WHERE ARE YOU?!!!!!????

A torrent of messages from my mother caused my phone to emit frenetic beeping, which alerted Bellinger to my presence. If I could have disappeared into the floral wallpaper, I would have. I pulled needles and twigs from my hair and did my best to smooth it. You should know that Bellinger is incredibly handsome. This is important for later, so I must describe him in that moment. He stood in the doorway, a halo of sunlight outlining his physique. He wore fitted wranglers and a loose white bottom up. He moved his hand sheepishly through his tousled hair, which was like the gentle swells of waves far from shore. His facial features are those of a kind and gentle man, but his gaze is impactful and left me insecure feeling. I felt instantly shy, like an intruder, but wasn't I in the lobby of a working inn?

"Is that your car up there?" He asked.

"Yes." I answered. "But I've just got a signal, so I'm going to have it towed."

He insisted on calling the tow for me. He was also very concerned that I may be injured. I couldn't tell him my scraped arms and sloppy appearance wasn't due to any accident, but rather that I escaped voyeurism through a bush in the old hedge maze.

While I waited for Bellinger to get off the phone with the repair shop, I texted mom back.

I went to the inn. The car is broke down,and I'm going to be staying here awhile.

Miranda, nothing good comes from digging up the past.

Mom I'm staying. You're welcome to meet me here, or I'll visit you when the car is running again.

My mother had long insisted I stay away. She’d spent the last twenty years reminding me that digging up the past would only trigger grief that years of therapy had yet to heal. The inn was sold. It was someone else's problem. For a long time I agreed, but there was always curiosity to contend with. There's a story in these walls, a childhood of good food and company, the local wines and wineries. I could use the freelancing money to fix up the old Corolla. I'd give Harry first dibs, but the magazine rarely had the budget.

What was left of the past under this new ownership? What was she so worried I'd find here? Our time has passed and all that was left were memories. Jorts and polka dotted tank tops. Capri Suns. Racing through the backdoor, up the long hall, into the foyer, and out the enormous front doors. Grandpa smoking a pipe on the front porch. His enormous belly challenging the elasticity of worn suspenders. I’d catch frogs, hike the trails, make a mud pie, or listen to one of grandpa's tall tales while sipping sweet tea. The hard times, the arguments, the debts and the deaths, those were the things she wanted to make disappear, but weren't those the exact things I'd longed to write about? How food and drink paired with childhood trauma?

Some of the house’s history was documented on the walls in old photographs showing the house being built. She'd taken nothing of our time here. Left it all to the new owner, the very tall new owner. The inn was marketed “as is,” so many of our things were included in the sale and I wasn't the least bit surprised she'd left behind our family photos, but I was surprised to find them neatly framed and dusted on the walls of the long hall. Looking around, I didn’t see any familiar furniture. Most of it was modern pieces, designed and inspired by an older time, sort of like the house itself was built to look a lot older than it actually was. The photos, perhaps they should belong to me and my kin, but I kind of liked that they stayed with the old place and not packed up to collect dust in mom's attic or in whatever dump the furniture ended up in. Bellinger took care to frame them and place them among folk art on the tacky floral wallpapered walls.

The photographs told a story. It had been in my family for generations until my mother sold it in a quickie sale for half the asking price. There were photos of my great-grandparents, my grandfather, my dad and my mom. Right on the end, in the last picture, there was even a picture of me. I looked to be about seven years old and I was giving a thumb’s up in front of a bright red tractor. That was my grandfather’s tractor and he’d just bought it that day. He wanted a picture of me beside it. It was the only color picture hanging on the wall. I was more than a little disappointed to come to the end and find there weren't more. I missed my grandpa’s soft brown eyes, and longed to see them in color.

"The tow should be here in an hour or so." Bellinger said. "There's a bar at the end of the hallway if you'd like to wait there. I can show you where it is."

"Thank you." I said. "I know where it is."

Bellinger appeared confused. For a split second his age was showing in his furrowed brows and in the creases forming by his eyes and forehead.

"Have you stayed with us before?"

I pointed at the last photograph. The kid a happier, more youthful version of myself. I said, "That's me."

Although I knew where the bar was, Bellinger accompanied me there anyway. He explained that he met me once.

"Well sort of," he said. "I was with my dad who was talking to your mom. I was probably about nineteen then, but you weren't quite as old."

I could sense Bellinger trying to get a sense of how old I was. I decided to play coy and leave his inquisitive gaze lingering, his unspoken question unanswered.

"Your mom was packing some belongings into a station wagon. Dad wanted me to take some photos."

