by Beth Labonte
Maybe if it had been one thing or the other—a relationship with Riley, or traveling around the world—I’d have been able to take the chance. But risking my heart, on top of putting aside my fears? It was too much.
I still hadn’t responded by the time the train pulled into the station closest to the park exit. I picked up my purse and stepped off the train, Riley following behind. His phone was back in his hand, and he tapped away at the screen as we walked through the parking lot. It was a long and silent drive home. Even with a million thoughts and regrets swirling around in my mind, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Chapter 20
Riley texted me early the next morning.
My stomach twisted itself into knots at the sight of his name on my phone screen. I’d barely slept all night, second-guessing everything I’d said on the Santa Express. At two thirty a.m., I’d almost jumped into my car and driven to Summerboro. But I stayed put. The decision I’d made was as much for Riley as it was for myself. Even if he never ended up hurting me like Dean, he still had no idea what he’d be getting himself into. Nobody did; that’s why they kept on buying lottery tickets. It wasn’t all shopping sprees and fancy cars. Riley would be committing himself to a lifetime of guilt, of being hounded for money, of having friends and family, and people like Moose, looking at him with bitterness and jealousy.
Riley was thoughtful and perceptive; eventually he’d realize that I was right. I was meant to use my money to do good in the world, but I was meant to do it alone. I was Batman—if Batman owned a country store in northern New Hampshire. I was okay with that.
Only, as I lay in my bed the next morning, I felt heartsick and miserable, and not at all like Batman. Even though I wanted Riley to see that I was right, I kept clinging to a pathetic hope that he might continue to press the issue. I took a deep breath and opened the text.
Driving down to PA. Decided not to miss turkey day with the family after all.
Or, he was leaving. My stomach sank. I closed my eyes and pressed the phone against my forehead. This was a good thing. I needed the space.
Okay, I texted back. Drive safe.
I debated adding a heart emoji or maybe a turkey face, but decided against both. We were unemotionally stating the facts, which was also a good thing. Cutesy emojis would only confuse things.
Sorry to cut the fake boyfriend thing short. Hope this doesn’t mess up anything with your family.
No worries, I wrote. I think we convinced them.
I waited a few more minutes, but there were no more texts coming. He was probably already in his car, Maple Sugar Crush in the console, heading for the highway. I dragged myself out of bed to shower and dress. The house was quiet—Mom, Dad, and Granny were all still asleep—as I went downstairs to the kitchen. I wrangled Pixie into a sweater, let her outside to pee, and made myself a cup of coffee.
Since I was already feeling morose, I figured it was a good time to swing by and check on the inn. Hopefully Riley wouldn’t mention anything about that to Kit and Amy, when he got down to Pennsylvania. The last thing I needed was them freaking out and flying back up here early.
I loaded Pixie into the car and drove into town. It was early, but The Plaid Apple was busy with breakfast customers. People were milling around on the chilly sidewalk, waiting for tables. Moose was across the street, unlocking the door to mini mart, big black tumbler in hand. I waved, but he looked away.
I drove around the common, the sight of the funeral home making me even more depressed—which, I supposed, was normal reaction for most people—and pulled into the driveway of The Autumnboro Inn. I would just get the mail and tidy up downstairs. If anybody was still asleep, I wouldn’t even need to wake them.
I nearly hyperventilated as soon as I stepped out of the car. Just walking up the path I spotted cigarette butts all over the grass, and crushed, empty beer cans scattered across the front porch. Seriously? I shook my head as I unlocked the front door and pushed it open. Pixie ran in ahead of me, then turned around and ran back out, whimpering.
Holy cow. The smell was overpowering.
It wasn’t a bad smell, it was just…strong. Like the inside of my store, times a thousand. Scrunching up my nose, I stepped inside, Pixie following cautiously behind. Everything seemed normal over by the reception desk, except for the fact that it was freezing inside. Then I looked into the sitting area.
