Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

Phillip grimaces. “You paid us already. Come on, now, I know a small mistake was made—”

“Everybody makes mistakes,” I shoot back. “Your real mistake here was being condescending to me. I will not tolerate that disrespect and I demand a full refund.” I gesture flippantly at the house. “Plus damages.”

Phillip gapes. Appeals to Wesley, the rational and unemotional male.

“Condescending?” Wesley echoes. There is no trace of the generous, sensitive man I have come to know. He is made of stone. “You heard her. You’re fired. Full refund, plus damages.”

I march inside, resisting the urge to slam the door. I’m putting together a selection of banks when Wesley finds me to report that the painters left. He reads over my shoulder. “What’s that for?”

“I’m thinking about applying for a small-business loan. Want to go in on it with me? We can split it between the hotel and sanctuary.” I know he’s hoping his savings will cover the cost of a new barn, but there are plenty of other expenses to contend with. Animal food, medical supplies . . .

Wesley makes a face. “Depends. Could we do it online?”

“I think it’s better to do it in person. Make an appointment, go talk to a—”

“Hold that thought.” He squeezes my hand and walks out of the room.

“—loan officer,” I finish flatly.

He doesn’t come back for forty-five minutes. When he does, he’s flushed and appears mildly irritated but smiles at me. “Counteroffer.”

I raise a hand imperiously. Well?

“My brother Blake would love to come on board as an investor.”

“Is that so?”

His smile tightens. “I’ll warn you, Blake is ruthless. And very clever. I’ve given serious consideration to the possibility that he might be Lucifer. But he’s the best businessman and investor there is, and rich as sin. I asked him to help us out, but Blake doesn’t give away money. He enjoys putting stakes in businesses. Which means he’ll want to come down here to see for himself what we’re doing with the property. A hands-on approach.”

So this must be the fourth brother. There’s Casey, happily married, designer of websites. Then Michael, with a cattle ranch, who swings a fist if you call him by his real name, which is Humphrey. He told me yesterday about Tyler, a violinist so extroverted that Wesley gets hives simply by standing next to him.

“You asked him for a loan and he agreed just like that?”

“I asked him and he said no. So I called our mother.” He leaves it at that.

“So . . . what now? How much is he willing to give us? What are his interest rates?”

“He’s coming to visit in three weeks to negotiate that.” He doesn’t sound thrilled about it, which I can’t resist pointing out.

“I don’t like Blake,” he deadpans, “but I’d rather make deals with the devil than go talk to a loan officer I don’t know. Besides, if he becomes too much of a pain I’ll just call Mom again. I think she’s the only person on earth he’s afraid of.”

After we’ve finished mopping up the laundry room, I come clean about the woman I ran into at the gas station.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I say in a rush. “She might not even come. I gave her our address and told her that if her luck hasn’t changed by the end of the month, she has a place to stay. I know I should have asked you first, since this affects you, too, but—”

“Maybell.” He sweeps me up in a reassuring hug. “Your big heart is one of the things I like best about you. I can’t be mad when you use it.”

I tip my head up. “Yeah?”

“As long as you keep some room for me in there,” he says with a shrug, a transparent stab at being casual when I know he’s feeling anything but, “what’re a few neighbors?”

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

THIS WEEK HAS BEEN up and down, but Thursday night finds me in the kitchen, smack-dab in the middle of my slide into hysteria. “How difficult would it be to start canning preserves?” I’m wondering aloud to Wesley, who’s reserving tickets for upcoming livestock auctions on his laptop. “You’ve got all those bee boxes. We could do honey. And our own branding. Falling Stars Honey. Falling Stars Pumpkin Patch.” I gasp. “Falling Stars Petting Zoo.”

“No,” he says firmly.

“We’ll see,” I mutter, adding it to the Maybe list.

“Strawberry patch,” I continue. “We’ll grow all our own produce and be the thriftiest sons of bitches who ever lived.” I get swear-y when I’m on a roll. “We could plant an orchard, right?” I’m scribbling the name of every fruit and vegetable I can think of. “Blueberries, peaches, zucchini. We can be self-sustainable. Salads and casseroles. Huckleberry pies. We’ll recycle our own toilet paper.”

“We will not.”

“In the fall we’ll do apple picking and pumpkin carving. A corn maze.”

“Hope you enjoy planting corn mazes, because I’m not doing it,” he vows. “I will never.”

“We’ll harvest the corn and use it to feed your animals.”

“Fine, then.” Wesley sags in his chair. “Ugh. Somebody needs to stop you.”

I’m unstoppable. I envision myself reading press validation that my hotel is a hit. Positive reviews on my website. This can be a place where newlyweds and families and best friends on a road trip build happy memories. And maybe they come back year after year, making it a tradition. It’s all I could ever want, to be a part of that, for the journeys of strangers to bring them here, where they’ll make new friends with each other (and, I can’t help hoping, with me). Falling Stars will always be the happy-memories place for me—a warm and loving home. I want to share that with the world.

The first year is going to be a hurricane. Endless organizing, cooking, cleaning. And shopping. For meal prep alone, so much shopping. The draw of Falling Stars is its solitude, where you can see the stars and hear yourself think. Hiking. Exploring. Isolation. I’m selling Zen here. Guests won’t want to make a thirty-minute