Page 21 of The Accidental Innkeeper

I unlocked the door and pushed. Something screamed. The door gave up, fell off its hinges, and smacked into the wall.

“Great. Just great.” I stepped around it and moved into the suite. “Oh, hell, no.” Looked like my pink nightmare was just getting started.

Everywhere I looked, pink stared back at me, lots and lots of pink—the walls. The ceiling, the curtains, even the damn lampshades. Floral wallpaper exploded across every surface like it had lost a fight with subtlety and taken revenge.

“Edna,” I said. “You’re killing me.”

A massive four-poster bed dominated the room, draped in pink fabric. A matching dresser sat against one wall. Beside it stood a wardrobe so large three of me could fit inside, or one me and Dust-guy, possibly.

But that wasn’t what had my eyes bugging out of my sockets.

It was the fact that another life-size portrait of my tiny Aunt Edna was mounted directly above the headboard.

In this one, she was smoking a cigar, wearing a pink skirt suit that matched the room a little too well, and staring straight ahead with that particular expression some portraits have, the one that follows you no matter where you stand. Left side of the room? Watching. Right side? Judging. Flat on your back in bed? Actively disappointed.

I shifted. The eyes shifted.

“Edna,” I whispered. “You were one strange lady.”

Sleeping under a disapproving, cigar-smoking ancestor was not part of the plan.

“Screw it.” I rolled my suitcase inside and dropped it at the foot of the bed, afraid to touch anything else. The room smelled old but clean with rose soap, maybe, layered over decades of stubborn perfume. Still, though, a smell lingered, like old socks.

I sniffed my pits. “Shit. That’s me.”

A door off to the side caught my eye. “Please be a bathroom.” I pulled it open. “Bless the plumbing gods.”

I stared at a private bath featuring a clawfoot tub fitted with an overhead shower, pedestal sink, white tile—thankfully neutral, like even the house knew this room needed boundaries—and a mirror edged in gold. It was slightly cloudy with age, and thank god because no one needed a high-definition version of me right now.

I stepped back into the bedroom and took it all in again, the pink, the furniture, the overwhelming sense that my aunt had curated this space with intention and possibly spite.

I dropped onto the edge of the bed, the springs groaning beneath me, and stared at the wardrobe like it might open on its own.

“Well,” I said to the empty room, “at least I’ll never lose my clothes.”

First, I needed to find cleaning products so I could give the bathroom a good, aggressive swipe. Resolute, I pushed myself up again and headed back in there. A tall, narrow cabinet recessed into the wall caught my eye, something I definitely hadn’t noticed before.

I yanked it open. “Bingo.”

Inside was a stack of neatly folded linens and a couple of mothballs that had clearly lost the will to live. But, hey, clean sheets were clean sheets. And at the very bottom sat a dusty box of cleaning products, including one jug with bold red letters that said BLEACH.

I dragged everything back into the bedroom. Then I grabbed the old comforter, lifted it, and unleashed hell.

A thick cloud of dust exploded into the air like the bed had been holding its breath for decades and finally decided to exhale directly into my face. It coated my hair, my shirt, and, because I am an idiot, my open mouth.

And I inhaled.

I bent forward, coughing violently while waving my arms like I was trying to take flight. “Oh my god,” I wheezed. “Gross. Gross. Gross. I’ve just breathed in three generations of dead skin.”

The dust drifted slowly back down, settling everywhere again, calm and satisfied, like it had won.

I spat into the trash can, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and glared at the bed. “You are messing with the wrong woman, buddy.”

Holding my breath, I hauled the comforter the rest of the way off, holding it at arm’s length like it might explode again, and tossed it into the corner where it landed with a sad, defeated thump.

Five minutes later, after a brief coughing fit and what I hoped was not early-onset lung damage, I had the bed remade with fresh linens and a quilt that didn’t look like it had witnessed a murder.

Small wins.