Take-out food containers, plates, cups, and empty cans were strewn all over the floors and coffee tables. Somebody’s khaki pants were tossed over the back of the couch, and a lacy pink bra hung from a lamp. The television was still on and there was a dark purple stain on the carpet, beside a toppled wineglass. One of the windows was wide open.
Also, every single scented candle was lit.
I ran to shut the window as the long, wispy drapes blew dangerously close to a candle on the end table. Then I ran around, blowing out the rest of them, my heart pounding away in my chest. They could have burned down the inn!
I picked up the khaki pants and checked the size. Uncle Burt or Randy would never fit into them. I circled the pink, lacy bra, looking at it from all angles. There was no way that thing belonged to Aunt Carla or Audrey. No, this mess had Dylan and Quinn written all over it.
Kit and Amy had asked me to bring in the mail and water the plants, and I’d gone and moved in two reckless dumbbells who almost burned the place down. My money could fix a lot of things, but it couldn’t replace a nineteenth-century Victorian home that contained all of their childhood memories. I felt sick.
I ran up the stairs and started pounding on both Dylan and Quinn’s doors. No answer. I rushed back downstairs, grabbed the spare keys, and ran back up. I unlocked Quinn’s door first and barged right in. He was asleep in bed with a pile of blonde hair snuggled up beside him.
“Rise and shine!” I yelled, shaking the bed. Then I stormed over to Dylan’s room and threw open his door. “Check-out time!” I pounded on the blankets. The redhead who was beside Dylan, squinted at me with one eye as I raised all the shades. I walked back out into the hall, waiting until both guys had staggered out in their boxers, looking blurry-eyed and hungover. The two girls stayed in bed, under the covers.
“What time is it?” asked Quinn.
“Early,” I said. “Party’s over! Take your junk, take your girlfriends, and take a hike!”
“What’s wrong?” asked Dylan.
“What’s wrong?” I narrowed my eyes. “What’s wrong is that you two left every candle in this place burning last night. Next to an open window! And there’s lingerie hanging from a lamp!”
“Are you jealous?” asked Dylan, giving me a dopey smile as he took a step toward me, his eyes still half-closed.
“Out!”
“You know, you’re the one who told us to go to that bar in North Woodstock,” said Quinn. “I don’t see how you can be jealous now.”
I rolled my eyes and took my place at the top of the stairs, arms folded across my chest. “I’ll be waiting right here until you’re packed.”
The door to Uncle Burt and Aunt Carla’s room cracked open. “What’s going on out there?” asked Burt.
“Nothing,” I said. “Go back to sleep.” He shrugged and went back into his room.
Dylan and Quinn gave each other We really dodged a bullet with this one looks, before going back into their rooms. There were a few moments of silence when I thought maybe they’d decided to ignore me and get back into bed. But then I heard the sound of slamming drawers and rustling sheets, and female voices saying ‘”Who was that?” and “What’s her problem?”
Before long, all four of them were sloppily dressed and filing past me down the stairs. I followed them down, making sure they handed me back their room keys. I couldn’t believe I’d actually let them stay here. What had I been thinking?
I hadn’t been thinking. I’d been resentful that Kit and Amy hadn’t asked for my help with the inn. I’d been hurt. I’d felt as if they’d been using me for my money,
just like everyone else. So, I’d gone and done this selfish thing, and now look what could have happened. If I weren’t worried about further staining the carpet, I could have easily thrown up.
I’d almost pushed the last of them out the front door, when Quinn suddenly doubled back.
“Forgot my pants,” he mumbled, darting into the sitting area. He was stumbling and walking erratically—probably still drunk from last night—when his foot caught a power cord running across the floor. It was the cord connected to the lights around Tom’s model stagecoach.
What happened next was a bit of a blur. I let out a strangled yelp as Quinn went tumbling to the ground. The small stand that the model stagecoach was sitting upon toppled forward in horrible, car crash-like slow motion. The glass case hit the wood floor first, with a terrific shatter. Then Tom’s model stagecoach—the delicate one that he’d spent seven years of his life painstakingly building—crashed to the floor.