The bar hadn't changed at all. It was still massive in a bright room with many windows highlighting the beautiful back lawn and a slight corner view of the sparkling lake across the street. I felt transported back in time to colorful brunches and buffets. The tables were still scattered and plenty, still featured white linens and blue fabric napkins. The inn was our home that we shared with travelers including visiting dignitaries and local celebrities. We threw elaborate parties and always had guests and staff milling the grounds. Affluent people would come in and out of our lives. Money was tight because it was costly to keep it running, and dad never could get over bumping shoulders with folks who had what he wanted. Green. Moola. It was everywhere and yet nowhere to be found. That was one thing that had changed. The bar was empty save the barman.

Bellinger tapped on the end of it, and a jaunty guy with a handlebar mustache put down a bottle of red and two glasses. He fit the roll of barman well with his checkered shirt and neatly folded apron. He bantered for a bit with Bellinger and I, but then went back to quietly wiping dust off glasses.

"Your grandpa was a great man." Bellinger said.

"You knew of him?" The truth was everyone knew of him. His reputation hadn't dwindled in the years since his death. Bellinger said the few people who still vacation at the inn, the very same who vacationed under our ownership, often spoke of his generosity. My grandfather wasn't a rich man, but he had built enough wealth to give to local charities. If someone in town had a sick kid or their house burned down, he'd host a charity event to raise money for the family. Every year, people would bring their dachshunds to our backyard to compete in a race. Tickets were twenty dollars a piece and sold out in a day. Every dime went to the children's hospital. In those days, my mother was her most joyful. My father's gambling and drinking had not yet sucked the last shine from her eyes. My father resented his father in law, but my mother and myself were completely enamored by him. It felt good being so close to someone everyone seemed to admire.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

My father frequently complained about my grandpa's philanthropic pursuits, which dad insisted took precedence over other needs. Family needs. It was always family needs, but I never saw him give a dime to my mother for groceries or winter jackets. Any money he had went to the track. Horse betting and good whiskey. That isn't to say he didn't believe in the inn. It was the one thing my dad and grandpa had in common. They worked tirelessly to make it the most prominent establishment in the county, and at one point it was almost a historical landmark but years of bickering over how to spend money took precedence and the papers were never filed.

Bellinger explained how he inherited the inn after his dad passed.

"I didn't do a damn thing with the place, but then Molly came along and… well it was her dream I guess to raise a family here. To be bed and breakfast people."

He had a faraway look in his eyes. Like a man lost at sea on purpose. Like someone who was lost, but didn't want to be found.

"Who's Molly?" I asked.

He looked startled. Guilty even. Like he'd been caught saying something he shouldn't.

"My late wife." He said curtly. He abruptly excused himself, leaving me with concerns I'd be responsible to pay the barman. Being exceptionally good at his job, the barman, who I learned is named Ralph, shook his hand and hands at me when I reached into my purse.

"No need. It's on the house."

Ralph advised me of the cost of rooms, and suggested I go and speak to Nancy if I was planning to check in. Nancy was posted at the front desk.

"Glad to have you, doll face." Nancy walked me up to my room. She championed two sets of stairs without getting winded. By the end of it, I was nearly doubled over but she looked like someone just out for a leisurely stroll. It was remarkable considering the work out she'd already had that day. Out in the hedge maze. Where any inspecting visitor could come upon them. I shuddered and looked away because it was hard not to envision her stark naked and riding her husband like he was the main attraction in a bull riding competition. At the top of the stairs, I felt the wind knocked out of me for an entirely different reason. There next to the balcony doors was a photograph of a woman with dark hair and eyes.

"What's the matter, doll face? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Who is that woman?" I pointed to the picture with a shaky finger. I've seen her before. In fact, she was a dead ringer for the girl in my backseat. But she couldn't be because there was no girl in the back seat of my car. It was a trick of shadows.

"That's Ashton's wife." She said with a tinge of melancholy.

"Where is she?" I asked.

"She's been gone a long time. Ran off a few years ago. Left her ring. Couldn't even give the man a divorce, and no one has heard from her since so maybe she's dead."

Before I could ask anything more, Nancy was ushering me into my room.

"Picked this one special for you, Miranda Knight. Thought since you're already acquainted with it, why not give you your old room?"

“How did you know?” I asked.

"Oh folks come around and always say that the cheaper rooms on the third floor are the ones where the Knights used to stay. They say oh that one on the end, closest to the balcony was Miranda's room and her mom and pop had the one down the hall there. I gave you a 10% discount, seeing as how you’re practically family.”

I thought, I wouldn’t go that far, Nancy and thanked her for the discount.

"Kinda freaky how they both died." She said, gazing down the gal toward my father and grandfather's bedrooms.

