Room at the Inn

Julie ignored his taunt and busied herself with pouring him a cup of coffee.

“Do you still take cream and sugar?”

“Just cream.”

She cleaned off a spot on the counter, set the mug and a container of half-and-half on it, and wiped off a barstool for him to sit on.

“Thank you.”

He felt strange, perched on the stool. Out of place in this domestic space that had so much of her in it. Deep cobalt tiles behind the countertops and orange hand towels. A red stand mixer. Pictures on the fridge of people he didn’t know, and one snapshot of his parents, laughing. He looked at her ceiling again, just to have somewhere to look.

Oven cleaner would take the

paint off, but Carson didn’t tell her. He didn’t like the idea of Julie on a ladder, spraying caustic chemicals at the ceiling.

“Can’t you afford to hire someone else to do it?”

Another personal question. He was no good at playing by the rules she set.

But all she said was, “Sure.”

She wore an ancient denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, men’s canvas pants, and old running shoes. Her eyes were the same blue he spotted in odd places. A field of wildflowers in Afghanistan. The claws of a crab in the Indies. A brightly dyed dress in a North African marketplace.

Never on another woman, though. Only Julie had eyes that color—almost purple.

Only Julie ever looked at him so cold. Downright icy.

He should go before he got both of them into something they’d regret. But he needed the bed.

He tried another tack. “When was the last time you were in my dad’s house?”

“Right before I heard you were back in town.”

She’d been avoiding him. He’d suspected as much, but he still didn’t like hearing it.

“Have you seen upstairs lately?”

“I saw.”

“I can’t keep sleeping on the couch.”

“Why not? I thought that was your thing.”

“You thought what was my thing?”

She made a vague, looping gesture with one hand. “Carson Vance, world explorer. I thought you slept in the dirt most nights.”

“I’m thirty-six. I’m too old to sleep in the dirt. Ten days on the couch, and my back is killing me.”

She pursed her lips, then gave him an emotionless smile. “The Canal Inn over in Fenimore has Tempurpedic mattresses now. I can get you a discount.”

“It’s twenty miles to Fenimore, and it’s gonna snow tonight.”

“You’re an excellent snow driver.”

“Come on, Jules. I don’t even have a car here.” He reached out for her arm, but that was a mistake. She backed around to the other side of the counter, her smile turning wary.

“I’m too busy to have a guest,” she said.