Page 29 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

Molly

Do I want to sell the inn? Honestly? No.

As Robin and I sit around a table at Clint’s realtor’s office working through details of our plan, I have to admit that I’ve grown attached to the place.

I’ve got a soft spot for things with lots of history and character, especially those in need of a little love.

It’s why I enjoy combing antique shops for old colored glass to reclaim into my artwork, why I first bought this inn, why I felt so immediately at home in Eureka Springs.

And now the Hummingbird’s history includes me.

As we flip through pictures of the bed-and-breakfast after my first time renovating it, I realize I grew up here, in a way.

I learned what I can do when I put my mind to it.

I fell in love and got married here. I helped the Hummingbird grow into a new identity in the modern era.

When everything fell apart, I never really got a chance to say goodbye.

I handed off the keys and ran. Nowhere has really felt like home since, and I’m not sure anywhere else ever will.

But the lesson I’ve been learning since childhood, reinforced by my marriage and my time in Eureka Springs, is that everything in this life is temporary.

I can repair and restore and reminisce about better days all I want, but that won’t protect me from losing the things and people and places I love.

That’s why I embrace life on the road, hopping from project to project.

I can give my all to one stained-glass design at a time, one city at a time, then move along before I get attached enough to have my heart broken.

It sounds grim, but it’s better this way.

So my time here at the Hummingbird with Robin?

I’m going to give it my all, right the wrongs I left behind, get the closure I didn’t get seven years ago, and then move on.

I haven’t gotten a lot of meaningful, intentional goodbyes in my life.

They’ve mostly happened before I had time to realize what I was going to miss.

My dad. My mom. Gram. This once, I get to end things on my own terms.

“Keyana’s murals are a must,” Clint says as we flip through digital photos of the guest rooms circa 2018. “Didn’t you use her designs for merch in the gift shop?”

“Yes, on shirts and tea towels and mugs,” Robin says, adjusting the collar of her blazer. “Guests loved bringing home stuff with the same floral design as the room they stayed in.”

I’ve been fairly quiet at this meeting, letting the realtor take the lead, but here I lean forward. “We had a deal with Keyana. She got five percent of merch sales, paid out quarterly. Would you still be willing to honor that?” I ask.

The realtor, a friendly but somewhat intense fortysomething gay man, looks like he’s about to object, but Clint speaks first. “Of course,” he says with an unconcerned wave of his hand. “Remember when I went through my pottery phase? Since then, I always pay artists for their work.”

I smile fondly, remembering Clint in clay-splattered aprons flirting with tourists at local art fairs. His creations had a certain rustic appeal, but it was Clint’s charm that really sold them.

Clint takes a sip of his coffee. “Now, about branding. I’m talking the name, logo, website, social media accounts—would that all convey?”

We talk through more details, giving Clint tentative approval to take over everything associated with the inn and establishing a timeline to close the sale in late October or early November.

I feel strangely outside of my body, talking about handing over the keys like this.

But I reengage when we approach the topic we’ve all been waiting to discuss: money.

Robin and I did some math ahead of time, comparing the sale prices of similar historic properties in Eureka in recent years, calculating how much we spent in 2012, inflation, and how much we’ll likely spend on materials while sprucing it up.

We came to an agreement on the lowest price we’d accept.

I fidget in my seat, hoping we won’t have to do much negotiating.

“After much discussion, Clint has settled on a generous initial offer,” the realtor says, then takes a sheet of paper from his leather folio and slides it across the table to us.

At first, I think my eyes are having trouble focusing on all those zeros. But when I look up at Robin, she’s just as shocked, eyes glazed, mouth hanging open. Clint’s offer is more than double the number we agreed we’d accept. “That’s…wow,” Robin says, mesmerized.

The realtor clears his throat. “I told Clint that this is significantly higher than any comparable property has sold for in the past five years, but—”

“I’m buying more than a building. I’m buying a legacy,” Clint says, clasping his hands on the table in front of him.

“Have you looked at the comments on your website lately? Checked the hashtag on social? People are still talking about what you built, and they desperately want it to make a comeback. There’s plenty of cool Victorian architecture in Eureka. But there’s only one Hummingbird Inn.”

—

Still flabbergasted by Clint’s offer, Robin and I spend the afternoon creating an ever-growing checklist of projects we need to tackle before finalizing the deal.

“We’ll need to touch up the paint on the detail work, but we won’t have to repaint the whole exterior,” I say to Robin, who’s standing next to me on the sidewalk in front of the inn. I jot down a note on my clipboard.

Robin points to the left corner of the porch. “And there are a couple missing doodads.”

“Cornice brackets,” I say, writing it down. “I can whittle those.”