Quinn and I blinked at each other as the other three hurried out the front door.
“Get out,” I hissed.
He got to his feet, grabbed his pants, and bolted.
I sank to the floor, remaining motionless for several minutes. Pixie put her head down in my lap. I’d narrowly escaped burning down the inn, only to cause the next worst thing I could possibly imagine. Poor Tom. He was going to be devastated! He was going to hate me. I put my face in my hands and groaned.
Finally, I stood and put Pixie in the car so she wouldn’t cut her paws, then I went into the kitchen to find a dustpan and some towels. I spent the next half hour carefully cleaning up all of the broken glass—thankfully none of it had gotten into the carpet—wrapped it all up, and placed it into a cardboard box.
Then, I put all the broken pieces of Tom’s model stagecoach into another cardboard box, with a soft towel lining the bottom, like an injured baby bird. I still had a sliver of hope that maybe I could glue it back together. I’d inspect it more closely once I was back at the store. I cleaned up the rest of the sitting room, the front porch, and the lawn, and I threw away the pink, lacy bra (I doubted its owner would be back for it). When I was finished, I brought both cardboard boxes out to my car, and drove to Pumpkin Everything.
I had only just started googling model stagecoach repair and watching instructional videos on YouTube, when a tour bus, on its way to Maine, stopped off at The Plaid Apple for lunch. Tourists started trickling into my store soon after, to kill time before their bus left. I couldn’t let them find me staring at my computer as if I’d committed some horrific crime that I was trying to figure out how to cover up. Not that googling model stagecoach repair was the same as googling how to dispose of body, but I felt just as guilty.
Even if I could actually glue the thing back together, they’d still be able to tell. And once I told them the truth, they’d never trust me enough to let me actually work at the inn. Which was exactly what I deserved.
I tried to shake away my negative thoughts and focus, for the time being, on the customers. Chatting with customers always cheered me up, and even on a day like today, it seemed to do the trick. The bus tour had started in Boston, and was slowly making its way through western Massachusetts, Vermont, and New Hampshire, before heading to Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park in Maine. Most of the people on the tour had flown in from other parts of the country—some from other parts of the world—to enjoy two leisurely weeks on the road.
“We just met!” said one lady, throwing her arm around the shoulders of another. “I’m from Florida, and she’s from New Mexico. We were both traveling alone, so we paired up!”
“Lucky us,” said the other woman, laughing as she plunked a bobbling turkey headband onto her new friend’s head.
They made me smile, all bright-eyed and merry, with so much to look forward to. There were so many possibilities out there…so many people to meet…so many incredible things to see. I had all the money in the world, but those two ladies seemed like the lucky ones.
When the last of the tourists had gone—I’d sent each of them off with a free stick candy of their choice—I settled down again in front of my laptop to wallow. Maybe I should just call Tom right now and explain what happened? Then again, why should I ruin his Thanksgiving? I’d be able to explain and beg for forgiveness much better in person, after they were home.
My cell phone rang and my heart stopped, hoping that it was Riley. It was Amy. Shoot. I hadn’t spoken to her since she’d left—I couldn’t let it go to voicemail.
“Hi!” I said, trying to sound cheerful and totally normal. “How’s it going? How’s Pennsylvania?”
“It’s great!” said Amy. “I met Catherine Zeta-Jones!”
“No way!”
“Yep. Mom took us on a QVC studio tour. Grandpa got to shake hands with that guy that sells the smoked brisket.”
“Aw, tell Tom I’m so jealous,” I said. “It’s, like, my dream to meet the smoked brisket guy.”
“Really? I think he might be single. If you come down here sometime, my mom will introduce you to anybody you want. You’re her number-one customer.”
“I will definitely do that,” I said. “Someday. Totally.”
“So, how’s the inn? Nothing to report?”
“Nothing to report!” I practically yelled. “Plants watered. Mail collected!”
“Good, good,” she said. “So, Riley’s on his way down here, but you probably knew that already.”
“I heard,” I said, trying to keep my voice as uninterested as possible.
