As I protectively stood over my mother and yelled at my father that one time, I’d lost my faith in love, marriage, and trust.
Why would you do that? I’d been pointing at my mother, who was holding the side of her face, cowering on the floor against a kitchen cabinet. Tears we’d never seen before streamed down my father’s face as he professed his love for her, all while blaming her for pushing him to the brink.
He didn’t mean to hurt her.
He loved her.
He’d never do it again.
He loved her.
We’d never know if he was sincere in his apology and his promise because he was gone months later.
+ +
When I see Tessa the next day crossing the large backyard of the inn, I follow her. A small pond with a fountain centers the space. To the right is a set of two-story townhouses. To the left is a small cottage that I wasn’t able to see inside due to the dirt on the windows and a lock on the door.
After Tessa disappears this cottage, I step through the entrance, needing to dip my head as the door frame is low.
She doesn’t hear me at first, and I watch as she waves her hand through the dust dancing before the dirty window. When I kick something by accident, she spins to face me. “What are you doing in here?”
I’d like to ask her the same question. “What is this place?” The ceiling is low, and the rectangular space dimly lit. The only light is currently filtering through two dirty windowpanes. One window sits above a worktable of sorts with jars of paintbrushes and tubes of paint underneath. Other art utensils rest in a bin on the worktop. A folded easel and stacks of covered canvases line the opposite wall beneath the second window. In the center of the room is a narrow table covered with twigs and rocks and a sprinkling of sand.
“This is the artist’s cottage.” Tessa’s voice is quiet as if her thoughts are far away. She stares at the dirt-covered glass pane.
I can’t take my eyes off the table and the strange arrangement of pieces from nature. Reaching out for it, I ask, “What is this?”
Tessa spins and grips my hands. “Don’t touch it.”
My head snaps up as her fingers squeeze mine, pulling them away from the table.
“Do you rent this space?” The website for Bluebird Hollow Inn boasts about the hotel but doesn’t mention some of the additional features for the property. It took me days to realize the rowhouse building wasn’t part of the inn’s estate.
“Not anymore,” Tessa replies.
I step closer to her, and she turns to face the window again.
“At one time, we allowed resident artists here. This was their studio.” Tessa pauses, and a faint smile curls her lips. Her fingers run along the dusty edge of the workstation. “My mother was such an artist. She loved nature. Painting was her medium.”
“What happened to her?” I already know her father passed away.
“She decided she couldn’t be kept in one place. Like the seasons, she needed change.” Tessa holds a hand in the air and ripples it through the dust dancing in the sunrays that float through the window. “My father always feared I’d feel pressured to stay here and resent Bluebird Hollow Inn, like her. He wanted me to see the world. He forced me to leave and attend college.”
Her hand lowers and lands on the worktop as if it’s holding her upright. Her gaze drops to her fingers.
“How old were you when your mother left?”
“I was ten. Young enough to still need my mommy. Close enough to being a teenager to need a mother,” she reflects. “But my dad was amazing. And Uncle Joe was great back then as well.”
Tessa cranes her neck, glancing at me over her shoulder and searching my face with those piercing blue eyes. Her voice is so sad.
I slip my hands into my pockets, forcing myself not to reach for her. “And when did your dad pass?”
“When I was thirty-two.”
“Is that when you got pregnant with your son?” The question feels intrusive, but I’m so curious about her.
She looks up at the sun-filtering window. “Everything happened after his death. I was young and foolish and believed in a man who didn’t want the same things as me.”
“What happened to him?”
“Noah.” My name is a warning, and Tessa closes her eyes.
Subject closed.
I inhale, getting a whiff of oil paint, must, and earth. The scent overshadows her meadow-flower fragrance. Based on the dust, this place should be condemned. The inn no longer offers resident artist options, so why keep this structure?
Tessa’s silence unnerves me, zoning out like she does, and I’m compelled to draw her out of her thoughts.
“My father left when I was eighteen.” My nostrils flare at the half-truth. “Although leaving isn’t exactly the correct term. Leaving suggests a decision, a choice to walk away, but my father had been arrested.” I take a deep breath, allowing another second to pass as memories fill my head. I don’t know why I’m telling her this tale. I never discuss my father with anyone but my brother. “Then again, that was a choice as well. He chose to embezzle money from the company he worked for to cover his gambling debts.”
Tessa’s startled gaze focuses on me, and the reaction is what I expected, but she keeps quiet, allowing me to continue.
“He’d gone to prison for nearly twenty years. Now he’s out.” I bitterly chuckle, lowering my gaze and staring at her delicate hands pressed to the top of the workstation. What would it feel like to have her fingers rub against my skin? Would it be electric like it was that first time? Would she cling to me like the night when I kissed her in room twenty-seven? Could she be a comfort I’ve never had?
“Do you see him?”
“I have.” I shift to face the dirty window, placing my hand near hers. My pinky reaches out for hers. “Ironically, he lives near here.”
“Is he the reason you returned to the area?”
“I needed a job.” Twisting my entire body, I face her again, standing closer than when I first entered this space.
“Come here,” I whisper, gently but commanding all the same. When I reach for the side of her throat, the pulse point hammers against my fingers. Her heartbeat flutters faster, and her gaze drops to the graphic tee I wear.
We should make T-shirts for the inn.
“Why do you do that?” Her smoky voice drops.
“Your pulse flutters faster when you want me to kiss you.”
Her head snaps upward, and her eyes lock on mine. “And who says I want you to kiss me?”
“Your heart.”
Her mouth falls open, ready to refute me, but I’m already leaning forward. Her hand lands on my chest.
“Why did you kiss me the other night?”
With the momentum of leaning in, I lower toward her cheek, rubbing mine against hers. “You know that was more than a mere kiss. But to answer your questions, I wanted to take away your worries.” My voice dips as I speak to her ear. With my jaw, I continue my path along the side of her face, then run my nose along her jaw, forcing her head to tip upward. She smells intoxicating up close, fresh and sweet, and I press a kiss under her chin.