Myrtle May was a walking Christmas tree with her bright red hair, lime green kimono billowing behind her like a superhero cape, purple T-shirt, and white pants. Her toes, painted a wild red, peeped out of her zebra-striped sandals, and her penciled-on eyebrows were always raised in a quizzical expression. Her sweet golden retriever, Bart, entered the room and set his big golden head on Mr. Graham’s leg.
“Came to do business with Ben here.” Mr. Graham stroked Bart’s head. “You’re looking mighty fine as always, Myrtle May.”
“Larry G., hush up, you’re making my heart go pitter-patter.” She smiled and tapped his shoulder as she turned to Ben. “Walt’s in the kitchen banging pots and muttering about his veggie supplier. I’ve told him a hundred million times—” She looked at Mr. Graham. “I exaggerate, but you know already.”
“Go on.”
“I told him to talk to you. There’s a supplier in Ashland City who’d be more than happy to sign on with us. I also heard a local guy, JW Namath, was considering selling his produce.”
“If you ask me,” Mr. Graham said, “Walt just likes to complain. If it’s not the vegetable vendor, it’s the meat guy or the amount of soap concentration in the stuff he uses for mopping.”
Myrtle May made a face at Ben while pointing to Mr. Graham. “Genius, right here, right now.”
“Tell me,” Mr. Graham said. “Are you two still fighting over who spilled the popcorn at the Bijou in 1964?”
“It was him, I tell you. Hot buttered popcorn all over my brand-new skirt.”
“As I recall, that skirt was so short we weren’t sure it could be called a skirt.”
“Larry Graham, I declare.” Myrtle May sputtered a laugh. “I had great legs back then, didn’t I?” She wagged her finger under his nose. “Don’t answer. Your wife is a good friend of mine. Are you sticking around for lunch?”
“Is it tuna sandwich day?” Mr. Graham stood and stretched his lower back.
“Every Tuesday.”
“Then pass.” Mr. Graham shook Ben’s hand and told him to call him if he needed anything. Then he patted Myrtle’s arm. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”
Ben glanced at his great-aunt. “What’s with the tuna sandwich?”
“Don’t tell me you can’t smell them. They stink to high heaven. Ben, I need you to watch reception for a bit.” She pointed in the direction of the desk. “See, I remembered to come tell you. I have a hair appointment this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” he said. “But I need to know when you take the dog outside too.”
“I don’t have time. When Bart has to go, he has to go!” With that, she spun on her heel and left singing in her loud, off-key manner. “What a mighty God we serve—” Her voice was, thankfully, cut off by the slamming of the back door.
“She’s a force of nature, that one.” Mr. Graham chuckled.
“You’re telling me.” Ben stepped around the desk toward the door. “I’ll walk up front with you.”
“No need. I’ll stop by the kitchen, see if Walt has any cookies left.” He paused at the office door. “I know this news about the inn isn’t what you wanted to hear.”
“Hardly, Mr. Graham. But I need to decide soon. My boss, a marquee hotel, and my apartment overlooking Sydney Harbor are waiting for me in Sydney.”
“Then let Frank Hardy have it for what you owe the bank.”
“You can’t find an investor, someone to love the place back to life?”
“Seems to me,” Mr. Graham said, jutting out his chin, “that’s what your granny saw in you.”
“Granny told me to live my life, not to worry about this place. She was proud of me.”
“Yes, she was. Told me every time we met. ‘Guess where Ben is now?’ she’d say. ‘Budapest. Can you believe it?’”
“Mr. Graham, I’m asking, what would she want me to do?”
“Well, son, I can only guess based on our forty years of friendship and singing with her in the church choir, but I think she’d want you to talk to the Lord about it. He?—”
“The Lord and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”
