The Matchmakers of Minnow Bay (11 page)

“Mr. Hutchinson. He's headed this way.”

“Are you just trying to get rid of me?” I ask. But I crane around and sure enough there's a tall, parka-clad figure approaching from the other side of the street. “Shit. I do not want to see him, Simone.”

“I know. So go duck behind the counter and wait for me to distract him. You can get a to-go cup while you're back there.”

I sigh, but eye the counter. “This is ridiculous.”

“Are you kidding? Every girl he's ever dated has hidden behind that counter at some point.”

“Whoa. Really?”

“No. But you do really look awful.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But I don't think I'm bad enough to turn him to stone.” I stand up with steely resolve. Cram the last big bite of scone in my mouth. Top off my ceramic mug of coffee and put my coat on, slowly, deliberately. “I'll bring back the mug,” I tell her. Then I walk to the door, reaching it at the exact moment Ben Hutchinson, Douchebag, reaches the other side. He pulls it open and then steps back with a start when he sees me.

“Lily,” he starts. “Lily.” But I hold my hand up so that it blocks his face from my line of vision.

“Step aside,” I tell him, and then barge through the door, leading with my hot coffee, wishing I was the sort of person to accidentally spill it on him. Then I turn around and put one finger in his general direction. “FYI: You may never talk to me again. Good-bye.”

And then I march over to the B&B with my head held as high as the minus-ten-degree temperature will allow.

*   *   *

Fueled by coffee and righteous indignation, it takes me all of ten minutes to pack up what I brought with me into the B&B. I can't find my phone, and after crawling around on the floor looking, and being dazed at how clean Colleen keeps it under the highboy dresser and bed, I remember I was texting with it in the car last night. Hopefully it can withstand arctic temperatures, because I definitely owe Mitchell a phone call. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. If that FedEx package from horrible Ben Hutchinson comes soon, I can probably make it to Mitchell's gallery opening tonight. He loves me to come to the openings. Some small, cynical part of me thinks he likes being out in public with me more than he likes being together in private. Not because of my looks, nothing to do with that. But because I am a living embodiment of his ability to discover artists. A pet project of his. I think of the way he takes me shopping before really important events, “treats” me to days at the Red Door to get my curls blown straight. I like my hair curly. The whole charade kind of pisses me off.

As quickly as they came, I push those ungrateful thoughts out of my mind. I am me, no matter how my hair looks, and it's me he wants to be with. Besides, can I honestly say I don't love the way his face lights up when I've cleaned up well? The way he introduces me, with great pride, to all the most important people in the art world? The way I would probably be answering phones at Renee's firm by now if he hadn't decided to feature my work at his gallery?

And hasn't he stuck by me as I've toiled in creative paralysis, painting the same scenes over and over again, powerless to break through the block?

I should check out of the inn. Get the bill settled, pack up the car. Then, the minute the FedEx truck arrives, I can sign, return, and get back to the city. I can sleep over at Mitchell's tonight, and then go grovel to my brother tomorrow after the opening. Perfect. Do something nice for my boyfriend and avoid my fate for one more day. What could be better?

I head downstairs and start hunting down the innkeeper.

She isn't in the dining room, the foyer, the parlor. She isn't in the kitchen, which I've never set foot in until now and find is small but lovely and clean as can be. There's no note by the door or on the table about her whereabouts. I wonder if she's upstairs and I missed her. Maybe she's making up another room for a reservation. I hope so. I find I really like this woman, and am hoping her inn does well.

She's not in another guest room. The other two doors are standing open, showing variations on the theme of white opulence, though I still like my own room best. She must be in her attic apartment. Did she say anything to me about it? No, she didn't. I figure I can just climb the stairs and knock on the door. If she's not there I'll have to just cool my heels and hope she and the package both show up here soon.

But at the top of the stairs, there is no door. I find I'm standing right in the middle of her private quarters. I'm about to turn around when I hear a friendly voice, figure it's Colleen greeting me, and let my eyes scan the room for her.

