“Right,” Stacey says firmly. “We’ll have to deal with this ourselves. Can you make bacon and scrambled eggs?”
“But…”
“I can make coffee, if nothing else. And we do have apple pie.”
It takes Stacey a moment or two to work out how to open the door, but after that, the preparations take no time at all. She turns on the lights and makes coffee, while Dad rummages through the refrigerator on the hunt for bacon and eggs.
Stacey grabs one of the order pads from behind the counter and walks confidently toward the first customer.
“Coffee, please,” he says.
“Coming up.” She pushes the pad into her back pocket and pours him a cup from the thermos while the fresh batch brews.
“Apple pie?” she asks.
“Sure, why not?”
Stacey is a natural.
“I didn’t know you knew how to work a register,” Dad says admiringly.
“Pfft, who cares about that? The coffee and pie is on us!” she shouts out to their only guest.
By the time the second customer arrives, they are ready.
“We’ve got a limited menu today, and unfortunately we’re only taking cash,” Stacey tells him.
The construction worker shrugs.
“Coffee, bacon, scrambled eggs, and apple pie. For…five dollars?”
“Sounds good.”
Unfortunately, the protesters turn up before our early-morning diners have time to wolf down their food. They knock back their coffee, grab their slices of pie, and leave.
Stacey waves a dollar bill in the air. “Look!” she says. “A tip!”
Dolores walks straight into one of the customers on her way into the restaurant. “What the hell is going on here?” she asks, sounding confused.
Stacey and Dad freeze.
“Nothing, Dolores,” Stacey quickly tells her.
Dad takes off his apron, and they both slowly back up toward the rear entrance.
“Just a couple of early customers,” Stacey continues.
With that, they hurry away.
Chapter 41
Freedom
The bare branches of the trees lining Elm Street glitter in the cold sunlight. People have wrapped themselves up in scarves, hats, and winter coats, but they seem relaxed as they walk down the sidewalk, as if the cool air doesn’t bother them. Camila and Alejandro are standing side by side next to her car, smiling in confusion as people say hello to them—as though nothing unusual is going on in town.
“Do they even know about the protests?” Alejandro asks.
“Maybe they just don’t care.”
Camila had tracked him down in the restaurant thirty minutes earlier and asked if he could come with her for a while. “Bring your camera,” she said.
I squeezed into the car with them, of course, and now we are all on our way to the secondhand shop where she and Michael bought the reception desk.
“Take some pictures from different angles,” she tells Alejandro once we arrive. “Make them as appealing as possible. Try to make it look like this is the most charming antique shop God ever created.”
Alejandro shrugs and gets to work. He takes sunlit images of the shopfront, of the old lettering above the window—which, in the right light, looks almost golden. He zooms in for more artsy shots of objects in the window, things that, with a little goodwill, could be mistaken for antiques. After that, he does the same inside.
The same woman is behind the counter, huddled in three thick sweaters and a pair of gloves. “You’re welcome to take as many pictures as you like,” she says. “But if you want me in any of them, I need to fix my hair.”
She gives them a hopeful glance.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Camila says to her. “I wanted to take some pictures so I could talk to you about an idea I had.” She pulls out a leaflet advertising the motel and places it on the counter. It’s very simple, minimal and appealing, with one of Alejandro’s images in extravagant color.
“We’re making new brochures for the motel,” she says.
“And you want to leave a couple here?” the woman asks drily.
“No, no. We want to do the same thing for you. I went through all of the brochures we have at the motel, and I realized they’re all really old. We didn’t even have one for your incredible shop! So I was thinking I would make some new ones, to give our guests tips and inspiration about things they can do in our beautiful town.”
Alejandro holds out his camera and flicks through some of the images he has just taken.
“Imagine my little shop looking so charming!” the woman exclaims. “I’ve had it for thirty years, but I can hardly recognize it in those pictures.” Then, with a cynical note in her voice, she asks: “What’s all this going to cost me?”
“Nothing,” Camila reassures her. “We’re going to print off a few for the motel, and if you want any for your own use, I’m happy to send you the file so that you can have some printed, or copy them, or just print them out on an ordinary printer. It’s entirely up to you.”
“Hmm,” the woman says. “If you want to leave some of your leaflets here, I suppose it’s all right.”
* * *
“So are we making free leaflets for the whole town now?” Alejandro asks on the way back to the motel. They have already taken pictures of several shops.
“If that’s what it takes.”
“But what do we get out of it? It feels like a lot of work just to get them to display a few of our own leaflets.”
“That’s not why. People around here are proud and stubborn. No one wants to think of themselves as immoral or linked to a den of sin, so if they are linked to us…”
“We can’t be anywhere near as bad as the Sacred Faith Evangelical Church claims?”
“Exactly.”
“Worth a try, I guess.” Alejandro sounds doubtful.
“My next idea is to organize a party. I don’t think people around here have been out to the motel for years. If we can show them that we’re an ordinary, family-friendly place…”
“Do you really think anyone will come?”
“Everyone likes a party, don’t they? Plus, you saw how friendly everyone in town was when they greeted us. It’s just a loud minority that are in favor of the proposal.”