“To be honest, I was sort of hoping something might have happened between you two since we left. But I guess not.”
“Nope. I’ve barely even seen him.”
“Too bad,” she said, a hint of exasperation in her tone. “Riley’s a good apple.”
A lump formed in my throat. He was a good apple. Maybe the best apple out there, and I’d left him on the ground to rot with the rest of them.
“He’s a good apple,” I said. “I’ll give you that. But, you know, you don’t just throw all the good apples to the wolves, Amy. That’s like, a serious waste of apples. You have to protect them. Turn them into pies. Or those dolls that look like old people.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Look, I have to go. Have a great Thanksgiving! Send my love to everybody.” Except for Riley. “Tell them I miss them!”
“Okay,” said Amy. “We all miss you too. See you soon!”
“See you soon,” I said weakly, my eyes drifting to the box of smashed up stagecoach parts on the floor beside me. Way too soon.
What a mess.
Chapter 21
“I received a text message from Quinn today,” said Mom, as soon as I’d returned home from work that evening. She was sitting at the kitchen table, eating coffee cake with Granny. “He said you threw him and Dylan out? Literally threw them out the front door?”
“I wish it had gone that smoothly,” I said, plopping down in the chair across from her and rubbing my face. “Did he tell you why I threw them out?”
“He said you came in like a crazed—I refuse to say which noun he used—and barely even gave them time to pack.”
I rolled my eyes. “Did he mention that they practically trashed the inn, left about a thousand burning candles unattended all night, and left women’s underwear hanging from a lamp?” I counted off each item on my fingers. “Oh, and Quinn tripped and smashed Tom’s handcrafted model stagecoach.”
“Smashed what?” asked Lee, walking into the kitchen followed by my father.
“Tom’s model stagecoach,” I said, slowly. “I have it in a box at the store, smashed to bits. What are you doing here?”
Lee was holding a notebook in one hand. Dad was looking scholarly, dressed in an argyle sweater vest that he had, for some reason, brought along with him to Autumnboro.
“We’ve been looking at schools online,” said Lee. “Did you know it’s only a twenty-five-minute drive to Plymouth State? That’s far enough that my mom won’t po
p in, but not far enough to make laundry inconvenient.” He turned and gave my dad a high-five.
“I’m going to help with his application and essay,” said Dad. “We’re going to keep in touch!”
“That’s so great,” I said, smiling at both of them. At least something had worked out right this week.
“Want to stick around and watch the game?” asked Dad, pointing toward the living room.
“Seriously?” asked Lee, his eyes widening. “In there? On the big screen? What is that thing, eighty-two inches?”
“One-oh-five,” I muttered. Without another word, Lee took off into the living room.
“What was that about women’s underwear hanging from a lamp?” asked Granny, as soon as we were alone.
“It was pink and lacy,” I said. “And just dangling there.”
“And it was theirs?” Granny whispered.
“No, no, no.” I chuckled. “It belonged to one of the girls they brought home from the bar last night. Can you believe the type of men she tries to set me up with?” I jerked my thumb toward my mother, then turned to look at her. “I can’t believe you brought those two up here after I told you so many times to please stop trying to fix me up. And then you gave me that whole story about how their families abandoned them for the holiday because you knew I was too nice to send them home.”
“I know,” said Mom, putting her face into her hands, her shoulders slumping forward. “I’m sorry. They were just so eligible! They were good looking, they were your age, and we were already on a first-name basis! I honestly thought I was doing you a favor.”
“I know you did,” I sighed. “But even if you couldn’t understand why I didn’t want you to fix me up, I wish you would have at least listened to me. You need to trust that I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re right,” she said, nodding. “I let my friends get under my skin. All they talk about is which of their children is getting married at which extravagant venue. They’ve got nothing better to do! It’s actually been quite nice getting back into the real world for a while. Anyway, I see now that you were perfectly capable of finding somebody without my help; even if he is a little…morbid. We’re all so happy for you, Josephine. Really.”