3. Margot #2
“I told you, dear,” Frances says, lowering herself gently into her favorite seat by the corner lamp. “This inn’s ambiance promotes serotonin.”
“I did a whole paper on serotonin and setting in 1987,” Gerald replies, settling beside her.
I smile and pour their tea before they can start citing each other.
Next through the door is Delia Bunting, our town’s resident florist-slash-aesthetic enthusiast. She floats in wearing a pastel cardigan that matches the tulip pin in her hair and carries a woven basket that smells faintly of lavender and cut stems for Aunt Edie.
Then we have Imani and Philip Carter walk in, laughing and teasing each other as always. They’re child-free, by choice. They travel once a month and are always seen together since they jointly run an event planning business in town.
Imani and Clara are always at each other’s throats, probably because they are peers who live opposite lives. Clara always complains about being exhausted, and Imani never fails to remind her that it was her decision to have six children, all under the age of ten.
Soon, the parlor is completely full. Not a single seat left. Elbows brush, tea flows, and every conversation overlaps another like waves crashing into shore.
Aunt Edie is perched by the fireplace with her cup, listening to Gerald Honeysett explain something about ritualistic hospitality in Scandinavian communes. She nods along politely, but I catch the slight twitch of her eyebrow—her tell that she’s tuning out.
I’m enjoying the interesting conversation when Ana pokes her head into the parlor and motions for me to come close. Something is up. Of course. I can’t get a break for one second.
We step into the hallway just off the lobby. Ana glances back toward the parlor, then pulls up something on the reservation screen.
“We’ve got a guest who was supposed to check in today. For a three-week stay. Booked under the name Cal Reid. He’s not here, hasn’t called, and didn’t cancel.”
“Reid?” I frown, peering at the screen. “Three weeks?”
Ana nods. “Suite 7. Reserved. Paid in full.”
I scroll through the profile— just basic info, nothing else. No special requests, no flags. Just a standard booking with a local number that rings twice and dumps me straight to voicemail.
“I’ve been trying to reach the guest, too,” Ana says. “His number doesn’t connect.”
I try again.
Same thing.
“Well,” I mutter, “if he doesn’t show up by tomorrow, we cancel and open the room back up.”
Ana nods. “Got it. You want me to flag it?”
“Flag it, hold the suite, and we’ll check again in the morning.”
She taps a few keys and closes the screen. “Done.”
I step into the kitchen for a cup of water and a breather. I’m leaning against the counter, sipping slowly from my cup and staring out the window when someone appears.
“Should I be worried you’re here moping while everyone is out there having fun?”
I turn, instantly grinning. “Dad!”
Sam Hartwell stands in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag that looks suspiciously like one of my dish towels. He’s still wearing his work shirt—dusty, rolled sleeves, buttons mismatched. A screwdriver peeks out of his back pocket like it’s permanently installed.
Seeing him always settles something in my chest.
“I thought I heard you stomping around back here,” he says, coming over to peek into the cup. “This is what you do for fun now? Is the water infused with anything?” He peers suspiciously.
“It’s either this or cry into a bag of scone mix,” I answer. “And oh, I wish it were infused with something.”
He chuckles and reaches out to ruffle my hair—like I’m still twelve and not managing a whole inn.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask.
He jerks his chin toward the parlor. “She’s out front, trying to convince Edie that rosemary belongs in everything. Including, apparently, lemon bars.”
I snort. “Of course she is.”
He gives me a long look, softening. “You’ve got eye bags, kid.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“No, I mean it. Big ones. Like carry-on luggage. You sleeping at all?”
“Trying.”
He nods, not pushing. That’s his way. He’s quiet, but he sees everything.
“I’ll come fix this drawer tomorrow,” he says, nodding at the drawer I didn’t even know needed fixing. “It’s getting weak.”
I smile. “Thanks, Dad.”
He taps the countertop twice, then looks at me with that dry, amused expression I’ve known my whole life.
“Go to bed before midnight tonight, huh?”
“I’ll think about it.”
He raises a brow. “Thinking doesn’t count unless it leads to doing.”
Then he gives me a kiss on the cheek, waves a little salute, and heads out the side door again. I turn to look out the window again, mulling over his words.
Thinking doesn’t count unless it leads to doing.
As always, Sam Hartwell leaves me with words of wisdom. But then, they’re just words. There are so many things I have to do tonight to ensure smooth running tomorrow, and so for now, I can only catch these few moments of peace before going out there again to face the world.
Am I complaining? Maybe.
But this is what I signed up for when I left Bardstown.