“Very loud,” Alejandro mutters.
When they get back to the motel, they see MacKenzie walking by with three sheets in her arms. Her eyes are fixed on the restaurant, but she stops to talk to them.
“Mrs. Davies has been calling all day,” she says. “And several of the others from her group. At least five of them have offered to pay extra if we put them in a room as far away from hers as we can. Oh, and I’ve had an idea about the protesters.”
With that, she disappears into the restaurant, humming as she walks.
“She seems to be in a good mood,” Camila remarks.
“MacKenzie has never been able to resist a challenge. Plus, this Mrs. Davies lady sounds crazy. And you know what MacKenzie is like around crazy women.”
“What’s she like around crazy women?”
“She can’t resist them.”
* * *
The motel is a hive of activity again.
The doors are all open, airing out the rooms and making cleaning easier. Michael and Camila are both pushing cleaning carts, each taking one floor. In the kitchen, Dolores is already happily at work preparing for dinner the next day. Alejandro has had to put down his camera to help out.
MacKenzie is busy with her own project. She has spread out three sheets on the floor in the restaurant, fixed them together with a staple gun, and tied them to three wooden poles. She has already written something on the other side, though I couldn’t see what. On this side, at least, it reads WELCOME, MRS. DAVIES in huge letters. She fills them in
with the last of the red paint.
Dad and Stacey walk past the cozy chaos. Dad is wearing his warm red coat again, and Stacey has an enormous scarf wrapped around her neck, covering practically her whole face. They walk around and around the motel, so deep in conversation that they don’t even notice the protesters shouting that prayer is the best weapon.
“I’m not saying I’m going to move back in with him,” Stacey says. “He probably doesn’t even miss me. I’m sure he’s moved on to some other slut by now.”
“Of course he hasn’t. You’re married!”
“That’s never stopped him before,” Stacey mutters. “But just because I’ve moved in here, that’s no reason for him to act like things are over between us! And now he wants to be a politician.”
“That’s a laudable ambition.”
“Well, he’s trying, at the very least. That must mean something. I guess.”
She glances at Dad for support, and he nods gravely.
“Yeah… I guess maybe he would be doing better if I was there by his side,” she continues. “He might look confident, but Derek doesn’t like doing things on his own. He’s used to having a whole team around him. And if I don’t know what I want, maybe I might as well do what he wants. Don’t you think?”
They have reached the back of the motel again. Michael and Paul have taken a break from cleaning to work on the veranda while the sun is still up. Stacey walks by without even looking up, but Dad slows down and watches their movements.
Stacey notices and says, “Michael there, he dated Henny.”
“My Henny? When?”
“When they were kids. Last year of high school, after Derek went off to college. But I think they were seeing one another more recently, too. Before…”
“But what’s he doing with that sick man who used to sleep in MacKenzie’s office?”
“Building a veranda. For Henny.”
“Henny wanted a veranda?”
“I think so. This was her favorite place. Building it seems to have helped Paul, anyway. Apparently he’s completely traumatized. No wonder. Poor guy.”
“Traumatized?”
Stacey gives him a surprised glance. “He’s the one who hit her.”
“Who…hit my Henny?”
“I’m sorry, Robert. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”
They have already passed the veranda, but Dad turns to look back. For once, he doesn’t know how to react.
“Are you all right?” Stacey asks.
“Of course I’m all right,” he snaps.
* * *
They arrive in a long line, all nine cars. One by one, they slow down, blinkers indicating left, and turn off toward the motel. The protesters seem unsettled by their sudden arrival. People climb out of the cars and swarm across the parking lot, relieved to be outside. At least three teenagers and two adults sneak around the corner to smoke.
Clarence, Buddy, and Paul come rushing out with MacKenzie’s banner. Each holding a pole, they stretch it out in front of the protesters. Buddy bends down to turn on the stereo, and Bruce Springsteen’s voice drowns out the unhappy shouts from the other side of the road.
A father and his thirteen-year-old son are the first to step into reception. The man irritably scans the room. “This is just an ordinary motel,” he complains.
The protesters have raised their voices to overpower Bruce, and for a while their shouts of “Repent your sins before it’s too late!” mix with Born in the USA.
“We’d already booked a motel in Bend. It was a much better location for us. We had to set off a day earlier because my aunt decided she wanted to stay here. Then we arrive and find out it’s just an ordinary motel.”
“We’re perfectly normal,” MacKenzie agrees in the rainbow-colored reception area.
“She’s not even my real aunt. That’s what we call her, but she married into the family. I can’t understand what my uncle was thinking. If he really had to marry her, he had some nerve dying on us after just a few years. Though by that point, I guess he was probably desperate.”
He glances nervously over his shoulder again. When he speaks again, his voice is much quieter.
“Anyway, we’re here now. Since she wanted to stay here of all places, I hope you can keep her amused. If you can keep her entertained for a whole day, you can have my firstborn son.”
“Dad!” the man’s son protests.
“At least you’d get out of these family gatherings,” the father tells him.
