Page 50 of Room for Us
Sensing an abrupt turn down Pointless Argument Lane, I say, “I’ll talk to your mom about it. That’s all I can promise.”
“Bleh.”
“Are you getting excited about coming out next weekend?”
She says sullenly, “I guess.”
I’m glad she can’t see my face. I learned the hard way that laughing at my child—even when I think she’s the cutest human alive—is a grave mistake.
“Well, I’m excited to see you.”
She sniffs, indifferent. “How’s the book? Mom wanted me to ask.”
“Great. Coming along nicely.”
“You’re the worst liar in the history of liars, Dad. Why do you even try?”
I’m saved from further humiliation by a knock on my door. “I know, I know. Hey, I gotta run. I love you. Can’t wait to see you next weekend. Talk to you in a day or two?”
“Yep. Love you, too.”
“Bye, squirt.”
I open the door with an eager smile, which falters when I see it’s not Zoey. I recover fast, but not fast enough for my visitor’s perceptive gaze.
“Hi, Alana. Nice to see you. What’s up?”
She smiles sweetly and lifts a small basket with a wrapped sandwich and thermos. “Zoey told me you’ve been cooped up here all morning. I thought you might be hungry.”
I may not be the most experienced managing women’s mothers, but I’m a smart guy. She wants to talk. The question is, what sacrifices am I willing to make to get closer to Zoey?
Pretty much anything.
“Starved, actually. Thanks. Come on in.”
Alana sweeps into the room past me, breathing deeply. “I’ve always loved this room. The lavender is so calming.” She sets the basket on the window seat and turns. “Did Zoey tell you one of the great mysteries of Rose House is how the rooms hold their fragrance?” At my expression, Alana laughs. “I see that she didn’t. Well, when she took over ownership of the inn from her aunt Barbara, she did a lot of updating and whatnot. One of her missions was to find the source of the fragrances in each room. She was convinced her aunt hid sachets somewhere.”
“She didn’t find anything?” I guess.
Alana shakes her head. “Like I said, it’s a mystery. Although she stopped before pulling up floorboards or knocking holes in the walls.”
My skin ripples. “Odd.”
Alana shrugs, unbothered. “This house has a lot of history. A lot of… quirks. Familial legend has it that Hemingway even stayed here a few times.” She glances around. “In this room, believe it or not. It was said he turned down the master suite because he didn’t care for the smell of roses.”
My legs weaken and I sit heavily on the bed. “That’s interesting.”
Alana asks gently, “Is that why you’re here, Ethan?”
Hard to mistake her meaning, especially with her being a psychologist. But I’m a little surprised she cut right to the chase. She wants to know if I’ve come to Sun River to kill myself. Like Hemingway. What she doesn’t know—can’t—is that I’ve always thought of Hemingway as a bit of a sycophant and brat. Talented, sure, but weak-willed. It was my mother who loved him.
“No, it’s not,” I tell Alana.
“Good. Because my daughter doesn’t need any more heartache right now.”
Here it comes…
“She’s fragile, Ethan. The last year has been really hard on her. But I see the way you look at each other.” She grins. “I’d have to be blind not to. Obviously there are some conversations a mother doesn’t want to have with a man about her daughter, but in this case, I thought it wise to speak to you. You’re in a unique position to… er, teach her—as it were—that she’s worthy of affection. If you feel yourself capable of the task.”
