only rang three times before disconnecting. No voicemail. What kind of inn doesn’t have a voicemail?
Not to be deterred, I call back. This time there’s two rings, then nothing. I press Send again.
One ring—nothing.
Now I’m annoyed. I call again. And again. Six times total before the line abruptly opens and a woman snaps, “What do you want?”
I’m so stunned I can’t speak.
“Hello?” she repeats, voice dripping acid. “Chris, if that’s you, I told you I never want to talk to you again! I’ve moved on. I don’t need you, your stupid alimony, or your half-assed justifications. Grow up!”
I almost hang up. I want nothing to do with anything that just came out of this woman’s mouth. And yet… there’s something in her voice, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Lurking beneath the rage, hidden by slicing consonants and cool vowels. Then I realize what it is.
Pain.
And like a weight has been lifted from my chest, I can suddenly speak.
“Is this the right number for Rose House Inn in Sun River?”
In the following silence, I imagine her horror and mortification. I must be a bit of a sadist, because it makes me smile.
“I’m so sorry.” A gutted whisper. “Please don’t hang up. I-I thought you were someone else.”
“Obviously.”
I pause, weighing the wisdom of what I’m about to do. Every other goddamn hotel, motel, and rental in the area is booked because of some upcoming film festival. When I stumbled on the website for Rose House late last night, the online booking was wide-open. A red flag all on its own, but desperation trumped logic. Unfortunately, there was no option to book the entire house online. Hence this absurd phone call.
If this is the standard of customer service offered at the Rose House, at least I now have some idea why it isn’t bursting with bookings. And what I can expect to endure.
“Sir? Are you still there? Again, I’m so sorry. Can we start over? My name is Zoey Kemper and I’m the new owner of Rose House. I’d love to discuss your needs.”
“I’m here. Give me a second to decide whether or not to hang up.”
A small gasp, then silence. Smart woman.
A car door slams in the background. Voices fade in and out. I hear the distinctive rattle of metal shopping carts. Grocery store parking lot. I abruptly picture this woman as one of those UGG-boot wearing soccer moms who compete against each other in the categories of baked goods and who’s better at hiding their alcoholism. I’ve met enough of them at Daphne’s parent teacher nights to recognize the type. Overly emotional. Prone to eruption. Hyper-organized life but highly disorganized mind.
Buying and running an inn is likely this woman’s version of a post-divorce identity crisis.
On the other hand, despite her newly business-brisk voice, I can’t un-hear the first part of our conversation. Or rather, her part. The cut-glass edge of devastation and the white-knuckled whisper of survival. Threads of rage glued with shame. I heard what was unspoken because I’ve felt it.
And it’s this odd tug of camaraderie that leads me to say, “I’d be happy to start over, Ms. Kemper. I’m calling because I’d like to book The Rose House. The entire place, if possible, or as many rooms as are available, for six weeks beginning Monday.”
There’s a four-second pause.
