Hearts Inn

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Short-term

Guest

Rosalie was

sound asleep when her phone rang. She answered, sleepy panic seizing her,

hoping something hadn’t happened to her parents.

“Morning,

sweetie!” Marisol chirped. Her tone indicated nothing was amiss.

Rosalie

squinted in the dim light of her room, eyes crusty with sleep and desert dust.

“Mom, it’s six thirty in the morning,” she grumbled.

“Oh, sorry,

I forgot the time difference.” Marisol giggled. “Well, I’ve woken you up

anyway. How is it there?”

Rosalie sat

up in bed, feeling her back seize and whine from the crappy old mattress she

had to sleep on. She felt where her sleep shirt was sticking to her body. “It’s

okay.”

“Tell me all

about it,” Marisol said. Rosalie could hear shuffling, as though Marisol were

out shopping or walking briskly down the street.

“It’s so

freaking hot here, Mom,” Rosalie said, letting her morning creakiness

seep into her voice. “I don’t remember it being this hot when I was younger.”

“Yeah, I

heard you’re having quite a heat wave. You’ve got the pool, though, right?”

Rosalie

pictured the crumbling pool outside without a drop of water in it. “It’s not

filled right now.”

“Are you

joking? Fill it up, silly! You’ve got to keep your guests happy.”

“They’re not

my guests,” Rosalie said, trying not to sound grumpy. “I’m just running

the place for now.”

“Well,

you’re doing great, sweetie.”

Rosalie had

the sneaking suspicion Marisol was already distracted. On the rare occasions

she had her mother’s attention, she was eager to hold on to it.

“How are

you? Is everything good with Dad? And Ahbie?”

Ahbie was Marisol’s mother, whom Rosalie had named Ahbie as a child in lieu of calling her Abuela. If Ahbie hadn’t been so enamored with her only grandchild, she

might have lectured Marisol about what a disgrace it was that Rosalie didn’t

speak a word of Spanish.

“Yeah, yeah,

they’re good,” Marisol said. “Dad’s got some new book he’s reading about owls.

He was going on and on about it the other night.”

It was quiet

as Rosalie pictured her father, Frank, cradling an open book in one large hand,

gesturing with it with as much enthusiasm as he ever had about anything, which

wasn’t much. He was gentle and warm like Gran, hardworking and soft spoken like

his father had been. As he spoke, Marisol would nod in circles and give him a

blank smile, all the while planning an outfit for some activity he wasn’t

involved in. Perhaps the most unfortunate thing about being in Ashhawk was leaving her father to grieve the sudden loss of

his mother alone. He’d seemed as steady as ever at the funeral, but he was

quick to leave town when it was over. He hadn’t even stayed the night in the

hotel. Like Rosalie, he kept his emotions carefully guarded.

Rosalie felt

sorry for her dad and made a note to call him and ask him which owls were

indigenous to New Mexico.

“Sorry,

sweetie, I’ve just run into Carla, and I have to ask her how the twins are

doing. Give my love to Gran!” Marisol chirped before making kissy noises and

hanging up.

Rosalie sat

there, not sure if she should be more stunned by her mother’s sudden hang-up or

the fact Marisol had forgotten her mother-in-law was dead. Gran being dead was

the entire reason Rosalie was there.

It was

possible Marisol had meant Rosalie was to metaphorically give Marisol’s

love to Gran as an underhanded way of encouraging Rosalie to be more assertive

with the way she managed the hotel, but Rosalie couldn’t be sure.

She put her

face in her hands, wishing she’d had a calmer start to her day.

Rosalie

didn’t begrudge her mother her zeal for life. If anything, she wished she had

it for herself. But when it did bother her, it had more to do with how little

space Rosalie felt she took up in her mother’s life. She sometimes felt no

different from Marisol’s bridge club or softball team or Thai cooking class or

whatever her latest hobby was. Perhaps motherhood had been another whim of

hers, one which she tired of and decided to move on from. Marisol was never

cold or deliberately neglectful of Rosalie. She simply had a great appetite for

life, and being a doting parent was too inconvenient for most of the adventures

Marisol craved.

Rosalie and

her father had often been left to their own devices for dinner and on weekends.

They got along well, with little need for superficial conversation. They

watched the news and talked about books and played chess. The household was

always calm until Marisol came crashing in late at night.

Sighing and

wishing again she was anywhere but Ashhawk, Rosalie

looked around the room. Gran’s suite was dingy and dated. The bed was not too

far from a counter, a small stove, mini-fridge, and microwave. On the other

side of the bed was a wall with a door leading to an adjoining room currently

set up for occupancy. In front of Rosalie was a card table with two folding

chairs and a TV hanging over it.

Gran’s ashes

sat in a wooden box on the table. At first, Rosalie had thought it was creepy

to have the remains of her Gran sitting there, but she’d grown accustomed to

them.

When she’d

first picked up the ashes from the cremation center, she’d set them on the

table without thinking; she’d noticed later that she’d set them next to the

framed photograph of herself Gran had kept by the door to show anyone who came

to visit.

Rosalie had

put the photo away, trying to tamp down the swell of guilt she felt for not

visiting in almost fifteen years.

The ashes

didn’t feel entirely dead yet, and Rosalie wasn’t sure what to do with them.

She knew it would sound ridiculous if she said it out loud, but sometimes, she

felt there was some spirit or energy around the ashes Rosalie couldn’t name.