It's one of those vast but awkward open-plan third floors with a narrow hole for the stairs right in the middle and slanting ceilings in every direction. To my left there are two lovely dormers facing the street with pretty wavy glass windows. The dormers are fitted with window seats, which are topped with plush cushions, and draped with soft-looking cream throws. One is stacked with books, the other is a perch for a pretty long-haired cat dozing in a small sunbeam. Across from that seat on the alley side of the house, I see a bed, a four-poster paean to femininity, perfectly made up with a quilted silk duvet and pillows of every size and shape, and yes, a well-loved plush bear. I imagine Colleen, like me, reading
A Little Princess
far too many times as a child.

The carpet is a thick white wall-to-wall, and over the carpet she's used rugs to create a few little zones within the big open space. The effect is lush, plush, squishy, and soft. There's a TV in a corner in a pretty armoire, and a yoga mat is spread out in front of it. I see lamps of every size and shape so long as their main descriptor is “pretty,” and a loveseat so smooshy and inviting that, though I know I am intruding, I can barely avoid the urge to try it out. There's a little nook off the bathroom door with a tea service and kettle and a tiny dorm fridge set into a cabinet. And, on the other side of the stairs on the south end of the house, there are two French doors, closed, and behind them I see the seated back of the person I'm looking for.

She's on the phone in her office. Not talking to me, and with no idea I'm here. I've intruded on her sanctuary. I turn to leave, but when I'm only three stairs down, my eyes catch on something curious. A closet door, wide open, affording me a perfect view of its contents.

Baby stuff.

An infant car seat, the bucket kind, with the handle, with a lemon-yellow polkadot cloth cover. A white Jenny Lind crib, unassembled, leaning against the back wall. Hangers upon hangers of white, yellow, and green baby clothes. Some kind of bouncy seat in the same colorway as the car seat, and crib linens covered with pale yellow giraffes neatly washed and folded.

What am I looking at here?

I hear Colleen's voice rising on the phone. It's some kind of dispute. She's getting upset. What would she think if she turned around and saw me staring at what has clearly been tucked away in an off-limits closet for a reason? And listening in on some private conversation? After she's been nothing but lovely and accommodating for my stay?

I retrace my steps back downstairs as quickly as possible. Pose myself as casually as I can on the velvet sofa and stare in the general direction of the fireplace. Pull a magazine off the coffee table and prop it on my lap. Wait for Colleen to come downstairs while I try to comprehend whatever I just saw.

 

Six

 

She is downstairs within minutes. I cannot stop myself, I look to her tummy. It's flat as a board. And she's single. We talked about it at breakfast yesterday. No question. She said there were no eligible men in Minnow Bay. At the time I thought of Ben, but now I understand why he wasn't in the running. Because he is a jerkface. Is she planning a big baby shower at the inn for some local mother-to-be? But then why was that gear all opened and washed already? I am about to ask her when she clears her throat.

“Excuse me,” she says to me and, instead of her normal warm tone, she sounds brittle. Did she catch me snooping? “Miss Stewart. A word.”

“Lily, please,” I say warmly, and stand up. “I was just thinking about you. I'm done with the room and ready to return my key, but I've still got to turn around a package from FedEx. I'm not in your way down here, am I? Do you have any idea what time the express delivery usually comes?”

“Your Visa,” she blurts. “It's no good.”

Momentarily, I am taken aback. But no, I gave her the card with plenty of room on it, didn't I? The one I was saving up for January bills. If not, I just need to switch out cards. I laugh, as though this has never happened before. “No wonder you looked so dour. Don't worry, it's a mistake. Probably my fault. Did I give you this Visa?” I dig in my handbag, and provide the right card.

She looks from the card to me. “I've just been on hold with the card company for the last hour, and though they will not give me any particulars, they tell me your borrowing limit has been reached.”

“What? I know that card is still good. I have three hundred dollars left on there. I haven't used it since … well, at least not for a week … And besides, you swiped it when I checked in. Maybe you accidentally swiped it twice?”

