Page 22 of No Room in the Inn
“Correct,” I say breezily, because I’m not about to have that conversation. “Now, can you please tell me what you’re doing here?” I gesture around us. “In the inn, I mean.”
Nixon—it’s nice not to have to think of him as Santa anymore—exhales roughly, running one hand over his hair. It’s thick and black, and I find myself wondering what it feels like, if it’s soft like a cloud or rough and wiry.
“I was living with Granny,” Nixon finally says. “I’vebeenliving with her. For the past year—since the car crash and the fire.”
I frown. “You’ve been living with her?Here?”
He nods. “I only just switched bedrooms now that—” He breaks off, and he’s more subdued when he goes on. “Well, now that she’s not up in her bedroom anymore. But yeah; she and I have been living here. Half the inn we didn’t even touch anymore; part of it needs repairing, and she has a TV and kitchenette and everything upstairs. Didn’t spend much time down here at all, really, except for coming and going.”
“I thought she moved after her hip got broken,” I say. But now that I think about it, I don’t know where that idea came from; I may have just assumed she’d go somewhere else.
My frown deepens, partly because I’m trying to conjure the image of Granny living with this Greek god in any capacity at all. Him flexing in the bathroom mirror while she puts in her dentures; her trying to get him to eat her famous chicken and dumplings while he insists on nothing but disgusting green juice. The images are too strange to process.
“Why?” I finally say, bewildered.
Nixon’s gaze darts away from mine. “She needed help getting around. Running errands, lifting heavy objects. That kind of thing. And I think she was lonely.”
My eyes narrow. “So you, out of the goodness of your heart, decided to be her errand boy.”
Nixon rolls his eyes, meeting my gaze again. “She let me live here free of rent. You might not be aware, but eleven out of twelve months, no one wants to hire a Santa Claus impersonator. I don’t have another job, so it was a good deal.”
“Why don’t you have another job?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “What are you doing in Woodfield, anyway?”
Nixon just looks at me for a second, his eyes guarded. Finally he says, “You ask a lot of questions.” Then he reaches out and takes my empty mug from my hands, turning and rinsing it in the sink. “The point is,” he says over his shoulder, “I’ve been living here with permission for the last year, okay? I don’t have anywhere else to go, and I have some savings, but until Santa season is over, I won’t be able to find another source of income unless I want to work nights and never sleep. I’m not leaving.” He gestures vaguely at the kitchen around us. “And especially not without getting all the repairs done.”
“Ah-ha!” I say triumphantly before I can stop myself. “Youarea repairman!”
“I’m sorry?” Nixon says, giving me a funny look.
I don’t even care that he probably thinks I’m crazy. “I was right,” I explain. “When Granny mentioned you in her letter, I figured you were probably the gruff repairman. You know, since she left me the inn.”
“Why do I have to be gruff?” he says, folding his arms. It takes me a second to realize that he’s just teasing, humoring me, but I answer anyway.
“Because this is all so Hallmark,” I say. “And Hallmark always has gruff repairmen. Grumpy loners.” I want to find out if he has a tragic past, but how do you ask a stranger something like that?
“I see,” he says, his green eyes sparkling. “Well, I wouldn’t call myself a repairman, but a lot of the repairs this place needs I can do myself.”
“Eh, don’t bother,” I say, waving one airy hand. “I’ll just hire someone. That will be faster, anyway. I need to get this place sold before—”
“What?” he says, his amusement disappearing. He stands up straighter, unfolding his arms. “What do you mean, ‘sold’?”
“Sold,” I say again, because it’s really a very understandable word. “I’m selling the inn.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You can’t sell this place.” He speaks with such authority that for a second I’m tempted to just listen to him and call it good.
Luckily, reason prevails. “Look, I can’t run a bed and breakfast,” I say. “I have a job”—well, Iwillhave a job—“and a home”—though not one I’d lament losing—“in St. Louis. So I’ve got to fix this place up and sell it.”
He shakes his head again. “No. You can’t do that.”
I’m starting to get annoyed now. “I can and I will.” Because no way will I live in the same town as my parents.
“No. This place was important to her. She wanted it to get up and running again.” His voice is irritated, bordering on angry.
“I understand that,” I say, trying not to sound as frustrated as I feel, “but I can’t run a bed and breakfast, and I’m not going to pay someone to do it for me. If the next owners want to do a B&B, that’s fine. Great. But I’m not.”
Nixon runs his hand over his head again, looking at me with a weird mix of frustration and panic. He’s really worked up about this, though for the life of me I can’t figure out why. “Wait here,” he says suddenly, spinning around and heading out of the kitchen. “I’ll be right back,” he calls over his shoulder.
He returns thirty seconds later holding a large book in his hands, and though it’s been a long time since I’ve seen it, I recognize it. It’s one of Granny’s old photo albums. The cover is worn, the corners bent, as though it’s been examined regularly over the years. For a second I marvel at the strangeness of seeing an actual physical photo album with plastic sleeves for pictures; everything is digital these days.
