Page 19 of The Inn Dilemma (Give a Bookish Girl a Biker)

Chapter Twelve

Nova

I slowly push a deep breath through my lips before lifting my fist to knock on the office door.

Dad’s secretary is scheduled to be out at lunch—something she told me when I called an hour ago—which I thought would be the perfect time to show up here. If Dad is going to reject me again, it will have to be to my face…again. Preferably without an audience.

It hasn’t been long since his last rejection, but I feel as though I’ve lived another life since that day.

The door swings open before I can give it another knock. Dad looks ruffled and irritable.

Some things never change.

“Nova.” His tone is sharp, yet not as lethal as the last time we talked.

“Hi, Dad. I’d really like to talk.”

He draws his lips into a firm line. Again, I’m struck by how much he’s aged. Kidney disease has really taken a toll on him.

Dad is silent for a second too long, and all the bravado I worked up while driving here slowly drains out of me.

“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for running off.” I turn on my heel. Dad reaches out and grabs my arm.

“Nova, wait.” His voice doesn’t hold the same command it usually does.That little fact brings me hope.

Slowly, carefully, I turn to face him again. I work up the courage to stare at the man whose actions made it clear I’d never be enough.

“What?” I ask.

He clears his throat as if getting his next words out goes against everything he stands for. “We do need to talk. Really talk.”

My heart hammers against my ribcage. Any remaining bravado dissipates.

“O-Okay,” I find myself saying.

“We can go out to lunch somewhere. My treat.” He attempts to give me a smile, but it’s weak and awkward.

“I have my own money.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

I cross my arms over my chest and stand taller. “Aunt Birdie has me working around the Storybook Inn.”

He grimaces and shakes his head. “Nova. A Price doesn’t?—”

“A Price does whatever needs to be done to survive. And believe it or not, working at the Storybook Inn helps me do more than survive. I thrive there.”

He forces another smile that barely touches his eyes. But he’s clearly trying, and I should respect that.

“Right.” He grabs his suit jacket off the coat rack next to his door and slides it on. The material that once used to fit him like a tailored glove hangs off his shoulders.

He motions with his hand, and I let him lead me out of his office’s waiting room and into the elevator that takes us to the bottom floor.

The walk to the restaurant is spent in awkward silence, and he moves a little slower than he used to.

Part of me wants to ask him more about his condition, though the little girl in me doesn’t want to see her dad as anything but invincible.

But it’s mostly the bitterness I feel from our history that has me clamping my mouth closed.

When we reach the restaurant, he opens the door and motions me in.

“Table for two,” he says to the hostess, who quickly grabs two menus and tells us to follow her.

Someone at a table we pass greets Dad. I turn and give them a polite smile before focusing my attention forward to give them privacy.

He rarely wanted me involved in conversations with his associates unless it benefited him in some way.

So instead, I scan my surroundings, taking in the pop of white tablecloths that contrasts with the deep red wallpaper.

Dimmed crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, barely illuminating the dining room.

Each of the seated patrons is dressed in business attire, not a single person in jeans from what I can see.

When my gaze sweeps to the far corner of the room, my heart stops at the couple tucked into the intimate table for two.

Mom is sitting at the table facing me, and Trevor sits across from her, his hand softly gripping hers. I can tell from the profile and the distinct slick pompadour hairstyle it’s him. She wears a flirty smile and gazes at him in a way I don’t remember ever seeing her look at Dad.

I rub my chest, feeling a pang of sympathy for my parents’ dying marriage. Then another pang of sympathy for Dad, who probably deserves it. Regret slams into me. It’s not a thought or belief I should have.

It’s a funny thing about knowing Jesus—it changes us without us even realizing it. With that thought, I say a silent prayer. Lord, give me wisdom on how to handle this. Do I allow it to play out? Or distract Dad?

I look over at Dad when he turns back to me.

This time, a genuine smile is on his face.

And even though I truly do believe the truth will set us free, I don’t want to forfeit the potential of this lunch.

He doesn’t seem to notice Mom at all. The hostess takes a turn, diverting us away from Mom and her companion.

The hostess seats us on the other side of the dining room, Mom and Trevor far enough away to not be in focus. Just as a precaution, I sit on the side of the table facing them.

We haven’t been sitting a full minute when our waiter comes over.

“What can I get you to drink?” he asks.

“Just a water for me, please,” I answer.

“A water with lemon for me.”

The waiter dips his head and leaves Dad and me to talk. Dad folds his hands on top of the table and leans forward.

“So, tell me. How was Paris?”

His question shouldn’t surprise me or take me off guard, but it does. I want to leave Paris and all the mistakes I made there in the past. It’s why I haven’t reached out to Beau’s assistant Elise despite my promise to stay in touch.

“It was…Paris.”

Dad lifts his eyebrows as if encouraging me to continue. In the dim lighting, the bags under his eyes and the shallow pallor of his skin are barely noticeable. I can almost pretend he doesn’t look sick at all.

The waiter returns and places our waters in front of us, as well as a basket of breadsticks. Then he takes our order. I order lasagna, my favorite Italian dish. Dad orders chicken parmesan and pasta, his usual.

The moment our waiter walks away, Dad asks me again, “Well, I’ve only ever been to Paris for work. So tell me what it is that appealed most to you.”

I know it’s childish, but I throw a barb. “The art.”

His expression falls. “Well, Beau did promise to get you in with the prominent artists of Paris. Did he do that?”

From his level tone, I can’t tell if he’s attempting to cut me right back or is showing genuine interest.