Nancy has no filter. She will say the cringiest things with complete absentmindedness. Her face completely ignorant of her faux past. Her smile unwavering even when I'm glaring at her.

"Well, dollface, let's get you settled in."

Nancy lingered in the open doorway. I desperately wanted to be alone. To get away from this callous woman who'd so heartlessly commented on my family's tragedy.

"The old-old man, your great-grandfather, he was quite a character. Did you know him at all?"

I instantly smiled at the thought of great-grandpa Charles. My nostalgia had crept up again and betrayed me in the presence of a woman who I wanted to feel unwelcome. I couldn't help but remember the way my grandfather would describe my great-grandpa. He loved to drink, but he wasn’t the violent sort. He just loved wine, so much so that he built himself this estate, right on the lake, where he could drink wine. “He even planned a vineyard, but it was never finished – too much competition already in the area anyway,” my grandpa told me. I hadn't heard the gruff voice of my grandpa in my mind's ear in so long. Suddenly I felt like I could cry a river of tears, but I held back.

“I didn’t know him, but my grandfather told me stories.”

“He's a famous guy too." She said.

“Strange how he croaked, though. Right? Real strange way to die.”

Leave it to a perfect stranger to suck you right out of your sweet memories into a horrible dark one. Fuck you, Nancy – but not the sweet, gentle fucking Frederick would give you. Nope. Fuck you tied to a tractor plowing a field of cactus.

"Your mom got quite the inheritance with this place, but she got right the hell out of dodge. Can't blame her. Ashton should do the same."

My grandfather’s will left the estate with my father, not my mother. My granddad knew my dad wouldn't give up the place. It was his first love and probably the reason he married my mom. They played together on the manicured lawns as kids. Held hands in secret under the gas lamps out on the trails. He loved the inn and the people in it even if he was a selfish man. For a few years, it was a wonderful bed and breakfast. It was sad being there without grandfpa, but it was uplifting knowing we’d kept the place out of foreclosure and there were always fun parties and merriment even after he was gone, but it didn't last long. Dad gambled. Nancy knew it. I could see it on her face, but she said nothing. For once, she left a bad thought unspoken and I was grateful not to discuss my dad's untimely passing with her. She noted that there were extra towels in the bathroom closet, and I prayed this was the end of it. That she'd finally take leave of the doorway so I could close it and be alone with my thoughts. She then launched into a memorized spiel, letting me know what time food was served and where I could find the house’s many balconies.

“Well, you probably already know where the kitchen is and all that." She was wrapping it up, I was certain of that now and so eager to do away with her.

“If you need anything, just call the front desk from the phone there.” An old timey rotary phone sat on an equally dated bedside table. "We don't offer room service."

I thanked her, as I ushered her into the hall. She looked ready to say something else even as I shut the door. Taking in the room, now called the Josephine Suite, I noted where my single, wrought iron canopy bed with pink frilly bedding had been. In its place is a wooden dresser. Where my white dresser had once been, now sits a gigantic king-size sleigh bed with white and yellow linens. Overall, my old room was unrecognizable because of new paint and furniture, but it still felt familiar. It felt like mine if we'd have stayed and I'd have grown up here. The room felt matured, and that felt distinctly appropriate.

I could hear the muffled whispers of Nancy talking to someone, the housekeeper I determined. She told the poor woman to keep an eye on me because I seem “out of sorts.”

It seemed I was going to be hot gossip around the inn. I should have paid cash and given a fake name…too late now I thought.

“It’s a shame about the old man." She said callously. "He knew what he was doing with the family’s money. She's Randall's kid, you know?”

The gasp from the maid was entirely audible, even through the door. My stomach was in knots again. Despite feeling nauseous, I kept my ear pressed against the cold wood. I hated her in that moment, this woman who would eventually save my life.

“Yes. I am not making this up. That girl’s father is Randall. She found the body.”

"Poor child." The housekeeper said. "I'll do my best to look out for her."

Like the last scene in a dramatic play, I imagined they echoed stage left and the lights went out and a curtain closed.

Just when I thought I could fall asleep, Nancy and Frederick entered the room nearest mine. We shared a wall even, the very wall my bed was against. Her intense, literal cries were like an ear worm that invaded my canal and took occupancy despite the pillow barrier I'd forged. I no longer found their passionate sex games a curiosity. It felt like an assault to hear them banging away and to relive that afternoon's discovery again and again with every passionate scream Nancy let loose. I never slept that first night, but it turned out there'd always be sleepless nights at the Molly Grange Inn and it wasn't always Nancy's fault. Sometimes it was Molly's.