Hearts Inn

by Lilly R. Mason

  She tried not to miss anything too hard, as she didn’t think of herself as a sentimental person. With any luck, she’d be out of Ashhawk and back to her accounting job soon. Her employer had given her a generous six weeks off with guaranteed job security. She tried to think of her life as being on an uncomfortable pause for a few weeks. It was easier to endure that way.

  When the waitress brought over her coffee, Rosalie looked up, clicking out of Facebook and murmuring her thanks. She thought for a moment she should try to strike up a conversation but couldn’t find the energy or a topic. She figured it wasn’t worth putting forth effort to make new friends anyway. She was only here until she figured out how to manage the hotel from afar or sell it for more than pennies.

  After ordering coffee, she busied herself with actual work. Her task for the day was to explore how much it would cost to set up a functioning website for the inn that included a booking agent. If she could increase occupancy, it would be more attractive to potential buyers, but building a website was time-consuming and slow. She thought back to the lobby and figured she ought to do something about the air conditioner.

  Rosalie stood and walked to the counter.

  “Is your coffee okay?” the waitress asked, looking up.

  “Yeah, yeah. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know a handyman around town, would you?”

  The waitress looked as though she was surprised to be asked about something besides coffee. “Like someone to build and fix stuff?”

  Rosalie nodded. “I just took over the Hearth Inn for Estelle Campbell. I need a little help with maintenance.”

  “Ohhh,” the waitress said. “Umm...” She glanced around the register before reaching for an old receipt. “There’s this guy Ralph lots of people call. He can fix anything.” She scribbled a name on the receipt, then paused, scrunching up her nose in apology. “I don’t know his number.”

  Someone at the counter piped up. “You looking for Ralph Ecker?”

  The waitress turned her head toward the man. “Yeah.”

  “I got his number.” The man shifted in his seat to take out his phone. It was a silver flip phone, something Rosalie hadn’t seen in years. He opened it, sliding it along the counter toward Rosalie with a grin Rosalie couldn’t decide was friendly or predatory.

  Rosalie tried not to touch the phone as she copied down the number and slid the receipt into her purse, noticing the man’s body odor and stained hat. “Thanks.”

  Rosalie retreated to her table again. All too soon, her phone rang, and she had to return to the hotel where a disgruntled guest was looking for her to unclog his toilet. If the trucker who had clogged it couldn’t figure out the problem, Rosalie sure as hell couldn’t. Rosalie tried to conceal her disgust as she called a plumber. Then she retreated to her room and found the receipt with Ralph’s number on it.

  By the sound of his voice, Ralph was an older man, his voice etched with years of smoke and breathing in desert dust. Rosalie pictured him with a bushy mustache and paunch, though not as unkempt as some of the other local men.

  “Hi, I’m at Hearth Inn, and I’ve got an AC unit that just quit on me. Any chance you’d be able to help me out?”

  “’Fraid I’m tied up at the drugstore helping them with their refrigerator unit this afternoon. I might be able to come by tomorrow. Where’d you say you were?”

  “I just took over the Hearth Inn for Estelle Campbell. I’m her granddaughter.”

  “Oh! Why didn’t you say so? Let me send my kid Alex your way. Twenty minutes okay?”

  Rosalie exhaled in relief. “Sounds great.”

  “No problem,” Ralph said. “Take care now.”

  Rosalie hung up and lay back on her bed, relieved to have figured at least one thing out for the day.

  She decided to rest for the twenty minutes she had before the handyman arrived. She stared at the popcorn ceiling. It was probably filled with asbestos. She ought to have it inspected. The thought of how much its removal would cost gave her a sick feeling in her stomach.

  Rosalie hadn’t brought many of her own belongings, so everything in the room from the appliances to the bedspread to the wall decorations was Gran’s. There was nothing, save for Rosalie’s computer and phone, indicating it was the twenty-first century. The same could be said for the rest of the hotel. Rosalie did intend to address the décor problem to make the hotel more attractive to buyers but had no idea where to start. The tacky gold-framed stock art? The faded polyester bedspreads? The textured wallpaper? The cracking lampshades? Rosalie wondered if it might be less work to raze the building and start from scratch or burn it down for the insurance.

