Love Story at the Stop-Inn
By Jon Arthur Kitson
Her car pulled into the parking lot across the road. Tim watched through the office window. Streetlights stretched her shadow. She paused at the road, then crossed. Outside the office, her curly auburn hair caught in the glow of the neon 'vacancy' sign and briefly blazed.
A breeze followed her in. The tourist brochures on the counter fluttered.
“Why are you here?” He stared past her.
“Because I love you, Tim.”
“Don't give me that.” The words, like venom, tried to kill the hurt.. the rejection, he still felt. “You're ashamed of me.”
“I'm not,” her eyes wide, like a child's watching a balloon drift away. “Please, let me explain.”
But he didn't. Tim wanted to be angry. To vent.
“Even tonight, Sara,” voice steady.. cold, “you come here and tell me you love me, but you won't even be seen in my parking lot.” His chin jutted towards her car.
She didn't look, studied the threadbare carpet, instead.
“I'm sick of sneaking around. Driving twenty miles out of town for a date. Pretending we don't know each other because the wrong people might find out. We're adults, Sara. Both single. We're not doing anything wrong.” Tim kicked his feet onto the tall reception counter, folded his arms high across his chest. “You wanted a chance to explain, go ahead.”
She kept her eyes on the floor. “When we saw the Joneses at the park today, I was ashamed,” she looked up; cut off the 'I told you so'. “I was ashamed of myself.”
Tim knew it was the truth. He loved her, too.
“What do you mean?” He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how arrogant he looked sitting there.
“When we saw the Joneses and I moved away from you.. let go of your hand,” her index finger found a curl and twisted, “I did it without thinking. That's why I'm ashamed of myself.” Tears welled. “It's become second nature to pretend we're not in love.”
The tears fell.
Tim came from behind the counter. He pulled her into his arms.
“I'm so sorry,” she said between sobs, “Never again. I swear.”
“No, I'm sorry. I was acting like a jerk.” He meant it, the hurt he'd felt seemed unjustified now. “I forgot how hard this has been on you.” Then, “the Joneses.. they're from the church, aren't they?”
She nodded into his shoulder. “I mean it, Tim, I'm done pretending. I told my sister about us tonight.” She laughed against him. “If I know her, the rest of the church will know by tomorrow morning.”
Tim held her tighter.
They could have stayed like that all night, but the flash of headlights in the parking lot broke their embrace. Tim moved back behind the counter, Sara fished a tissue from her purse.
A man and woman climbed out of the car. He loosened his tie while she stumbled over her heels and into his arms. They kissed passionately.
Sara gave Tim a coy smile. He returned it, making her blush.
The kiss turned into groping. Sara looked away, the red in her cheeks deepening. Tim took a key from the peg board on the wall.
The couple walked towards the office, wrapped in each others' arms. The woman stopped them outside the door. She looked across the road.
“Damn,” Tim said. Sara looked out the window.
They followed the woman's gaze to the lighted Cross on the church's lawn and the sign beneath it; God sees behind closed doors. Next to that, a spotlit plywood sign. 'Your marriage is worth saving' neatly painted in red.
The woman pulled away. The man pleaded, tried to pull her back into his arms. She pushed him off, walked back to the car. The man stood there, anger and rejection fighting for a place on his face. Anger won and he stormed back to the car.
Tim and Sara heard the door slam. Tires squealed as the couple pulled out.
“Second one tonight.” Tim hung the room key back on its peg. “If this keeps up I'm going to lose the motel.”
“Oh, Tim, why didn't you tell me it'd gotten that bad?”
Tim glared. How could she not know?
“What did you think? That nothing would come of everything they've been doing?”
“I.. I didn't realize.” Her finger found the curl again.
“You didn't realize?” His jaw tightened. “The signs? The revival meetings on the front lawn? The fliers? The radio spots warning people about the 'den of sin' in their own backyard? The story on the evening news?” His fists balled on the counter. “The goddamn evening news! You didn't think that would stop people from coming?” The venom was back, their embrace forgotten. “Are you that clueless?”
She dropped the curl.
“No, I'm not clueless.” Sara's eyes fixed on him. “Are you? Do you really think what goes on here is okay?”
“What goes on here? Do you know what went on here before I bought the place? Before anyone was trying to shut it down?” Tim's eyebrows were high. “Pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers. I ran them all off.”
“That may be, but most of the people who still come here are doing it to cheat. You're okay with that?” She took a deep breath, made her voice soft. “Even after what you told me?”
It was like he had been stung. She knew about his ex-wife.
“What two people do behind closed doors isn't any of my business,” he said, letting anger barrel over the pain. “You said that's the way you felt, too. So, what? Did you lie to me?” He accused. “Do you agree with what the church is doing?”
