When in Rome(17)

“Oh.” She blinks several times and then stands. Her movements are too gentle to ever make chair legs screech. “Of course. Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest I’d stay here. That was never my plan.” She picks up her plate and scurries with it to the sink, two pink splotches now sitting on her cheeks. “I’ll just put this in the dishwasher and then grab my stuff.”

She hikes up her sleeves and frantically scrubs at the syrup on her plate, making me feel like the asshole James said I was. Great. Please explain to me why in the hell I feel guilty right now when she’s the one who interrupted my life?

I watch her hips shimmy back and forth from the force she’s using to remove that caked-on syrup with her hand and a drop of soap. Her shoulders are bunched up to her ears and I’m pretty sure if I looked at her eyes, they’d be clouded with tears. Did I mention I have three sisters? Yeah, I’m well acquainted with this frantic cleaning coping mechanism.

Except, clearly, Rae is a little out of touch with the world of cleaning.

I refrain from growling as I take two steps over to her, remove the plate from her hands, and use the green bristle pad I keep under the sink to easily wipe the plate clean. I can feel her watching me, but I refuse to return her gaze. It’s not because I don’t trust myself to look in her eyes this closely again (I learned my lesson with the telephone this morning), but because I don’t want her to get comfy around here and think we’re actually friends. This is what I call drawing a clear line.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “And…by the way…my name is…” A soft pause. “Amelia. Amelia Rose.” She starts backing away. “Rae is just a stage name.”

After she leaves the kitchen, I stand stock-still as her name rolls itself around my head. Amelia. Dammit, that’s something I wish I didn’t know.

The sooner I can get Amelia Rose out of my house, the better.





Chapter 7


    Amelia


“We’re full up.”

I watch in dismay as Noah’s jaw clenches. He leans his wide shoulders slightly over the inn’s reception desk toward the sweet little old lady who dashed his dreams to the ground. I immediately feel sympathy for Mabel having to stare Noah down. Or up, since that’s the direction she has to tilt her chin to see him. She is a Black woman who looks to be in her seventies, has silver, extracurly hair, cropped short, is wearing deep mauve lipstick, and has just the sort of soft grandmotherly form you’d love to get a big hug from. Watching these two in a stare-off feels like a live action scene between the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood’s grandma.

“That can’t be, Mabel. Hardly anyone ever visits this town.”

Her wise eyes flick briefly to me and then back to Noah. The sudden glint of mischief I see tells me I have this story all wrong. She’s the one in charge here—not Noah. “Well, that just plumb ain’t true, now is it? Besides, if it were true, I’d be bankrupt. And I’ve got piles of money.”

Noah’s nostrils flare as he takes in a deep breath. That man wants to get rid of me more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. I can feel his irritation leaking from his bones like fumes. “Can I see the scheduling book?”

Mabel abruptly shuts the book that was open in front of her and levels a frightening scowl at Noah. “No, you may not. And don’t you try to manhandle me like that again. I changed your diapers and don’t you forget it.” She wags her finger in his face. He doesn’t look chastised in the least. Weary is the word I’d assign to him.

“Mrs. Mabel,” says Noah, slowly and gently this time. He has dipped his voice in thick, decadent honey. “She has nowhere to stay. Surely you can find a room for her in your wonderful bed-and-breakfast.”

Mabel squints. “Sounds like you’re trying to plagiarize a bible story.” And then she grins. “Besides, Noah, it seems to me she does have somewhere to stay. Your guest room is still wide open and free as a bird if I’m remembering correctly.”

The look Noah gives Mabel has me wanting to shrivel up and sink into a hole in the ground. What is this woman thinking? Clearly, she’s lying and doing some sort of meddling to have me stay at Noah’s house. And clearly, Noah doesn’t want me anywhere near his house. I just can’t decide if it’s that he likes his space, or just doesn’t like me. A thick combination of both, I assume.

I could solve all this easily by calling Susan and having her send a car. Two and a half hours and I’d be buckled up in the back of a blacked-out, armored SUV and this town would be nothing but a dot in the rearview mirror. But I don’t want that. The longer I’m here, the more I feel my limbs tingling back to life. It seems important to stay, no matter how awkward it feels.

I step up to the counter, thinking that maybe if I finally do the talking, it will help. “Hi, Mrs. Mabel, I’m—”

“Rae Rose, yes, baby, I know. I have a TV and radio. Loved your performance on Good Morning America last month.”

“Oh.” I laugh lightly, not quite expecting that answer because she had scarcely looked at me before now. “Well, thank you.” Polite, polite, polite. “I would be immensely grateful if you could possibly squeeze me into a room here. I’d be happy to pay triple whatever the usual rate is.”