13

That same dream began to plague me every night. I wasn’t stupid. I knew it reflected a picture of the stress I felt. But why a dream that told me what I already knew? Why not include a solution? Why did I find it so hard to pray? Prayer had been like breathing before. Now it felt like a brick wall between God and me. I’d always felt so strong, as if I was standing on a solid rock foundation that nothing could move. I had felt that way up until Mom got sick.

The quiet of my apartment in the early morning held no defense against the memories, so I just let them flood over me. Mom’s brave announcement that she had breast cancer and opted for radical surgery. Dad sitting, white as a sheet, by her side as she talked to me. I remember his hands trembling. I’d never seen fear on my father’s face before. The foundation shook.

My protective instincts kicked in. I’d just worked, taking on more and more of Dad’s responsibilities so he could spend time with Mom. When she got too sick to run the inn, we stopped booking guests. Hospice set up at the inn the last two weeks.

I still reeled from my Mom’s death, and then Dad had his stroke. He hadn’t done anything strenuous for months while he took care of Mom. After the funeral, he tried to go back to work at the washout, but the months of taking care of her, being inside, no exercise, it took a toll on him. The doctor said he hadn’t taken very good care of himself the whole time he took care of Mom. He recovered some of his physical strength, but his speech was affected, and he repeated everything in threes.

I cooked for him, washed his clothes, helped him bathe, and put him to bed, all of it. Plus, handled all the work of three businesses. The inn went by the wayside until Bailey came along.

That same fear and earth-shaking insecurity that I’d experienced through that trial plagued me now. I wasn’t ready to die, but it just seemed as if it was the natural course of things for the West family. The last thing I would do would be to drag Bailey down in this sad state of affairs.

If it wasn’t the stress dream in the diner, it was the dream about my mother in her blue dress standing among the flames in Pinewood Manor, telling me she’d never leave me. I must be losing my mind.

So how would I tell Bailey? I didn’t want her pity, but she’d probably understand if I said I was going to die. But I knew my beloved. She’d say it didn’t matter. I’d better not give too much reason; just tell her it wouldn’t work out. And if I had to lose her, I couldn’t have her just down the street. I’d have to get her out of the inn. I decided to sell it. I could put it on the market and then tell her. Something. Anything. No way would I get out of this without looking like a jerk, but it was best for her.

The sooner, the better.