Page 9 of No Room in the Inn
“I’m not sick,” I say impatiently.
“You’re going on about Hallmark movies,” she points out, and I do have to admit I see what she means, so I explain.
“Look,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. I hold up one finger for my first point. “Granny loved holiday movies. The really cheesy ones.”
Sarah nods, so I go on.
“It’s the Christmas season, right?”
“Right…” she says, and the look she’s giving me now questions my sanity. I continue anyway.
“And I just graduated from a high-powered school, accepting a job in a big city, didn’t I?” Finger two goes up for my second point.
“Yes…”
“And I just got called home to my tiny town to take over my grandmother’s tiny bed and breakfast.”
Sarah’s eyes widen slightly. “Yes,” she says, and the look on her face tells me she’s starting to see what I mean.
I nod. “Granny basically left me a Hallmark movie to live out! I mean, look”—I hold up the letter—“she even asked me for a ‘Christmas miracle.’”
“She did,” Sarah says, her bright blue eyes wide. “She really did!”
I think for a second before it dawns on me. “So Mr. Nixon has to be the ruggedly handsome man who needs help remembering the spirit of Christmas! A loner with a tragic past! The inn’s repairman, maybe. That fits, right? There’s always a repairman.”
“I don’t think anyone in this town needs help remembering the spirit of Christmas, but I see what you mean,” Sarah says, grinning.
I smile back. I almost feel like laughing, because this is so typically Granny. She was always a meddler—in the most loving way possible, but a meddler nonetheless. I just shake my head, still smiling. “Let’s go see the inn.”
And who knows? Maybe there will be a grumpy loner there, just waiting for me to show him the true meaning of Christmas.
Chapter 5
Willow
There is not, as it turns out, a grumpy loner in my inn.
There is a squatter.
To be fair, no one is actually here at the moment—unless they’re hiding in a closet or something, and no way am I going to go looking for that—but the signs are unmistakable.
“Look at this,” Sarah says, disbelief coloring her voice as she holds up a half-empty glass of what looks like orange juice. We’re in the kitchen, which does not look quite as abandoned as it should. The light over the microwave is on, for one, and when I check the faucet, water comes out. Maybe no one ever disconnected the utilities?
I grimace and nod. “I know.” I pull open the fridge and grab the carton of milk. Spinning it around, I see that the expiration date is a week from today. “This milk was bought recently.”
“You know,” Sarah says, sounding thoughtful now as she opens the cupboards one by one. Most of them are empty, which is a relief. “For a squatter, this guy—or girl—is pretty neat. I mean, assuming we’re reading this situation correctly and there really is someone living here. When I think of squatters, I picture total squalor.” She turns to me. “No one else should have access, right? Would your parents come here?”
I frown. “Maybe,” I say slowly. “But I don’t know if there’s a second set of keys. And even if they do have keys, they wouldn’t come here just to put milk in the fridge.”
“True. Should we check out the bedrooms? See if there’s stuff in there too?”
I nod. We pass through the living room, where there are more signs—if not subtle ones—that someone has been here. Some of the furniture is missing its dust covers, for example; the dust cover for the couch is neatly folded and laid on an end table. And there are tracks through the carpet, as though someone has been walking roughly the same path through the room.
The first bedroom in the hall is empty and musty; a double bed stands in the corner, covers tucked neatly in.
“Anything?” Sarah says from behind me.
I let my eyes scan the room for a second more, but nothing is out of place. “I don’t think so,” I say. We leave that room and cross the hall.
