Page 16 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

Robin

It took pretty much all day yesterday for my blood pressure to recover from the doll incident.

Between that and filming some video promoting a food delivery app that I’ve never used but was contractually obligated to say was the best in the game, I didn’t get a chance to test out Molly’s idea of using the penthouse kitchen.

So this morning, I hop in the (doll-free) shower, get dressed, duck under the plastic sheets in the kitchen to gather supplies, and head up to the fourth floor to get the lay of the land.

As much as I hate to admit it, Molly could be right about the penthouse apartment. I really could use a sink. And an oven, even a tiny one. It would mean dragging all my kitchen tools up three flights of stairs from my current setup, but it’s worth considering.

I climb to the attic and open the door with a shove. It always sticks in the summer humidity. When it swings open, I gasp.

While every other room in the inn has been touched by the management company’s IKEAfication, the penthouse looks exactly how I remember it.

The same morning light shining on the vintage floral wallpaper.

Same scuffed wooden floors and faded blue-green rug.

Even the same furniture Molly and I moved from Little Rock back in 2012.

It’s like a time capsule, perfectly preserved.

Well, not perfectly. It’s dusty as hell.

Memories come rushing back. Molly and me collapsed on the floor, sweaty and exhausted after dragging all our stuff upstairs.

Molly and me playing gin rummy in the armchairs by the window.

Molly and me getting dressed for our wedding, anxious and excited and a little overwhelmed by my family members filling the inn’s guest rooms.

I try to push away the pictures from my past, refocus on what I came here to do. The kitchenette is small but functional. I turn on the faucet and the water runs clear. The fridge and stove are unplugged, but when I reattach their cords, the lights blink on. All seems to be in working order.

But I can’t spend hours up here cooking.

All the history is too distracting to ignore.

Our literal wedding outfits are hanging in garment bags in the closet.

With my brain still stuck on Molly in that untied robe, battling the urge to take a closer look at all those tattoos, there’s no way I can get any actual work done here. I need a fresh slate.

The trouble is, fresh slates cost money.

Luckily, Edgar’s got a few more social media gigs up his sleeve.

Posting sponsored content feels so fake right now, but I need those checks, even if they’re small.

I need to take pictures in some bulky pocket-covered aprons I’m supposed to model, and then I need to showcase my food on dishes from some trendy serving-ware company.

I hoped to use the crêpes I tested a couple nights ago after getting inspired by Jesse.

They were delicious, but not photogenic enough.

So it’s back to the drawing board, and my creative well is running dry.

Particularly since three-quarters of my brain is currently focused on being frustrated with Molly for refusing to even discuss fixing up the inn to sell, and that last quarter is traitorously thinking about all the times we had sex in that bed, right there.

I suffer through it anyway, taking some photos with the apron where I’m not visibly grimacing and whipping up a boring eggs Benedict to show off the plates.

After the first shot of the dish, I realize it would look better with some fresh greens, so I run down to the back-porch planters to grab some chives, sage, and thyme.

On my way, I hear Molly doing something in the kitchen.

She calls my name, and I’m fully prepared to ignore her after Dollgate, but I decide to be the bigger person.

I step into the doorway, giving my best “what the fuck could you possibly want from me” face, and am surprised to find Molly has pulled down some of the tarps I saw earlier this morning and is on a step stool, holding up a giant cabinet.

“Can you help me with this?” she asks.

I jog over to help balance the cabinet against the wall. It’s kind of heavy and definitely awkward. I’m surprised she got it this far on her own. “What do you need me to do?” I ask.

“Just hold it there while I drive the mounting screws in,” Molly says. “And keep the doors all the way open so I can get to the back. Please.”

This is the chance I’ve been waiting for to prove I can be more than moral support during a DIY project. I hold the cabinet as carefully as a soufflé fresh out of the oven, when any bumps or shakes could make the whole thing collapse.

Once Molly puts in the first two screws, she clears her throat and says, “So I’ve been thinking.”

I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “About life on other planets, or…”

Molly takes a breath, then says in a rush, “About renovating and selling the inn.” She pauses to drill in another screw.

I nearly jump in excitement, then remember I have a job, so I keep the cabinet steady. “It could be good, right?” I say carefully. “I mean, we’re both already here, and with a few months of work, we’d never have to talk to each other about it again.”

Molly powers up the drill. “You can let go now, I think it’s secure enough,” she says.

I pull away slowly and the cabinet stays in place. “So in all that thinking, you’ve decided…” I prompt her.

Molly pulls more screws from her pocket, then looks down at me, blinks, and says, “I’ll do it.”

“Yes!” I spin in a circle, then punch the air above me.

I almost grab Molly in a hug but think twice for several reasons, including the fact that she’s holding a power tool I don’t want stabbed in my eye.

I have a feeling this decision is partially an apology for the doll thing, but no need to push it.

“This is great. Oh, Molly. Thank you. You won’t regret it,” I say, already calculating how long it’ll be until I see more digits in my savings account.

“But I’m not doing it alone,” she says quickly. “And I also don’t think we should work too closely together. So we don’t, you know—”

“Kill each other,” I finish for her. “Agreed.”

“We’ll have to figure out how to divide and conquer,” Molly says. “I can start by finishing up the kitchen. Repainting. A deep clean of the floors and appliances. Maybe putting in a new backsplash. And you can start with the grounds, since you already know how to handle them.”

I nod immediately. I may not know my way around a drill bit, but gardening I can do.

When Molly first suggested I take responsibility for the yard back in 2012, I thought it was a terrible idea.

My parents hired landscapers when I was a kid, so I’d never even powered up a lawnmower.

But as soon as I gave it a shot, started weeding the flower beds closest to the inn and putting in fresh mulch and seedlings, I was hooked.

