17. Chapter 17
Rosie
The princess had a birthday. She forgot it twice.
“Hello, Mayor Monroe?” I say, standing at my check-in desk, holding my phone to my ear.
I’ve been putting off this call for almost a month. But I guess there’s no time like the present.
“Yes?” he asks.
“This is Rosie Harper,” I tell him. “I just wanted to confirm that you’ll be at the community breakfast to kick off the festival on the fifth.”
I bite my lip to stop the rambling apology building in my throat—about how long it took me to call, how I know he sent Juliet to help because I was dropping the ball, and how guilty I still feel even though I’m ridiculously grateful and she is a total lifesaver.
Case in point, she’s picking up pumpkins from Bugelbach’s Pumpkin Farm today because I have no time to do it.
Oh, the guilt.
He chuckles. “I’ve already confirmed that with Juliet, but yes, I’ll be there.”
“Excellent,” I say, smiling at the phone, even though he can’t see me.
“I’m looking forward to the festival,” he says.
“So am I,” I lie. If I could, I’d skip the festival entirely. Which is not how I usually feel about it. I normally love this time of year.
One positive thing about doing a less-than-stellar job is that no one will ask me to do it again. Hopefully.
We hang up just as a text comes through from Emma.
Emma: Happy birthday to Dom and Rosie! See you all tonight!
Right. The birthday celebration that feels like news every time I remember it since my dad reminded me. And also right now when I got this text, because I’d forgotten yet again.
Which also means Dominic, the person I share this day with, forgot as well. He was here earlier this morning, and neither of us mentioned a thing.
I text back a quick can’t wait! and then feel bad for the exaggeration. I can wait. In fact, like the festival, I could also skip this. No, that’s mean. Emma works hard to make sure we know we’re loved, and I need to be grateful.
It’s only because I’ve got way too much to do today that I’m being an ungrateful younger sister.
At least I can now cross Call Mayor Monroe!!!! off my to-do list.
Now I just need to find more people to make pies, design a load-in schedule for all the vendors, and make sure booth spaces are properly assigned. I managed to find a spot on Main Street for Carver Maple Farms, so what I told Sadie the other day actually worked out.
I’m calling it a birthday miracle. Because that’s exactly what it is.
This afternoon, a teen from the high school named Willa Pickle—the best last name I’ve ever heard—is stopping by for some training. I hired her to help at the inn during the week of the festival since I still haven’t figured out how to clone myself.
When Dean found out about my little trainee this morning, he seemed surprised.
I’m guessing he thought I was planning on leaving my number on the desk and telling everyone to text me if there’s an issue while I run around making sure we have enough people signed up for the dunk tank. Something I still need to do.
Honestly, his surprise was valid.
“Rosie?” Dean calls from the stairs. “Come see this.”
“Coming,” I tell him, leaving my list and phone on the check-in desk before hurrying upstairs.
“In here,” he calls, and I head toward the Beauty and the Beast room.
The Snow White room still needs to be painted, but we spent the last two days moving all the furniture out of this room and starting the reclaimed wood wall.
The wood from Dean’s grandparents’ farm turned out even better than I expected, and I’ve been dying to see it finished.
“What do you think?” Dean asks when I walk in.
He’s standing beside the wall as if he’s presenting it to me. Dominic left him to finish the last section, and he’s been working on it all morning.
The boards run the full width of the wall, from floor to ceiling. In the barn, under all that dust, they looked gray. But with the light coming through the large bay window, I can see all the different colors. Silver in some places, warm brown in others. One board near the top is almost white.
Some of the gaps are uneven, and I think that’s what I love most. You can’t buy something that looks like this. It’s so much better than boring drywall.
I smile. “It’s perfect.”
My original plan was to whitewash the whole thing, but now I think I’ll leave it exactly as it is.
Dean’s smiling. It’s his full one, the one I originally didn’t think counted as a smile. The more I see it directed at me, the more I recognize how much I love that smile of his.
Maybe I’m caught up in the euphoria I’m feeling from this gorgeous wood wall, but none of this would have happened without the man standing by it.
I have too many feelings fighting for space right now. Stress about the inn, guilt over the festival, panic about the balloon payment.