  It didn’t feel like twenty minutes before Rosalie heard a knock on her door. She jolted up, feeling guilty to have been caught daydreaming. She rushed toward the door, expecting to be greeted by a younger but just as heat-toughened man as Ralph had sounded.

  But instead she found a woman—perhaps five years older than herself—with warm, tan skin, light brown eyes, and curly chestnut hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She had a stoic look to her face, a long nose, and a small, serious mouth. Her shoulders were square and strong, her stance androgynous, though her long eyelashes and curly hair offset any confusion about whether she was female. She wore a plain black tank top, straight-cut jeans, and work boots, without a stitch of makeup or jewelry.

  “Uh…hi,” Rosalie greeted. “Can I help you?”

  “My dad said your AC went out.” Her voice was sturdy, neither too high nor too low for her body.

  “Oh! You’re Alex. Yeah, in the lobby.”

  Rosalie stepped out of her room and shut the door so Alex wouldn’t see how shabby her accommodations were.

  Rosalie walked the short distance to the lobby door, unlocking it and leading Alex inside. The temperature of the room had already risen to an uncomfortable swelter.

  “How’d you know which room was mine?” Rosalie asked.

  “I lived here for a few months while I was doing some repairs for Estelle.”

  “What did you repair?”

  As soon as she said it, Rosalie realized she sounded critical. The hotel was in such disarray, it was hard to imagine Gran had done any maintenance at all. She’d made it sound as though Alex was responsible.

  Alex stared at Rosalie, unsmiling. “Other air conditioners.”

  Rosalie felt herself warm with embarrassment. “This one’s the same,” she said, pointing to the machine that had sighed its last breath of cool air hours before.

  Alex moved toward the rusting old machine, crouching in front of it before giving a stiff nod. “No problem,” she said. “I’ll get my tools.”

  Rosalie gave a grateful nod, hoping Alex would forgive her tactless comment. She retrieved her laptop from her room and sat in the sweltering office for the next hour while Alex worked.

  Frustrated with trying to set up the website, Rosalie began browsing commercial real estate agents. She couldn’t find any in the area with a decent website, which didn’t bolster any confidence. She didn’t know who to trust for guidance.

  The office phone rang just as Rosalie was about to give up her search for the day. Hoping it was someone calling to book a room, she picked up with her usual response:

  “Hearth Inn, this is Rosalie speaking. How may I help you?”

  “May I speak to Estelle Campbell, please?”

  It was awkward to respond to people asking for Gran. “She’s deceased. I’m her granddaughter.”

  “Oh…I’m so sorry,” the man said. “Hmm, well, do you know who I might get in touch with about her estate?”

  “Her estate has been settled,” Rosalie said, wary. “I was the sole beneficiary.”

  “Oh, then you’re the person I want to talk to. My name is George Tackett, and I’m with Shaylin Development Inc. I’m calling in regard to a piece of property in Ashhawk. We’re interested in buying and wondered if there might be a time to set up a meeting.”

  Dumbfounded an opportunity to sell the hotel
had fallen into her lap, Rosalie sputtered. “Uh, yeah. Sure. I’m free any time.”

  “Wonderful,” George said. “I’ll be out your way next week. Does Tuesday afternoon work?”

  “Absolutely,” Rosalie said, relief spilling over her as though the air conditioner was working again.

  “Where would be the best place for you to meet?”

  “Right here on the property. It’s hard for me to get away.”

  There was a pause, and Rosalie wondered if their connection had been disrupted.

  Then George spoke. “We are talking about the property at 578 Cocheta Way, correct?”

  Rosalie frowned. “The address here is 682 Mohan Drive.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you also the beneficiary of the property on Cocheta Way?”

  Rosalie thought back to the many phone calls and meetings she’d had with Gran’s lawyer. Not once had another piece of property been mentioned.

  “I’m not aware of any such property.”

  George hummed. “Would you be able to give me the name and number of the late Mrs. Campbell’s counsel?”