“Not exactly.” I grab a breadstick and rip a section off, putting it in my mouth in hopes I can gather my thoughts and a smidgeon of wisdom before I have to speak again.

“Hmm,” Dad hums. “I suspected he wasn’t the man you thought he was.”

The word “suspected” is unexpected. I imagined I’d hear something more along the lines of “I told you so” or “I know how to read people and you should have listened to me.” I swallow the bite of bread without tasting it.

“Not at all,” I admit. His expression tells me he wants to know more, but this is all I have for today when it comes to my mistakes. “So, what’s going on with you?” It’s a generic question, but that’s all I can manage right now.

He gives me a sad smile. His mask of pride and confidence slips from his face. “I’m sure you know by now that I’m sick.”

“Kidney disease.”

Dad raises his eyebrow. “You must have been talking to your brother. The doctors tell me I either need dialysis or a kidney transplant. Neither of which is appealing to me.”

“I don’t think that’d be appealing to anyone,” I say.

“I’d imagine a kidney transplant wouldn’t be great, but it would be a long-term solution without a long-term weekly commitment.”

It’s Dad’s turn to grab a breadstick and bite into it. For the first time since I can remember, he looks uncomfortable.

“Unfortunately, I am not exactly high on their priority list for a kidney.” After a brief, silent moment, he stands. “Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”

“Sure.”

He heads to the bathroom, which is thankfully in the opposite direction of Mom and Trevor. I take out my phone and send a quick text to Holt.

Pray for me. I’m out to lunch with my dad and…Mom is here with her “work friend.”

No response comes as I wait for Dad. Which I fully expected. But sending a text to Holt bolstered my courage.

“Trevor?” I hear Dad ask.

“Ah, Mr. Price. What a nice surprise.” Trevor’s tone is full of sincerity covered in slime. If sincere slime existed, Trevor would be its poster child.

I can hear the two men approaching me from behind.

“Nova?” Trevor chuckles. “Yet another pleasant surprise. ”

Unsure of what to do, I stand, pushing my chair back, which screeches and makes me wince.

Trevor leans forward and kisses my cheek.

“You know Nova?” Dad asks.

Trevor puts his arm around my shoulder and tugs me into his side. “I got to meet this pretty girl shortly after her return from Paris.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but yes, one day at brunch, Mom and I ran into Trevor, and I was able to meet Mom’s work associate.” The white lie slips out, and I immediately feel guilty.

Trevor’s fake smile slips for a second. “Right. I just so happened to bump into Amanda and Nova at the restaurant. Amanda graciously invited me to sit with them, and to keep unwanted male attention from them, I agreed. You have two very beautiful women in your household.” He winks.

Dad’s nostrils flare and his eyes light up with fire as his gaze drifts behind me. “I suppose you just ran into Trevor here, too? Hmm?”

My head whips around to find Mom staring back at Dad like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler.

“Kent, I didn’t realize you ever ate anywhere outside your office,” Mom says haughtily.

“I didn’t realize you were having an affair right under my nose,” Dad shoots back.

The restaurant goes silent. All eyes are on us.

A sick feeling fills my stomach. “Go back to your meals, people. Nothing to see here.” When they go back to how they were—minus a few Nosy Nellies—I say, “Mom isn’t having an affair. She and Trevor are just friends.”

The look in Dad’s eyes makes me shrink inside myself.

“I thought you called them ‘work associates.’” He puts the words in air quotes, then pulls out his wallet and slaps a one hundred dollar bill on the table.

“We’re done here.” He directs the words to no one in particular, which means he’s dismissing all of us.

We haven’t even gotten our food yet and this lunch has completely blown up in my face. He storms out of the restaurant without a backward glance.

Shame is painted all over Mom’s face, but Trevor doesn’t seem to notice. As arrogant as he’s proven to be, Trevor wraps an arm around Mom’s waist and leans down to whisper something in her ear. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t push him away.

Irritation boils inside of me. “I feel like someone just sucker punched me in the chest.” Searching Mom’s eyes for any sign of regret, I add, “I know Dad is far from perfect. You and I know that more than anyone. But this just…” I look between the two of them. “You both make me sick.”

Mom’s mouth falls open and regret immediately fills her eyes.

With that, I grab my purse, turn on my heel, and follow in Dad’s footsteps.

Once I’m outside, I power walk back to the parking garage where I left Aunt Birdie’s car and drive to the nearest art store.

It’s been too long since I played with paints, and painting is the distraction and comfort I need right now.

I want to go back to the office and try to talk to Dad, but I have no idea what to say. Any of the minimal progress we made today has gone out the window.It will take a miracle to save their marriage from this. Or bring something remotely normal from the ashes of our past.

It’s a quick drive to the store. As I browse the aisles, I ask the Holy Spirit to intercede for me.

I don’t know what to ask of my Heavenly Father. He’s already given me so much. With all the good and grace Jesus has shown me, how can I ask anymore of Him? Will I reach a point where I’m asking too much? Does His grace ever run out? Am I truly forgiven?

My fingertips halt on a bottle of paint. I may be making my own money now, but I should also be smart about how I spend it. I scan all the colors and settle on six instead the usual twelve or more.

After gathering the rest of the supplies I need, I check out. When I reach the car, my phone notifies me of an incoming text. I drop my shopping bags in the backseat and slide into the driver’s side before locking all the doors.

When I open up the text, I can’t help but smile at what it says.

Holt: I’m always praying for you, SuperNova. But I’m praying extra hard for you now. Come over when you’re done. I know exactly what you need to feel better.

Me: I’ll be there soon.