But somehow, the biggest one is still Dean.
And I can’t do anything about it. He’s leaving.
Well, not until the thirteenth. He extended his stay to keep working on selling the farm. But every room at the inn is booked from the fourth, so he’ll be up in Burlington.
Still around. Just not here.
Which is almost worse. I’ll be running a festival, he’ll be out past the bridge, and we’ll never once be in the same room. So close. And yet not.
I walk over to him and wrap my arms around him, my cheek going to his warm chest. I’d much rather kiss his handsome face off, but that will just make things worse, so a hug it is.
He pulls me in, his arms going around me, his chin resting on my head.
“What am I supposed to do about dinner when you’re gone?” I ask his shirt.
“You have a microwave.”
“Definitely not the same.”
He huffs a laugh, and I feel it more than hear it.
It isn’t entirely a joke, but I’d rather he take it as one.
I pull out of the hug and give him my best thank-you-for-coming-into-my-life smile. It’s toothy, and Dean gives me an odd look, like he’s wondering if I’m okay.
I’m not. For many reasons.
“I’m knocking festival tasks off my list, and then I have my birthday dinner at my dad’s house tonight, so I won’t be able to paint the Snow White room until I get back, but it won’t go too late,” I tell him.
He scrunches his brow. “Your birthday dinner?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s my twenty-ninth birthday today. Well, mine and Dominic’s. I hated sharing a birthday with him growing up, but now I don’t mind.”
“Your birthday is today?”
“Yes,” I say, squinting my eyes at him, not understanding his confusion.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug. “I keep forgetting myself.”
“You don’t seem like someone who would forget birthdays.”
“Right? I’m very good at remembering everyone else’s.”
“Of course,” he says.
We stare for a second.
“I think it’s been hard since my mom died,” I say. “She used to make the day all about us. We’d get to pick the meals and our own birthday cakes. She’d decorate the house. It just never felt the same after that.”
Dean’s expression softens. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I give him a smile because suddenly this conversation has gotten heavier than I meant it to. “When is yours?”
“June second.”
“Sounds like a good day for a birthday.”
“How so?”
“It’s the start of summer.”
He nods.
“Well, I better get back to my festival duties.” I turn toward the door.
“Happy birthday, Rosie,” he says.
“Thanks.” For a second, I almost tell him he should come tonight. But inviting Dean to a family birthday dinner feels like something you do with someone you’re dating, and we’ve already established that we’re not doing that. Also, Emma would have approximately six thousand questions.
So I keep the invitation to myself and head downstairs.
“This cake is so good,” I say to Emma, after we’ve eaten tacos and sung happy birthday and Dominic and I have blown out our candles on our cakes.
Emma made us separate cakes—plain chocolate for me and German chocolate for Dominic—decorated our family home with balloons and streamers, and made us dinner, just like our mom used to.
I’d love to say the night has been relaxing, but I keep thinking about all the things that still need to be done.
Even though I did knock some things off my task list for the festival and trained Willa on a few things.
Still, I neglected the inn, which means I’ll probably be up all night painting the Snow White room.
“Amazing, Em,” our dad says, a slice of each cake on his plate, both half-gone.
His phone beeps, and he picks it up to look at it.
That’s another reason this night hasn’t been relaxing. My dad’s been doing this for most of dinner. He’s easily distracted, especially after our mom died, but I’ve never seen him this preoccupied.
Dominic and Emma give each other a look, something that’s also been happening a lot tonight.
“I need to make a quick call,” my dad says, pushing his chair back and walking toward his office.
We sit in silence until the door clicks shut.
“What’s going on?” I ask Emma and Dominic.
They look at each other. That same look.
Then Emma turns to me. “Dad’s been dating Alvina Berkeley for the past two weeks.”
“What?” I look to Dominic for confirmation.
He just gives me one nod.
“Dad’s dating? And Alvina?”
I don’t know much about Reese’s mom except that she’s been married a bunch of times and seems like a hot mess.
“I’m guessing that’s who he’s talking to right now,” says Emma.
My dad is dating Alvina. He’s been a widower for ten years. I just assumed he’d stay that way. I never imagined him wanting to date anyone.