  Recalling the nervous twitching and fragmented way Gran’s lawyer spoke, Rosalie didn’t think it was a good idea to give his name out to an opportunistic business developer like George Tackett.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’d be more than happy to speak with you about the property on Mohan Drive, though.” Her mind hopped to the next step—getting a real estate lawyer and consulting with anyone who might help her get the best deal out of the property.

  “Unfortunately, our client is only interested in the Cocheta property,” George said.

  Rosalie sank into her chair. She had been so hopeful. “I’m sorry to hear that. Please let me know if you ever need accommodations in Ashhawk.”

  “Will do. Good day, Miss Campbell.”

  She hung up, feeling the heat of the room overtake her.

  Alex kept her back to Rosalie, her attention focused on the air conditioner. Though she’d given no indication she was listening to Rosalie’s half of the conversation, she spoke.

  “You trying to sell this place?”

  Rosalie looked up, feeling a surprising flicker of guilt. “Maybe.”

  Alex was quiet for a moment before she said, “Probably a tough sell these days.”

  “Yeah.” Rosalie sank lower in her chair at the suggestion she might be doomed to stay in Ashhawk longer than she intended.

  Alex said nothing as she worked on the heavy white machine, her arms and back flexing in her tank top. Her skin was smooth and taut over her muscles. A sheen of sweat made her even more of a distraction. Rosalie caught herself staring and felt her own brow prickle with sweat. She wiped it away and got up to fill a cup with water. But as she tried the tab on the water cooler, she found the cooler was empty. Of course it was; nothing in this stupid hotel worked.

  Rather than disrupt Alex’s work by asking if she might be able to help heave a giant water cooler jug up onto the stand, Rosalie walked across the street to the convenience store and bought two bottles of ice cold water. She brought them back into the lobby, offering one to Alex, who accepted it with a stiff smile.

  After another twenty minutes of tinkering, Alex stood and wiped her hands on her jeans. She pressed a button and the machine jerked on, vibrating the whole wall before it found its rhythm. Rosalie felt a cool breeze on her damp face.

  “Fixed,” Alex said, as though it was unclear.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Rosalie said, hoping to make up for her snide comment earlier.

  Alex looked at her, expressionless. “Just a handywoman.”

  Rosalie asked how much she owed Alex for her services. She pulled out a checkbook and was in the middle of writing a check when Alex strode out the door. Rosalie was bewildered until Alex walked back into the lobby with two huge water cooler jugs on her shoulders.

  Rosalie bounded up from the desk, not knowing how to help with the heavy load.

  “Careful,” she warned.

  Alex walked over to the cooler and plopped a jug in, sighing as it gurgled and glugged into place, air bubbles blasting through it until it settled.

  “Thank you,” Rosalie said.

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll call you if I need anything else fixed.” Rosalie smiled genuinely this time.

  “Please do.” Alex gave a faint smile as she rested her hands on her hips. “I’d hate to see this place fall apart.”

  Rosalie held a check for Alex’s hourly rate plus tip forward, and Alex took it before collecting her tools and leaving without ceremony.

  No sooner had Alex’s truck rumbled out of the parking lot, a guest came into the lobby reporting yet another clogged toilet. Disheartened, Rosalie called the plumber again.

  The hotel was not going to let her go without a fight.

  ****

  As she tried to fall asleep that night, Rosalie heard coyote pups howling in the distance, their calls pinched into whiny yips. Rosalie thought of Gran and how she’d loved those coyote calls. She hoped wherever Gran was now she could hear the coyote calls, too.

  Chapter Two

  Short-term Guest

  Rosalie was sound asleep when her phone rang. She answered, sleepy panic seizing her, hoping something hadn’t happened to her parents.

  “Morning, sweetie!” Marisol chirped. Her tone indicated nothing was amiss.

  Rosalie squinted in the dim light of her room, eyes crusty with sleep and desert dust. “Mom, it’s six thirty in the morning,” she grumbled.

  “Oh, sorry, I forgot the time difference.” Marisol giggled. “Well, I’ve woken you up anyway. How is it there?”

