“Just like you take care of everything else,” he said under his breath as he heard her bedroom door close on the other side of the front foyer. “Including yourself.”
He turned back to the stove, back to his sauce, which had cooked down further than he’d wanted it to. He stirred, added a bit more water, a bit more tomato sauce, tasted, then pinched a bit more oregano into the mix and kept on stirring. As did his thoughts.
He should just take a giant step back and leave Kirby to her business. After all, she had a point about things not lasting. She didn’t want to allow herself to lean on someone who might not be there a week, or even a day later. Hard to fault that. Then there was the bigger issue at hand, which was that she’d only be concerned about that if she was worried she’d come to care about how long he stayed or when he might leave.
Which meant maybe she already did.
He tasted the sauce, but was too busy deciding his immediate course of action to pay any real attention to flavor. He knew, if he examined his own behavior right now, he’d be forced to admit that maybe, just maybe, this mental back and forth wasn’t purely about his fascination with Kirby…but also a convenient substitution for his own problems. He’d told Dan that he needed to stop, to think, to figure out what came next. But there was no timetable on that. For once, there was no place he had to be. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever, if that was the way he wanted it.
Right that very second, he was exactly where he wanted to be. With no plans whatsoever to go anywhere else. It was a nice change, to be certain of at least one thing. He’d figure out the rest.
He tasted the sauce again, and smiled. Yeah. But in the meantime, he still wanted to know the rest of Kirby Farrell’s story. Find out what was the best way he could help. Which meant, for now, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter 11
Kirby sipped her coffee and shuddered at the volcanic strength of it. But she desperately needed something to kick-start her into the day. Day One of her personal thirty-day death march. Well, her inn’s death march, anyway.
She stared at the computer monitor and the online bank statement she’d opened up; then she finally slid her glasses off and closed her eyes. She’d been juggling bills for almost three months now, pretty much since the day she’d opened. Initially, she’d still had a little something to juggle with. She’d known that without a sudden drop in temperatures and some snow, she was courting total failure. But she’d been trying to remain hopeful, positive. After all, how long could the damn heat wave last? It was unnatural. She’d honestly thought that things would turn around.
The call yesterday evening from Albert, a local tax accountant she’d hired early on to help her set up her books, had made it clear that her turnaround time was pretty much over. Her tax bill come April was going to be the felling blow, but the bank was already grumbling about her loan payments and Albert wasn’t sure she’d even make it long enough to be worrying about the IRS.
At the moment, she was numb. Too numb to even cry. She’d poured so much of herself, of…well, everything she’d had left in her after the disastrous end with Patrick, and every bit of what she’d been able to summon up after her life had taken such a drastic new course. She’d been determined to look at the ending with Patrick as the beginning of herself.
This was her rise from the ashes; this was her celebration of what her life could be. This was the middle finger she’d given to Patrick, to fate, and anyone else who’d ever made her feel like she couldn’t take care of business. Which, when it came down to it, she’d realized, was all on her. As Aunt Frieda had said often enough, “Just because folks don’t understand, respect, or support what you think is true about yourself doesn’t mean you have to listen to them.” Kirby had only needed to listen to herself. But she’d let the other voices, so many of them, drown her own out.
It had taken seeing her chosen partner for who he really was-who he’d always been if she’d just been more willing to see the truth-and the following hard look at what she’d allowed herself to believe, to accept as okay, for her to finally, at the age of thirty-seven, examine her life, her choices, and what she was going to do about it-moving forward.
And she had moved forward. She was proud, almost fiercely so, of what she’d accomplished here. The one thing she knew now was that if the current combination of events conspired to end this new dream, this new path…well, she’d simply find another one.
She dropped her forehead to the edge of her desk. “I just really, really don’t want to.” It would be so easy to wallow, to blame fate, to sink into that place where it was all about being the victim and not being in control of her life. She wouldn’t do that. Couldn’t. But, right at that very moment, she simply didn’t know where she was going to find the strength to rise again.
On a surge of anger, aimed at both the world in general and at herself in particular for not having an immediate plan of action, she shoved her chair back, took up her mug, and stalked into the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten since the middle of the day before and that wasn’t helping the hollow pit of dread in her stomach. Of course, the thought of food at that moment was abhorrent, but it was something she could do instead of staring and swearing. She popped the fridge door open and saw the neatly stacked containers of pasta and sauce. Her stomach gurgled. Pasta for breakfast. She reached for the container. Why the hell not?
She was heating up a bowl of noodles when Brett walked into the kitchen. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” She kept her gaze on the microwave door. As if that was going to speed things along. But she didn’t know what to say to him, so it was a handy distraction. The bell dinged and she slid the bowl out.
“Pasta for breakfast?” he said, coming closer but stopping at the cook island.
“Sounded like a good idea at the time.” She fished in the silverware drawer for a fork. “Thank you for saving some for me. And for cleaning up. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t mind.” He took another step closer. “Kirby-”
He broke off, and she paused in the act of forking up her first mouthful and glanced at him directly for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” he said, surprising her.
She lowered her fork. “For what?”
“Whatever’s going on with you. And for pushing last night. I just wanted to help out. I still do.”
“If I don’t fill this inn to capacity by the weekend and keep it that way until at least the middle of April, I’m going to lose the place,” she said, putting it out there without meaning to but too tired to get back into the verbal cat and mouse game they had played last night. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do about that, but I appreciate the concern.” She realized she sounded less than gracious and was certainly not on good hostess behavior, not by a long shot, but there didn’t seem to be much she could do about it. Brett was a guest, but he wasn’t exactly a guest. And he’d asked for the truth, so she refused to feel bad about giving him what he’d asked for.
“Actually,” he said, just as calm as he’d been before her less-than-cheerful reply. “I could. Help, that is.”
“How? You have a lot of poker buddies who need a place to hole up for a few months, get out of the desert for a while?”
He smiled at that. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. If Vermont had a gaming commission, I could probably get a game going out here, make you all kinds of revenue.”
“We have a lottery, but no gambling that I’m aware of.”
He didn’t respond right away, and it was clear his mind was spinning on something.
“What are you thinking?”