The son can’t argue with that.
“About our room,” the father begins, but the automatic doors open and he trails off.
Considering the effect Mrs. Davies seems to have on those around her, she is almost laughably short. She is wearing a knee-length skirt, comfortable shoes, thick tights, a cream-colored blouse, a beige cardigan, and a light-brown coat. Her skin is wrinkled and as dry as parchment, and the glimmer in her eye suggests that her sense of humor is even drier. This is a woman who doesn’t try to hide what she thinks about the world.
She raises an eyebrow at the father and son—a miniscule movement—and they both move to one side, practically cowering against the wall.
“I think it’s best if I handle the checking in,” she says.
The father and son nod eagerly and then scamper away.
“Susan,” she says. For the first time, I notice the young woman behind her. Could be a daughter or a niece, I think, in that difficult age between childhood and adulthood. She has a tablet computer, a folder, and a list ready to be ticked off. It would have been easy to assume she was being browbeaten into helping Mrs. Davies if she didn’t seem so relaxed in her company.
“I brought a list,” Mrs. Davies tells MacKenzie. “Since everyone is paying separately, I thought it would be easiest to let them check in themselves. That way, we can cross them off against my list. This shouldn’t take all evening, should it?”
“Of course not,” MacKenzie replies. “And just to be on the safe side, I’ve got a list, too.”
“Are you ready, Susan?”
“Yes, Aunty.”
“Then let’s get going.”
Mrs. Davies raises an eyebrow, and Susan whistles. Within just a few minutes, the reception fills with people and a sense of organized chaos: group by group, they check in, each one being checked off both Mrs. Davies’s and MacKenzie’s lists. Alejandro and Michael help with their bags, and the air fills with “Welcome” (MacKenzie) and “Next!” (Mrs. Davies).
Just forty minutes later, only Mrs. Davies and Susan are left.
MacKenzie smiles. “We’ll start serving dinner in a few hours, but I thought you might be hungry after your journey. Once you’re settled in, just come down to the restaurant for some coffee and pie. It’s on us.”
“Hmm,” says Mrs. Davies.
I’m sure she’s impressed.
* * *
We’re still busy setting the long table in the restaurant, but we’ve left a small table right by the window. Camila has spread out one of the lace tablecloths she bought, plus a vase of delicate red roses, and when Mrs. Davies and Susan appear, there is a pot of coffee, a small apple pie, and a number of cups and saucers ready and waiting for them.
MacKenzie guides them over to the table with an welcoming arm movement.
“Do you have to work, or would you like to join us?” Mrs. Davies asks.
“I’d be honored,” MacKenzie tells her. She means it.
Susan pours each of them a coffee. Mrs. Davies takes hers with two sugars and a dash of milk, but MacKenzie shakes her head when Susan raises the little milk jug and sugar bowl. Mrs. Davies’s eyes glitter: she definitely knows that our restaurant isn’t normally set up like a sweet little tearoom.
“Do you want to know why my darling husband’s—may he rest in peace—family is so scared of me?”
>
“I think I’ll refrain from guessing,” MacKenzie replies.
“Smart. You probably think I’m an old cow who bosses everyone around.”
“The thought never even occurred to me.”
Susan gives MacKenzie a shy, fascinated glance. This might be the first time she has ever met anyone who isn’t afraid of her aunt. Still, she doesn’t speak. Her eyes just dart back and forth between Mrs. Davies and MacKenzie as she nibbles her apple pie. It’s like she can’t quite decide whether MacKenzie is inspirational or terrifying.
“Clear-sightedness,” Mrs. Davies announces. “I see the world as it is. That’s what scares them. Most people spend the majority of their waking hours trying to deceive themselves, so the minute anyone looks at them—really looks at them—they’re terrified. They think they can protect themselves by refusing to see the truth, but nothing could be more wrong. Seeing the world as it really is—that’s the solution.”
“Do you often like what you see?”
“It doesn’t take much intelligence to be clear-sighted. In theory, it’s perfectly possible to see the world as it is and be stupid enough to like it. But in my experience, that’s incredibly rare. Either way, the question is irrelevant. Like, don’t like, those are just judgments. Facts are what really matter. We’ve decided, once and for all, that the family will meet every other year. That’s a fact. We’ll also need to travel to the meeting place, and we’ll need to eat and sleep en route. It’s utterly pointless trying to tell yourself that the family will be better if we only have to spend a few days together.”
“So it’s not just clear-sightedness,” MacKenzie says. “Logic and cogency, too.”
Mrs. Davies allows herself a brief nod. “If you can handle it,” she says.
Susan laughs. She can’t stop herself from adding: “Aunty, you know perfectly well that humor’s important, too. Don’t try to trick her into thinking that you don’t like to laugh at them.”
She glances nervously at MacKenzie and seems to regret ever speaking.
Mrs. Davies smiles indulgently. “Youth,” she says to MacKenzie. “They still think that being able to laugh at everything is the most important thing. The older you get, the more you realize that people aren’t particularly funny. Humor depends on things being new, but human nature doesn’t change all that much.”
Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC) Page 34