I loved this inn.

The back part of the property, beyond the courtyard, had four cottages, but Grandma Jo had been trying for a while to get approval for a fifth from the local zoning board so she could move the spa from inside the main house to create a fuller guest experience. That had been her dream for a while now, convinced it would give the Hoyden its own identity to draw tourists to town for something other than the quirky Christmas factor.

But the board kept denying her requests. Their reasons were flimsy and she was convinced it was their way to try to strong-arm her into changing the inn’s name so it was thematically consistent with the rest of the town.

But she wouldn’t give in. And I admired her for that.

When I entered the kitchen, I found my dad standing beside the white marble–topped island, in the process of making a pimento cheese sandwich on white bread.

Which was bad.

And not just for his digestion.

Pimento cheese on white bread was a very clear sign that Dad was feeling like crap and in need of comfort food, and sadly, this was his go-to.

Had the situation been different, I would have given him grief for his poor meal choice. But I couldn’t do that to him now. Not after learning about his and Mom’s separation, the reason he was now living in one of the cottages behind his own mother’s inn, and not at the house across town he had bought twelve years ago.

Mom was “taking some time for herself,” which was Dad’s way of explaining why she wasn’t home when I arrived a week ago. She was at some kind of retreat in Branson, Missouri, with Aunt Jennifer.

And not returning home despite my arrival. We hadn’t spoken yet, only exchanged a few brief and wholly unsatisfying texts.

It was weird. Everything was weird.

“Hey, sport,” Dad said while chewing. He leaned his hip against the counter and slouched.

My dad—Vernon Lee “Skip” Brown, for the record—was pretty good-looking, as far as dads go. Had all his hair and he didn’t have a growing tire around his middle like so many of my friends’ fathers. But at thirty-four, Dad was also younger than most of my friends’ dads, so he still had that going for him. Thankfully he didn’t use his relative youth as an excuse to try to be my buddy instead of my parent. That would be the worst.

“Hey,” I said back, then set down the empty plastic birdseed cup.