Page 17 of Room for Us

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Page 17 of Room for Us

The words bring me back to reality. All I have to do is stop scaring my first guest and everything will be fine. I should also stop staring at him. Particularly at the way a gentle breeze pulls too-long strands of dark hair across his cheek. Say something, idiot.

“Of course! Can I help you with your bags?”

His lips tilt the tiniest bit. “I’ve got them, thanks.”

Customer service. Customer service.

“Well then, Mr. Hart, please follow me.”

I head up the steps and across the porch, hyperaware of him behind me and of my own body—lungs breathing, heart beating, aching lower back, and cold toes. My senses expand and I hear the first crickets of the night, a far-off rooster, distant barks, the even more distant yips of coyotes, and the welcome creak of wood under our feet.

I open the front door, bathing us in soft light and the mouthwatering scent of the roast in the oven.

I don’t know why I say it, or who I’m talking to.

“Welcome home.”

And I don’t know why he replies, but he does.

“Thank you.”

11

On first impressions alone, Zoey Kemper is an odd duck. I hope she isn’t a serial killer, luring single men to her inn where they mysteriously disappear or fall prey to tragic accidents.

I should really stop watching late night true crime television, though statistically speaking, I’m probably safe. She’s too twitchy and anxious to be a violent criminal. Which doesn’t mean she isn’t a garden variety weirdo. Younger than I expected, though, and possibly pretty. I was so frazzled from travel and on edge from her erratic welcome that I didn’t get a read on her looks. Even when she served me dinner, I was so hungry I barely glanced at her before devouring a full plate of tender roast and root vegetables.

If that was a sample of her skills in the kitchen, I might even fulfill one of Daphne’s wishes and fatten up a bit while I’m here.

The formal room and big table looked sad with only one setting, but I didn’t invite Ms. Kemper to eat with me. Instead I caught up on my emails, texted Daphne for a bit, and ate more in one sitting than I have in months. I’m not here to fraternize, and one invitation could open the door for expectations. My host might think we’ll become friends, or something worse. Neither is an option.

As long as Ms. Kemper acts professional and stays out of my way, we’ll get along just fine. And so far, so good.

When I was finished with dinner, she reappeared and politely gave me a tour of the common rooms downstairs, including a promising library. She then led me upstairs, where I was invited to pick any room I wished, and bid me good night with instructions to dial 1 on the landline if I needed anything.

From the online photos, I knew what to expect aesthetically speaking from the rooms at Rose House. Four bedrooms, increasing in size and amenities: Honeysuckle, Lilac, Lavender, and Rose. The master suite, aka the Rose Room, seemed like a sure bet for my stay. Spacious, with a king-sized bed, en suite bathroom, a full-sized desk, and an actual turret with seating and wraparound windows showcasing a thick tree line.

What I didn’t know was that the room would smell powerfully of its name.

Roses roses everywhere.

I suppose you can’t know how powerful a sensory memory is until you’re slapped in the face by it. In this case, the slapping is done by a vivid recall of one of the worst days of my life.

Within thirty seconds of opening the door, I close it and back away, at the same time mentally closing the door on the memory. Whoever says avoidance doesn’t work obviously lacks discipline.

I find the winning room two doors down. The little plaque above the frame reads Lavender Room in swirly font. Lavender and I get along fine. No negative associations. The room is smaller than the master, of course, but I don’t need the extra space. There’s a queen-sized bed, dresser, and small desk. The bathroom is right across the hall.

Perfect.

Unpacking takes me five minutes. I think briefly of my manuscript, which makes me think of the airplane bottle of vodka in my duffel and the half-full pack of cigarettes I smuggled past Daphne.

I brush my teeth instead, then consider taking a shower to wash off the stink of travel, but I’m suddenly jet-lagged, exhausted from too much thinking and doing, too much trying, failing, wanting, missing, disappointing…

My eyelids stop opening the whole way, and my feet tingle as I shuffle back to my room, kill the lights, and slip into bed. The sheets are soft, the comforter thick, and the mattress is top-notch. The scent of dryer sheets and mild lavender wraps my mind with clouds, dulling the usual nightly tumult.

My last thought is of a disembodied voice. Zoey Kemper’s, to be exact.

Welcome home.


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