Page 15 of The Inn Dilemma (Give a Bookish Girl a Biker)
Chapter Nine
Nova
“ C hange of plans, Nova girl,” Aunt Birdie says as I step through the door of the inn. She’s wearing dress pants, a white blouse, and she’s putting on her nicest jacket. All of which is very different from the house dresses she usually wears.
“Where are you off to?” I ask.
“We’re off to meet with the historical society.”
My eyebrows shoot up at that. “You already got an appointment with them?” I ask, remembering the hoops Maya—the new librarian—and Des had to jump through to have necessary updates done at the library. “Don’t you usually have to wait for one of their monthly meetings?”
"Just for that tyrant Gladys Monroe to attempt to embarrass me in front of all of Rocosa like she tried to do with sweet Maya and the library?” She mirrors my thoughts as she waves a dismissive hand.
“Absolutely not. When I want something done, I get it done!” she answers proudly.
“I need you to change into something more business casual.”
I bristle at her request. For most of my life, I’ve worn what other people wanted me to wear to events.
Aunt Birdie must notice my distress. "Need I remind you, we’re meeting with Gladys Monroe? It would be best if we both go into this meeting looking ready to get down to business. You know how she can be.”
“I didn’t know you wanted me to go.”
“I’m not doing this alone. We”—she motions between the two of us— “are. I thought you’d be happy to swap cleaning toilets to sketching out and designing the murals.”
“You’re talking me out of cleaning duty?” I ask, and Aunt Birdie loops her arm through mine as we walk down the path.
“This is going to better suit you and your abilities,” she answers.
I clench my jaw. And like the hawk she is, Aunt Birdie notices.
She places a gentle hand on my shoulder as I unlock my door.
“This is in no way meant to demean the work you’ve done for me already.
You’re a hard worker and give everything your all, even scrubbing the bathrooms. This isn’t because you’ve done a bad job; this is because I know where your talents and passions are and I want to help nourish them. ”
I nod, holding back the emotions swarming me, and we head inside. “I just don’t want to be treated like a little princess anymore.”
She gives me a playful smile. “You’ll always be a little princess to me. I’ll never forget your gap-toothed smile when you showed up here the first time.” She drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or how you looked at my Holt. As if he hung the moon, stars, and sun.”
My cheeks heat. Thankfully, Aunt Birdie’s back is to me as she rustles through my closet and pulls out a fitted cream sweater, which I pair with my favorite black maxi skirt. I then twist my hair into a neat bun.
“So what makes you think I can manage painting murals for you? I have no proper training. Are you sure you can trust me with this?”
“You are passionate about art and have always been a master with the paintbrush. The paintings you did for me are still the ones most complimented by guests. Several have even asked to buy them off me!”
Something unfurls in my chest at her praise.
Dad tried to stifle my passion for art and painting.
Beau slowly drained it out of me as he concluded that because I am a work of art, I should showcase that part of myself over the art I create.
Looking back, it was obnoxious to be flattered by his compliment, but I’m not surprised that his view of me was so one-dimensional, so shallow.
“I know I should have asked you first, but you were an answer to my prayer,” she says, her expression softening. “And Ella Mae’s.”
I grab my purse from the coat rack and we step outside.
“It’s not that I don’t want to do it. I’d love to,” I say.
I lock up and we start our walk into town.
“But,” Aunt Birdie prompts.
“But I haven’t painted in years.” I bite my tongue. That’s not true. I have painted, but no one has seen the finished results. “I’m not sure I’m experienced enough to meet your expectations.” I revise my partial lie.
My chest hurts as I think about my paintings sitting in the extra bedroom of Beau’s apartment.
After overhearing Beau on the phone bragging about how he was receiving all the benefits of being married without the actual commitment, I couldn’t leave fast enough.
Unfortunately, that meant my paintings were collateral damage and abandoned in my haste to get out.
The signs had been popping up everywhere, telling me it was time to leave Beau.
That not only were we living in sin, but he was never going to commit.
So I came home. Then lost all my bravado as I landed at the Denver airport and realized I had no one to pick me up.
So I took a taxi to Rocosa—my home—and was reminded once more that I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
I was a coward not to go to Christian and beg his forgiveness before facing Dad.
