Bed and Breakup

1

Molly

If you’d told me at any point in the past seven years that I’d wind up back in Eureka Springs, I’d have laughed in your face. There are far too many ghosts in that town—not just the “real” ones tourists pay to hear about, but personal ones too. Eureka’s signature way of living in the past is less fun when it’s full of memories you’re desperate to forget.

Yet here I am, driving through the Ozarks on a winding highway that feels all too familiar.

It’s not exactly the same, of course. Some of the old antique shops are now axe-throwing studios and medical-marijuana dispensaries. I spotted a few electric-car charging kiosks where there used to be gas stations. Most of the Confederate flags have been replaced with signs for far-right politicians. But the exposed rock formations along the road, the surprise waterfalls around random curves, and the verdant summer growth all remind me of the breathtaking beauty ahead. I have to travel through the worst part of Arkansas to get to the best.

“Rise and shine, Marmalade. We’re almost there,” I say to the fat gray cat in a carrier in the passenger seat. She’s too deep asleep to notice. After spending the past seven years on the road, Marmalade is more comfortable in my car than out of it.

As soon as I turn in to Eureka Springs’ historic downtown, I feel like I’ve traveled back in time. That’s the town’s appeal, what’s drawn visitors for decades. People go nuts for the Victorian architecture, the Prohibition-era lore, the restaurants built in caves. And crowds flock to the natural springs, long rumored to hold mystical healing powers that have led to a whole industry of quirky woo-woo shops touting spiritual cleansing, tarot readings, and crystals.

Personally, I’m not time traveling back to the turn of the nineteenth century like the tourists admiring the Gothic Revival architecture. I’m flung back to 2012, when I thought I’d found the place where I was meant to be. And to 2018, when I was proved monumentally wrong. When my wife gave up on our marriage, our shared business, and our future in Eureka. When I learned I was meant to be alone.

Unprepared to face my destination, I spend half an hour tooling around the twisty streets, finishing the last chapter of my audiobook, a historical mystery involving a library and a lady detective. Cars move at a crawl near downtown thanks to Eureka’s refusal to install traffic lights, and out-of-towners in shorts and tank tops fill the sidewalks. It’s a relief to see the town isn’t completely the same. Some of the old hotels have gotten a makeover. Restaurants have changed ownership. The old stage at Basin Park has a fresh coat of paint. Maybe it’s not exactly the place I left behind. But it’s also a reminder of how long it’s been since I left. How much I’ve changed too.

Once my audiobook ends—I knew it was the sketchy antique-book collector—I debate starting another one just to put off the inevitable. But it’s getting late. I need to stretch my aching back, feed Marmalade her dinner, and see if my old art studio is still in shape for the work I need to do.

I take a right onto Magnolia Lane, and from there, it’s muscle memory. I pass the old brick bank and the trolley stop, loop around a rocky bend of mountain, and there it is. The pastel-colored Victorian home that changed my life, looking just as gorgeous as I remember it.

Heading up the driveway, I feel ripped in two. On the one hand, my skin is burning like a sinner in church. This place is bad for me. But on the other hand, I can’t help but swoon. I fell in love with this building the first time I laid eyes on it. Its intricately carved gingerbread trim painted playful shades of pink and green and blue, its wraparound porch that invites you to pull up a rocking chair and stay for a while, and the enormous, gleaming stained-glass window in the front, a portrait of a hummingbird paused mid-flight. Even now, it seems to be looking right at me and chirping, “Welcome home.”

Still, I hesitate to open the car door and set foot on the inn’s grounds. I left this place heartbroken. Even years later, those feelings haven’t completely healed. Why am I doing this? How did my best friend talk me into coming back here?

Marmalade meows from beside me, blinking away sleep now that the car has stopped.

“Sorry, Marmee,” I say, unlatching the front of her carrier. “Take a look around. Lord knows you could use the exercise.”

I open the driver’s-side door. Marmalade walks across the console, pauses to stretch on my lap, then hops to the ground with a thud. She takes a few curious sniffs of grass, then spots a butterfly and makes a lazy pounce for it, missing by at least a foot. Never a very good hunter, my Marmalade.

“Do you remember this yard?” I ask the cat. “This is where we met. You were a lot smaller then. I was probably a little smaller too.”

Marmalade looks up sharply at the house, then goes galloping toward it.

“I guess you do.” I haven’t seen her move so fast in a while. Just last week in my New Orleans studio, she hardly even looked up when a mouse ran right past her nose.

I grab a couple of bags from the back seat but freeze in place when I see a figure on the front porch. The inn should be empty. Is it a nosy neighbor? A squatter? One of Eureka Springs’ famous ghosts? It’s probably a trick of the light. But then I spot Marmee rubbing herself against its ankles. Oh god, it is a real person.

“Marmalade? Is that you?” says a voice that sends a chill down my spine.

I can’t believe it. This must be a nightmare.

The figure bends down to stroke Marmalade’s back. I pinch myself, refusing to admit I’m wide awake, and accidentally drop my bags in the process, drawing her attention. We make eye contact, and I know immediately that my worst possible nightmare scenario has somehow come true.

It’s the scariest ghost I could imagine: my ex-wife. Robin. Here, at the Hummingbird Inn.

There are a million things I want to say to her, but the only word I manage right now is “f***.”