Colleen shakes her head. “Every time a guest checks in, I put a hold on their card for $100. It's kind of an arbitrary amount, not quite enough for one night in the summer, but more than enough in the winter. Mostly it just tells me if the card is valid and protects me in case of room damage. I don't run an actual charge until checkout.”

“Just a hold?”

“Just a hold.”

I puzzle over this. “But then, if the hold went through okay, how can they say there's no money on there?”

She sighs mightily. “They accepted the hold two days ago but later in the afternoon some automatic monthly debits came through that took precedent to my hold. A credit hold is not the same as a credit guarantee, Visa tells me, unless I upgrade my vendor status to the Silver level.” She shakes her head. “I can barely afford the level I'm at now as it is.”

Oh. Oh dear. Automatic monthly debits. Of course. “Hang on a sec,” I say, and reach for my phone to look at my bank statements. But of course my phone is in the car. The
phone.
The phone
bill.
“Crap,” I say. “I'm very sorry about this. I seem to have forgotten about the autopay on my wireless bill.” I am utterly mortified. Now would be a good time for me to suffer a stroke, or some other debilitating medical emergency.

“Do you have another card?” Colleen suggests hopefully.

Eyes cast downward, I shake my head.

“If you have a valid driver's license, I could accept a check,” she tells me.

I can't answer. Instead I start to cry.

“Oh, for Heaven's sake,” says Colleen.

“I'm sorry,” I snivel. “I'm such a mess, I'm sorry.” I start fishing for a tissue in my bag.

She puts her face in one hand and sighs dramatically. It's Renee all over again, after all. “It's okay,” I hear her say. “Well, it's not okay. You do have to find a way to pay me. I can't afford to—”

“No, of course not,” I say quickly. “I mean, I will. I'll borrow the money. My stepbrother … he can lend me the money. Lord knows I've bailed him out a hundred times. It's just … I'm so very sorry. This is very embarrassing.”

She looks like she wants to strangle me, but says, “These things happen.”

I cough and try to swallow my tears. “I'm having kind of a bad week,” I blurt. “I keep screwing things up. I'm a disaster. I got evicted, and I've been accidentally married for ten years, and I…” I dissolve into snotty tears. “I can't even get a divorce right. And now I've stolen a hotel from a very nice person…” I cough and sneeze at the same time.

Colleen gives me a wan little smile. “So far, the hotel remains in my possession,” she says. “Come on into the dining room. I have no idea why, but I'm compelled to make you a cup of tea instead of turning you upside down and shaking you dry.”

“Because you're a nice person,” I wail, as though it is the worst thing in the world.

“Too nice. But you still owe me a lot of money.”

“I know. I promise you, I will pay you back.” How, though? She leads me into a dining room chair and puts a box of tissues next to me. They are the soft, lotiony kind. Which makes me cry harder.

“I'm not always this awful,” I say when she reemerges with a whistling kettle and two mugs. I can tell she does not believe me for a second. A train wreck is as a train wreck does, as my mother would have said. “I have a nice life in Chicago. I was mostly solvent until recently. Well, not solvent. But I kept up with my bills. Things just got a little out of hand at Christmas. And I didn't have a very good third quarter for sales so I started out a little low. I only missed one stinking rent payment. I've lived in that apartment my whole adult life,” and I'm back to unintelligible crying. She sits, patiently, waiting for her tea to steep and for me to stop crying.

“I wish I could tell you not to worry about it,” she says after a little while. “But it's a small inn, independent, in a friendly little town. I've never had anyone stiff me before.”

Of course not. I am public-enemy number one in Minnow Bay, Wisconsin, now. “I'm so, so sorry. I will borrow the money,” I say again, thinking as I do,
Will my stepbrother lend it to me?
Renee? Mitchell? Maybe Daniella—she owes me far more than that from her shopping habit over the years. “I'll call someone right now to give you a card number. It's just, my phone, it's in the car. I'll just run out and…” I trail off, thinking of what that must sound like. Like I'm going to attempt a runner. “Actually,” I amend, “here are my keys. It should be on the passenger seat.”