  Rosalie sat up in bed, feeling her back seize and whine from the crappy old mattress she had to sleep on. She felt where her sleep shirt was sticking to her body. “It’s okay.”

  “Tell me all about it,” Marisol said. Rosalie could hear shuffling, as though Marisol were out shopping or walking briskly down the street.

  “It’s so freaking hot here, Mom,” Rosalie said, letting her morning creakiness seep into her voice. “I don’t remember it being this hot when I was younger.”

  “Yeah, I heard you’re having quite a heat wave. You’ve got the pool, though, right?”

  Rosalie pictured the crumbling pool outside without a drop of water in it. “It’s not filled right now.”

  “Are you joking? Fill it up, silly! You’ve got to keep your guests happy.”

  “They’re not my guests,” Rosalie said, trying not to sound grumpy. “I’m just running the place for now.”

  “Well, you’re doing great, sweetie.”

  Rosalie had the sneaking suspicion Marisol was already distracted. On the rare occasions she had her mother’s attention, she was eager to hold on to it.

  “How are you? Is everything good with Dad? And Ahbie?”

  Ahbie was Marisol’s mother, whom Rosalie had named Ahbie as a child in lieu of calling her Abuela. If Ahbie hadn’t been so enamored with her only grandchild, she might have lectured Marisol about what a disgrace it was that Rosalie didn’t speak a word of Spanish.

  “Yeah, yeah, they’re good,” Marisol said. “Dad’s got some new book he’s reading about owls. He was going on and on about it the other night.”

  It was quiet as Rosalie pictured her father, Frank, cradling an open book in one large hand, gesturing with it with as much enthusiasm as he ever had about anything, which wasn’t much. He was gentle and warm like Gran, hardworking and soft spoken like his father had been. As he spoke, Marisol would nod in circles and give him a blank smile, all the while planning an outfit for some activity he wasn’t involved in. Perhaps the most unfortunate thing about being in Ashhawk was leaving her father to grieve the sudden loss of his mother alone. He’d seemed as steady as ever at the funeral, but he was quick to leave town when it was over. He hadn’t even stayed the night in the hotel. Like Rosalie, he kept his emotions carefully guarded.

  Rosalie felt sorry for her dad and made
a note to call him and ask him which owls were indigenous to New Mexico.

  “Sorry, sweetie, I’ve just run into Carla, and I have to ask her how the twins are doing. Give my love to Gran!” Marisol chirped before making kissy noises and hanging up.

  Rosalie sat there, not sure if she should be more stunned by her mother’s sudden hang-up or the fact Marisol had forgotten her mother-in-law was dead. Gran being dead was the entire reason Rosalie was there.

  It was possible Marisol had meant Rosalie was to metaphorically give Marisol’s love to Gran as an underhanded way of encouraging Rosalie to be more assertive with the way she managed the hotel, but Rosalie couldn’t be sure.

  She put her face in her hands, wishing she’d had a calmer start to her day.

  Rosalie didn’t begrudge her mother her zeal for life. If anything, she wished she had it for herself. But when it did bother her, it had more to do with how little space Rosalie felt she took up in her mother’s life. She sometimes felt no different from Marisol’s bridge club or softball team or Thai cooking class or whatever her latest hobby was. Perhaps motherhood had been another whim of hers, one which she tired of and decided to move on from. Marisol was never cold or deliberately neglectful of Rosalie. She simply had a great appetite for life, and being a doting parent was too inconvenient for most of the adventures Marisol craved.

  Rosalie and her father had often been left to their own devices for dinner and on weekends. They got along well, with little need for superficial conversation. They watched the news and talked about books and played chess. The household was always calm until Marisol came crashing in late at night.

  Sighing and wishing again she was anywhere but Ashhawk, Rosalie looked around the room. Gran’s suite was dingy and dated. The bed was not too far from a counter, a small stove, mini-fridge, and microwave. On the other side of the bed was a wall with a door leading to an adjoining room currently set up for occupancy. In front of Rosalie was a card table with two folding chairs and a TV hanging over it.