Thankfully, when I ducked into the library, I ran into Reese who forgave me much more quickly than I deserved and then offered her home to me.
Aunt Birdie loops her arm through mine, pulling me from my thoughts. “Don’t be ridiculous. I only expect you to exceed my expectations.”
The historical society offices are just two blocks away from us now.A terrible sense of dread trickles down my spine.
I scoff. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Well, I don’t plan on having you jumping head first into a full wall mural. I figured you could make some sketches and do some small-scale paintings before digging into the project.”
“You’ve made quite a few assumptions, Aunt Birdie.”
She only looks slightly embarrassed. “Well, excuse me for wanting to help you pursue your passions.”
We walk up to the ornate door that says Historical Society in an elegant script.
“Are you in?” Aunt Birdie asks.
At the look in her eyes, I can’t say no. “Let’s do it. ”
A smile spreads across her face as we enter the building.
“Absolutely not!” Gladys Monroe says, slamming her fist onto the table. “The Storybook Inn has been a staple in Rocosa since the founding of this town! How could you want to desecrate that place with murals done by a silly amateur?”
I bristle at her comment. Not her calling me an amateur—I couldn’t care less what this woman thinks of me—but to call artwork a desecration is absurd.
Aunt Birdie laid out her thought-out plans for renovating the inn and—to her credit—Gladys listened without interruption, but the moment Aunt Birdie finished, Gladys immediately turned us down.
Gladys Monroe is one of the board members of the historical society.
Since she married into a founding family, she believes she is better than everyone else.
Even though Aunt Birdie also married into a founding family, she doesn’t throw that weight around.
Gladys has been a thorn in pretty much everyone’s side since before I can remember.
This is my first encounter with the tyrant, and I’m hoping it’s also the last.
Mr. Smith, the historical society’s new president, looks to each of us, remaining silent, allowing Gladys to take control of this meeting.
I thought he was the leader of the historical society and that they’d need to meet with the rest of the board before making a decision, but as usual, Gladys Monroe has bulldozed over everyone else
“The murals would be done in the style that was prevalent at the time. They would only enhance the beauty of each room and give the place a uniqueness to separate it from other bed and breakfasts near Denver,” I say, straightening in my seat.
Gladys crosses her arms over her chest and raises an overdrawn eyebrow.
“You think quite highly of yourself, Miss Price.” She wags one of her manicured fingers at me.
“I don’t think the rest of the board will be too keen to hear that the prodigal rich girl has come back only to ruin a historical landmark. ”
Despite the turmoil consuming my insides, I sit up straighter, tilt my chin up, and apply every ounce of pride that comes with the Price name.
Before I can say anything, Gladys goes on. “That’s right, princess. I heard Kent cut you off when you ran off with that Frenchman and became his little?—”
“Enough!” a booming voice says from behind us.
Holt strides in as if he owns the place, brimming with confidence and controlled anger. “You will not disrespect either of these women again.”
I swallow the lump of emotion in my throat.
Gladys’s words are no different than the thoughts I’ve had about myself since leaving Beau.
I turned into someone I could no longer recognize in the mirror.
At the confirmation, shame slams into me, and I’m left reeling in the aftershock.
No one around me can see my turmoil. Numbness is something I’ve perfected over the years and hidden behind whatever mask fit the expectations of every occasion.
“Well, Mr. Graves. So nice of you to finally join us,” Gladys says dryly.
Gladys’s statement pulls me from my inner turmoil. I furrow my brows and look from Holt to Aunt Birdie. Is there a reason why Holt would need to be present for today’s meeting?
“I should have known you were up to something when I got the call that the meeting was rescheduled.” He shakes his head and looks at Mr. Smith. “Do you have anything to say?”
Mr. Smith raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just here as a formality. Gladys already told me?—”
He flinches, and I assume Gladys either stepped on his foot or kicked him beneath the table to cut him off.
“This is an absolutely ludicrous request. You are asking for permission to mar a perfect canvas with this unaccomplished girl’s paintbrush.”
A low rumble sounds from Holt’s chest. When I look up at him, he resembles a grizzly who’s ready to charge.