Being out in the sun and helping a patch of dirt grow into something cultivated and beautiful was even more therapeutic than scrubbing the kitchen.

Better yet, I could grow my own ingredients.

Big, juicy Arkansas tomatoes next to leafy clusters of basil, tart blackberries and raspberries on sprawling bushes, hardy root vegetables like shallots and leeks.

Fresh produce and herbs became a huge inspiration for me as a chef.

I kept some aspect of the interactive nature of gardening alive in all my restaurants, like customers picking their own parsley and rosemary and thyme garnishes from planters in the dining rooms. Maybe a figurative and literal return to my roots is just what I need.

And it’s a way to show Molly I’m not afraid of a little dirty work.

“On it, Coach,” I say to Molly. “I can start tomorrow.”

“Once we’re done with those, we can make a list of everything else we need to do and split it up,” Molly suggests. “But you’ll probably need to learn some new skills, because it has to be a fair division of labor. And of cost. We’ll need to buy all the supplies. Paint. Spackle. Varnishes. Tools.”

I wince. There goes all the money I’ll make from my social media ads before it even hits my wallet. But I’ll do anything to keep Molly aboard the Sell the Inn Express, even if it means finding a part-time gig somewhere in town. “Of course,” I say. “We’ll split it.”

“And I can’t dedicate a hundred percent of my time to this,” she continues. “I’ve still got to finish the windows I promised to Key and her friends.”

“Sure. I’ll have stuff to do too,” I say vaguely. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Molly’s lips tighten, and she looks away from me back to the cabinet. “Right. I’m going to finish this and get a coat of paint on the walls. Can you call Clint to let him know we’re interested in selling?”

“Absolutely. I’ll do it right now. And hey—” I put a hand on Molly’s shoulder, preparing to thank her.

She doesn’t see me coming and, surprised by my touch, jolts so hard she loses her balance, nearly falling off the step stool.

I catch her by the waist just in time, lowering her to the ground next to me.

It takes a minute for me to realize I’m still holding her, staring into her big green eyes, both of our hearts racing, cheeks pink from the scare, or maybe from something else.

Holding Molly close, it’s like entering the twilight zone of what could have been if she’d fallen, or if we’d worked things out back in the day, or if we forgot about all the fighting and time apart and kissed right now, all these crisscrossing possibilities.

And then I let go. We both straighten our clothes, mumble apologies, and practically run in opposite directions to try to forget what just happened.

—

Clint enthusiastically gave us the go-ahead, promising to meet up to work out the details soon.

So the next morning, I put on ripped denim overalls over a sports bra, slather on some sunscreen, and head out to the yard.

It’s a sizable property, a little under an acre in total, with lots of green space to wrangle.

The inn has a full wraparound porch with flower beds stretched across every side.

The back left section by the kitchen is filled with herbs for cooking.

Most of the flowers we used to grow in the rest of the beds—the same pollinator-friendly blooms we chose for room themes—have been choked out by weeds.

There’s overgrown grass I’ll need to trim between the front porch and the sidewalk, stretching around both sides of the building.

The backyard is bigger, with a round wooden gazebo in the center and stone walking paths leading to the raised vegetable and fruit beds lining the edge of the property.

Behind that is a row of towering cedars and junipers separating us from a steep fall into limestone bluffs.

Having already raided my herb garden, I know it’s survived the years of neglect pretty well.

Not everything made it, but the chives, sage, thyme, rosemary, lavender, and mint are going strong.

I start my weeding and pruning there before moving on to the rest of the flower beds, and then on to the fruits and veggies.

The produce has gone wild. Some plants, like the now enormous berry bushes, have overgrown their intended areas.

My prized tomatoes have disappeared completely, but the asparagus and rhubarb have happily expanded into their space.

Once I start digging around, I find garlic and shallots and leeks galore.

This garden hasn’t had a lick of attention in years, yet the fertile Arkansas soil has given these plants everything they need to thrive.

I pull up weeds, trim back overgrown bits, and collect ripe fruits and veggies, talking softly to the flora as I go.

Marmalade escapes through the cat door on the back porch to laze in shady patches of grass by my side.

It hardly feels like a whole day has passed by the time the sun ducks behind the mountaintops.

The last thing I do before calling it quits is hose off the dusty hummingbird feeders dotted around the yard and refill them with sugar water.

Guests used to spend hours in the gazebo watching the tiny birds they drew to the inn.

I figure it will take a while for them to reappear after the feeders have sat empty for so long, but the moment I finish rehanging one, a hummingbird proves me wrong by flitting over and dipping in its long, thin beak.

“Clever bird, huh?” I say melodically. “Have you been watching me all day, waiting for me to remember to feed you?”

I hear a shifting in the tall grass behind me that I first assume is Marmee, but when I turn, I see Molly trekking from the shed back to the house.

It hadn’t even occurred to me that Molly was across the lawn all day working in her shed.

She looks in my direction with an expression that I almost confuse for tenderness.

But as soon as we make eye contact, her face shifts into a scowl.

There’s something that feels intentional about it, and I wonder if it might be for show.

Maybe she, like me, can’t remember if we’re supposed to be mad at each other these days.

Before I can say a word, she disappears through the back door.

Dammit. I’d finally sweat my way through enough manual labor to forget about that weird moment in the kitchen yesterday, and here I am again thinking about how it felt to have my arms around her.

I turn to the pile of fresh produce I collected, organized into a few wooden crates I grabbed from the basement.

What am I going to do with this bounty? Even if I had a fully functioning kitchen, it’s way more than two people can eat.

But it’s so fresh and colorful and delicious—I know, having snacked on some of it for lunch.

It deserves to be handled by a talented chef and served up to people who will appreciate it.

I know just the place.