“Maybe I could learn to whittle?” Robin suggests. “For what Clint’s offering, I’ll learn anything.”

“Maybe stick with the power drill for now,” I tease. “You can practice by tightening up the porch handrails.”

Our list grows as we circle the building.

Wood stain the gazebo. Repair cracked window shutters.

Replace broken balusters. Once we’re satisfied that we’ve marked down everything outside, we move to the much lengthier catalog of tasks inside.

Get rid of cheap furniture. Paint walls.

Pull up laminate. Restore original wood floors. Change light fixtures.

By the time we’re satisfied, we’ve got five front-and-back pages of tasks to complete.

“How long do you think all this will take?” Robin asks, leaning back in a rocking chair on the front porch with a glass of iced tea in hand.

The summer heat reminds me that it’s now July; we’ve spent a full month cohabitating without killing each other.

“I’m not sure,” I answer. “It took us, what, six months the first time around?”

“And that was with twenty-two-year-old energy,” Robin says. “Thirty-five-year-old me will probably need more naps.”

“Plus we’ve both got other jobs to balance now.

” I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the bottom of my shirt.

“In good news, it will be easier than last time. The cleaners kept it from falling into total disrepair. We have the right furniture and finishings, once we get them from the storage unit. No major structural issues or leaky pipes.”

“At least since you fixed the pipe in the kitchen,” Robin adds.

“Right,” I say weakly. “Which is all wrapped up.”

“The kitchen’s in great shape now, especially with that new backsplash.” Robin’s chair creaks as she rocks.

“Thanks.” A cool breeze wafts by, and we enjoy it in silence. Once it’s passed, I ask, “Where will you go when we’re done? Back to Seattle or Portland?”

Robin scratches the back of her neck, contemplating. “No, I don’t think so. There’s nothing for me up there anymore.”

I can’t help but ask, “Not even Georgina?”

Robin laughs, but not in a joyful way. “Definitely not Georgina. That’s been over for a while.” She’s quiet long enough for me to think that’s all she has to say on the matter, but then adds, “She gave me an ultimatum. During the pandemic.”

My heart is tugged in a dozen directions. Relief Georgina is out of the picture. Curiosity about what happened. Sympathy for Robin. Jealousy, always jealousy, whenever I think of Georgina. As much as I’ve tried to let it go, she’s grown into the big bad wolf who broke my marriage.

Curiosity wins out. “She wanted to get married?” I ask.

“Kind of. Not really.” A stream of air escapes Robin’s lips. “It was about you, actually.”

“Me?” New emotions pile onto the mishmash inside me. Satisfaction, guilt, a disorienting dash of pride.

“Yeah,” Robin says. “She was really bothered by us still being legally married. It wasn’t that she wanted me to marry her so much as she wanted me to divorce you. She thought I was still hung up on you, that I didn’t take her seriously.”

“Did you?” I ask, knowing I’m wading into dangerous waters. “Take her seriously?”

“Of course! We were business partners. Our restaurants shared kitchen and dining space. Robin’s Egg for breakfast and lunch, her concept for dinner and late-night bites. I wouldn’t have signed up for that if I wasn’t serious.”

A taste of bitterness hits the back of my tongue. “But we were business partners too.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what Georgina said.”

Marmalade strolls around the corner of the porch from the backyard and collapses into a sleepy pile of fur between our chairs. Our fingers touch when we both reach over to pet her. I pull back first.

“Why didn’t you divorce me?” I ask. If I want closure, I have to know.

“You know I hate paperwork.” Robin looks up at me with a crooked grin that makes it clear we both know that’s not the full answer.

She straightens, leaving Marmee purring beneath us.

“And I guess I never liked how we ended things,” she adds.

“It felt so sudden. And hostile. You deserved better than some manila envelope in the mail. We deserved better.”

“We could do it together,” I say, admitting out loud what I’ve been quietly thinking for a while: It’s the natural conclusion to the agreement we’ve made. “File for divorce. It could be a two-birds-one-stone situation with selling the inn. Maybe we could get one lawyer to help us with both.”

Robin turns to look at me, and something in her eyes reminds me of my own inner turmoil. This thing between us has gotten so messy. Won’t we both feel better once we’ve cleaned it up? “I…I guess that would make the most sense,” she says.

“Key has some lawyer friends in the area,” I offer. “I can ask her for a recommendation.”

“Great,” Robin says, entirely lacking enthusiasm. Either she really does hate paperwork, or she’s feeling a little bittersweet nostalgia from the thought of saying goodbye too.

We agree to discuss next steps on redecorating tomorrow, and I retreat to my shed. This is all exactly what I wanted. Answers, open lines of communication, moving on with my life.

So why do I feel sad?