“Wait,” I say, pointing from Dominic to Emma. “You two knew and didn’t tell me?”
I don’t even know which part I’m more upset about.
No, that’s not true. My dad dating someone is definitely worse.
Then there’s the fact that he stood in my kitchen three days ago, wanting to know what a man was doing at my inn.
He’d been seeing someone for eleven days at that point and didn’t bother to tell me.
And yes, I know he only found out about Dean because the Ednas told him.
I didn’t exactly volunteer that information either.
But this is different. I’m not dating Dean.
I kissed him a bunch of times, sure, but .
. . you know what? I’m going to let myself be mad for another minute before acknowledging the very obvious double standard here.
“We haven’t known long,” Emma says.
“But you were at the inn this morning, Dom. You knew the whole time,” I say.
“This is the part you’re mad about?” he asks, brow pinched.
“Did you know Reese is back in town?” I ask Dominic.
Dom and Reese have a bit of a tumultuous history, and I assumed he’d want to talk to me about it when he found out she was back.
He nods. “Yeah, I know.”
“Is nobody telling me anything anymore?” I ask, looking from one sibling to the other.
“You have a lot going on right now with the inn and the festival,” Emma says.
“You don’t need to protect me,” I say, feeling defensive.
The annoying part is, they’re not entirely wrong. Another week of not knowing any of this probably would have been easier. But I still don’t like the idea of everyone around me deciding what I can and can’t handle.
I don’t like any of it.
I walk into the inn feeling drained, but also very full of cake.
Emma made us swear we wouldn’t bring it up at dinner and ruin our birthdays, and said that there would be a time and place for all of us to sit down and discuss it with him.
I thought a group text would be sufficient, since that way I could say my piece without seeing his face, but Emma just shook her head.
So I kept myself from talking about it by shoveling cake into my mouth.
Or maybe I was eating my feelings.
I want to talk to Dean about my dad. Not because he needs to know, but because I suddenly really want to tell someone who isn’t Emma or Dominic and won’t give me a speech about being reasonable.
“Dean?” I say, setting my purse down on the check-in desk.
“Up here,” he says from upstairs.
I need to change my clothes from jeans and a T-shirt back into my overalls so I can spend the night painting a Snow White–themed room.
We have a lot in common, Snow and I. She had an evil stepmother, and my dad is dating a woman who’s been divorced four times.
Okay, so that comparison is lacking. But still, there’s a woman threatening the status quo, and I’m not thrilled about it.
One thing is for sure—if Alvina offers me an apple, I will not be taking it.
When I get upstairs, I find Dean in the room, pulling blue tape off the window frame.
Why would he remove all the painter’s tape we put up the other night?
But then I notice that the drop cloths are off the floor, and the walls are painted. Every single corner is covered in fresh white paint.
“Dean?” I ask him, walking fully into the room.
“I figured you probably didn’t want to be painting all night on your birthday.”
“What?” I ask, my brain not fully grasping what he’s saying.
He painted the entire room?
“You painted? How did you get it done so fast, though? I’ve only been gone for a couple of hours.”
“I enlisted some help,” he says.
“Who?” I ask, turning around in my spot, taking in the immaculate painting job.
“Wendell,” he says. “He lives next door to my grandparents’ place and came over to give me a hand.”
I stop looking around and turn to Dean. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, smudges of white paint on both as proof of his antics this evening.
“I can’t believe you did this,” I say, tears stinging at the backs of my eyes. I blink quickly, trying to keep them there.
He gives me a soft smile. “It’s your birthday. You shouldn’t have to spend it painting.”
I go to him then, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face in his chest like I did earlier today. His arms come around me immediately, pulling me close, his short beard brushing the top of my head when he rests his cheek against my hair.
How do I thank this man properly for everything he’s done for me? I’ve probably used up my lifetime supply of thank-yous, and pastries feel wildly insufficient at this point.
He’s given me hours of his time. Fixed things he didn’t break. Cooked for me, worked beside me, and somehow keeps showing up every time I need him.
There’s nothing I can say that feels big enough.
There’s one thing I could do. But that’s off the table, and it’s my own fault that it is.
So, I just hold on to him a little tighter, wishing I could keep him and knowing I can’t.