She didn’t think she was alone when she had the box in her sight. Or at least

she wanted to believe she wasn’t. Gran’s presence had always been soothing.

Through a

small doorway to the left of the table was a closet and a large bathroom.

Drooping off all the walls were small framed pictures of cats or faded

still-life paintings that gave the room anything but life. Taking it all in,

Rosalie wished she could go back to sleep and pretend she wasn’t stuck in New

Mexico. But knowing things didn’t get done unless she did them, Rosalie took a

shower, made coffee, and went outside to survey the building. Perhaps if she

stared long enough, she’d figure out what to do with it.

Thinking of

her conversation with her mother, she walked over to examine the pool, long

since dried out, tiles crumbling and laying on the bottom of the basin with a

few empty beer cans in the faded blue basin some seven feet deep. It wasn’t a

large pool in diameter, but it was deep enough for a slide. A metal fence

enclosed the area, its gate locked in a halfhearted effort to prevent local

teens from daring each other to jump into it with their skateboards. The fence

was rusty and needed to be repainted.

Rosalie

decided she’d make a list of all the things needing repair to make the property

more attractive to buyers. She finished her coffee and found a yellow legal

pad, walking around as she surveyed the exterior. The list she made was long;

everything needed to be painted, reinforced, cleaned, or replaced. After

completing a preliminary list, she went back into the office, overwhelmed and

dreading another hot day.

After

examining Gran’s financial records from previous years for the fifth time to

calm herself and make sure she wasn’t missing anything, Rosalie began drafting

a new operating budget. With the current occupancy, there wasn’t much to work

with, but the situation wasn’t dire. She’d have to be strategic in what she

worked on. Thinking a functioning pool would be a singular perk to having to

live in Ashhawk, Rosalie decided to get a quote for

its repair first.

When the

Internet failed her again in finding someone who could help her, she called

Ralph. Ralph answered in his scruffy voice, sounding busy before she’d even

said a word. When she inquired if Ralph knew anyone who could come look at her

pool, he responded, “You call Alex? I bet she’d give you a good estimate.”

“Oh,

really?” Rosalie didn’t think air conditioner repair and pool repair were

related, but apparently, Alex Ecker was a woman of many talents. “Can I get her

number?”

Cheerful but

brief, Ralph gave Rosalie Alex’s number and hung up.

Rosalie

wrote the number in purple pen on a yellow Post-It. It wasn’t a pretty color

combination. She wished she’d used black or blue ink. But her numbers were neat

and looped, and there was something pleasing to the way the numbers were

centered in the square. She pressed the Post-It on the wall of the counter

beside her computer but didn’t pick up the phone. She wasn’t sure why. She only

knew Alex made her feel like a useless city girl.

Instead, she

went to the diner for lunch, figuring it would be a nice change from a

microwave meal. She brought her computer, intent on using the fast Wi-Fi to do

some more work on the website and booking engine. The waitress from the day

before was there, and Rosalie found herself watching her, admiring the

efficient movement of her hips as she navigated tables and worked behind the

counter. Her uniform was neat and pressed, the powder blue complementing her

pale skin and straw-blond hair. Her ponytail was smooth and shiny, her eyebrows

perfectly arched. Her skin had a few blemishes, which she’d covered with

industrial-strength concealer. She smiled halfheartedly at diners, wearily

revealing crooked teeth. She was pretty, and Rosalie hoped she wasn’t staring

at her too much.

Rosalie

liked the waitress’ posture. It was an odd thing to find attractive, she knew,

but Tara had told Rosalie a few months ago her posture was soothing. Rosalie

had found it an unlikely compliment but had accepted it as it was meant to be:

a gesture of grace and goodwill from someone she found attractive, as well.

Their whole relationship had been small gestures of goodwill and companionship,

but not once had

fireworks gone off. Rosalie supposed it was childish to want such

things; only teenage girls wanted the drama of grand gestures. She hadn’t

earned a grand gesture, either, with the uncertain way she kept Tara at arm’s

length.

Feeling

guilty, Rosalie pulled up Tara’s f*******: page. She was greeted by the same

profile picture Tara had had of herself at the Grand Canyon since Rosalie had

known her. Aside from a picture a friend had uploaded, there was nothing new on

Tara’s page. Since Rosalie and Tara had never put their relationship on

Facebook, there was no change in status to be concerned about.

Rosalie felt

the urge to text Tara. She needed Tara to be an option when she got home and

started putting her life back together. She pulled out her phone, wondering

what she might say to indicate she was thinking about her without seeming

desperate for reassurance. She settled for snapping a picture of her sandwich,

sending it to Tara with the caption, It’s nowhere

near as good as Zippy’s, with a sad face emoji.

She didn’t hear back, but Tara was probably busy at work.

When Rosalie

finished her sandwich, the waitress came over to give her the bill and clear

her place. She hovered by the table as Rosalie concentrated on the website.

“Hey, um,

you said you’re running the Hearth Inn now, right?”

Rosalie

looked up, surprised the waitress had initiated conversation with her. “Yeah.”

The waitress

shifted on her feet, looking uncomfortable. “Do you need any help? Like,

cleaning or working the desk or anything?”

Rosalie

thought of the dirty housekeeping closet Susan maintained and the sorry state

of the rooms. She thought of the endless hours she spent cooped up in the

too-big lobby with nothing but the drone of the air conditioner to listen to.

She would have loved some company—especially such attractive company as the

waitress—but knew she couldn’t afford a full-time salary on what Hearth was

bringing in.