“No,” she said, “I didn't lie to you. What people do isn't any of my business, but that doesn't mean it isn't wrong. I agree with the church's message, just not their method.”
“Then find another church! There are plenty of others. And none of them are trying to shut me down.”
Her eyes widened. He'd promised never to ask her to do that.
“It's not that easy.” Her voice quiet. “They're my family. After my divorce they took me in.” She looked out the window, at the Cross. “They made me feel loved.”
“What, then, are you going to keep hiding me from them until I end up in the poor house? Wait until I'm broke, then walk me down their aisle?”
Sara's head snapped around. They'd never talked about marriage, but both knew that's where they were heading. At least it had been.
Rain began to tap against the window.
“I told you, I'm done hiding our love,” she said after a few minutes. “They're good people, Tim, they think what they're doing is right, that they're helping.” She moved close, put her hand on his.
He felt the same spark he had felt when they first exchanged numbers in the grocery store parking lot. Before she knew he owned The Stop-Inn and he knew that she attended The Good Shepherd church.
“They'll be happy for me,” she said, “for us. We can go before the congregation and you can tell your side of the story. They'll listen, you'll see. Pastor Andrew will listen. He's a good man.”
Tim pulled his hand away, like a hot ember had landed on it.
Sara jumped.
She didn't know. He had never told her. Never told anyone.
Two years ago, just before construction of the new church had finished, Tim sat in the office and watched Pastor Andrew cross the road. A pretty young woman on his arm. They stumbled in, the smell of wine all over them, and rented a room.
It happened twice more that month. The pastor paid with a credit card each time.
A couple of months later, after the church had opened, Tim once again watched the pastor from the office window, this time as an older woman screamed at him in the empty church parking lot. She waved a credit card statement in his face.
The attacks on his motel started the next Sunday.
At first he kept quiet out of pride, wanting to prove he was the bigger man. Then he said nothing because of Sara.
He considered telling her now, reveal the lie that her and the sheep were following.
Tim opened his mouth-
Sara looked at him, eyes wet.. and scared.
“To them I'm no better than Satan,” he said, instead. Protecting her, even now. He looked out the window. Rain smeared the image of the Cross. “You can't have us both.” It was a question.
She didn't answer.
Tim turned toward her. Waited.
Sara still said nothing.
“I hope you'll be happy,” he said.
“Tim, don't..,” she said, but he looked away. “Tim?”
After a few minutes, she left.
He watched her walk across the parking lot, moving slow like a wounded animal. He turned away, looked at the photographs on the walls.
How long had it been since he'd looked at them? Seen them? He rose, ran a finger across their dusty frames.
They were of the motel, but from long before the paint had faded and the driveway cracked. Families picnicked on the front lawn, children splashed in the pool.
That first year he had looked at them everyday. Stared at them as he drove off the pimps and druggies. They were the armor that protected him from screaming prostitutes and angry johns. Slowly, they became visions of the future, not just windows to the past.
Then the church started their crusade. The photographs faded into the wallpaper, overpowered by the Cross through the window. Progress stagnated and he went on the defensive. As long as the law breakers didn't come back he stopped caring who rented his rooms. If they were cheaters -he could always tell by the guilt in their eyes- then so be it. A thumb to the nose at the church.
Tim's shoulders fell. He looked at his reflection inside one of the frames; couldn't look into his own eyes. When had each cheater become a victory?
What was he fighting for? Them or his business? What about the future? Were the happy families just a memory? Why wasn't he fighting for them?
Why had he let go of his dream?
Tim looked past his reflection, saw the photograph. A young couple sat on a porch swing, hands folded together. Love beamed from their eyes.
Why was he letting go of her?
Travel brochures flew across the office as he ran out the door.
The last six months with Sara had been the happiest of his life. Despite the obstacles, they'd fallen in love. If they could do that then they were meant to be together.
“Sara!” He yelled through the rain.
She stopped in the road, turned towards his voice: “Tim?”
He ran to her, wrapped her in his arms.
“I'm so sorry,” he said, tears mixing with the rain, “please forgive me. I don't know how, but we'll make it work. I love you.”
“I'm sorry, too.” She melted into him. “We will make it work. I love you so much.”
Tim put his lips against her's. Headlights broke through the rain.
They kissed like they were the only two people in the world.
The car swerved, showering them with water. Sara guided them off the road.
They wiped mud from each other's face. Laughed. Hands held tight, shoulders touching, they walked back to the motel.
- - -
Jon Arthur Kitson lives in Michigan. In addtion to writing, he blogs about other great short stories found on the web. His story It Eats Chocolate recently won the October writing contest at freeflashfiction.com.
