Hattie
“Maple Sugar Inn, how may I help you?” Hattie answered the phone with a
smile on her face because she’d discovered that it was impossible to sound
defeated, moody or close to tears when you were smiling, and currently she was
all those things.
“I’ve been planning a trip to Vermont in
winter for years and then I spotted pictures of your inn on social media,” a
woman gushed, “and it looks so cozy and welcoming. The type of place you can’t
help but relax.”
It’s
an illusion, Hattie thought. There was no relaxation
to be had here; not for her, at any rate. Her head throbbed and her eyes
pricked following another night without sleep. The head housekeeper was
threatening to walk out and the executive chef had been late two nights running
and she was worried tonight might be the third, which would be a disaster
because they were fully booked. Chef Tucker had earned their restaurant that
coveted star, and his confit of duck had been known to induce moans of ecstasy
from diners, but there were days when Hattie would have traded that star for a
chef with a more even temperament. His temper was so hot she sometimes wondered
why he bothered switching on the grill. He could have yelled at the duck, and it
would have been thoroughly singed in the flames of his anger. He was being
disrespectful and taking advantage of her. Hattie knew that, and she also knew
she should probably fire him but Brent had chosen him and firing him would
have severed another thread from the past. Also, conflict drained her energy
and right now she didn’t have enough of that to go around. It was simpler to
placate him.
“I’m glad you’re impressed,” she said to
the woman on the phone. “Can I make a reservation for you?”
“I hope so, but I’m very particular about
the room. Can I tell you what I need?”
“Of course.” Bracing herself for a long
and unachievable wish list, Hattie resisted the temptation to smack her
forehead onto the desk. Instead, she reached for a pad of paper and pen that
was always handy. “Go ahead.”
How bad could it be? A woman the week before
had wanted to know if she could bring her pet rat with her on vacation—answer:
no!—and a man the week before that had demanded that she turn down the sound of
the river that ran outside his bedroom window because it was keeping him awake.
She went above and beyond in her attempts
to satisfy the whims of guests but there were limits.
“I’d like the room to have a mountain
view,” the woman said. “And a real fire would be a nice extra.”
“All our rooms have real fires,” Hattie
said, “and the rooms at the back have wonderful views of the mountains. The
ones at the front face the river.”
She relaxed slightly. So far, so
straightforward.
“Mountains for me. Also, I’m particular
about bedding. After all, we spend a third of our lives asleep so it’s
important, don’t you agree?”
Hattie felt a twinge of envy. She
definitely didn’t spend a third of her life asleep. With having a young child,
owning an inn and grieving the loss of her husband, she barely slept at all.
She dreamed of sleep but sadly, usually when she was awake.
“Bedding is important.” She said what was
expected of her, which was what she’d been doing since the police had knocked
on her door two years earlier to tell her that her beloved Brent had been
killed instantly in a freak accident. A brick had fallen from a building as
he’d been walking past on his way to the bank and struck him on the head.
It was mortifying to remember that her
initial reaction had been to laugh—she’d been convinced it was a joke, because
normal people didn’t get killed by random bricks falling from buildings, did
they?—but then she’d realized they weren’t laughing and it probably wasn’t
because they didn’t have a sense of humor.
She’d asked them if they were sure he was dead, and then had to
apologize for questioning them because of course they were sure. How often did
the police follow we’re sorry to have to
tell you…with oops, we made a
mistake.
After they’d repeated the bad news, she’d
thanked them politely. Then she’d made them a cup of tea because she was a)
half British and b) very much in shock.
When they’d drunk their tea and eaten two
of her homemade cinnamon cookies, she’d shown them out as if they were
treasured guests who had honored her with their presence, and not people who
had just shattered her world in one short conversation.
She’d stared at the closed door for a
full five minutes after they’d left while she’d tried to process it. In a
matter of minutes her life had utterly changed, the future she’d planned with
Brent stolen, her hopes crushed.
Even though two years had passed, there
were still days when it felt unreal. Days when she still expected Brent to walk
through the door with that bouncing stride of his, full of excitement because
he’d had one of his brilliant ideas that he couldn’t wait to share with her.
I
think we should get married…
I
think we should start a family…
I
think we should buy that historic inn we saw on our trip to Vermont…
They’d met in England during their final
year of college and from the first moment she’d been swept away on the tide of
Brent’s enthusiasm. After graduating, they’d both taken jobs in London but then
two things had happened. Brent’s grandmother had died, leaving him a generous
sum of money, and they’d taken a trip to Vermont. They’d fallen in love with
the place, and now here she was, a widow at the age of twenty-eight, raising
their five-year-old child and managing the historic inn. Alone. Since she’d
lost Brent she’d tried to keep everything going the way he’d wanted it, but
that wasn’t proving easy. She worried that she wasn’t able to do this on her
own. She worried that she was going to lose the inn. Most of all she worried
that she wasn’t going to be enough for their daughter. Now Brent was gone she
had to be two people—how could she be two people when most days she didn’t even
feel whole?
She realized that while she’d been
indulging in a moment of maudlin self-pity, the woman on the phone was still
talking. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”
“I’d like the bedsheets to be linen
because I do struggle with overheating.”
“We have linen bedding, so that won’t be
a problem.”
“And pink.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like the linen to be pink. I find I
sleep better. White is too glaring and drab colors depress me.”
Pink.
“I’ll make a note.” She grabbed a notepad
and scribbled Help followed by four
exclamation marks. She might have
written something ruder, but her daughter was a remarkably good reader and was
given to demonstrating that skill wherever and whenever she could, so Hattie
had learned to be mindful of what she wrote and left lying around. “Did you
have a particular date in mind?”
“Christmas. It’s the best time, isn’t
it?”
Not
for me, Hattie thought, as she checked the room
occupancy. The first Christmas after Brent had died had been hideous, and
last year hadn’t been much better. She’d wanted to burrow under the covers
until it was all over, but instead, she’d been expected to inject festive joy
into other people’s lives. And now it was the end of November again and
Christmas was just weeks away.
Still, providing she didn’t lose any more
staff, she’d no doubt find a way to muddle through. She’d survived it twice,
and she’d survive it a third time.
“You’re in luck. We do still have a few
rooms available, including one double facing the mountains. Would you like me
to reserve that for you?”
“Is it a corner room? I do like more than
one window.”
“It’s not a corner room, and there is
only one window in this particular room, but it has wonderful views and a
covered balcony.”
“There’s no way of getting a second
window?”
“Sadly not.” What was she supposed to do?
Knock a hole through the wall? “But I can send you a video of the room before
you make your choice if that would help.”
By the time she’d taken the woman’s email
address, put a hold on the room for twenty-four hours and answered the rest of
her questions, half an hour had passed.
When the woman finally ended the call,
Hattie sighed. Christmas promised to be a nightmare. She made a note under the
reservation. Pink sheets. Linen.
How would Brent handle it? It was a
question she asked herself a million times a day and she allowed herself to
glance at one of the two photographs she kept on the desk. This one was of
Brent swinging their daughter high in the air. Both were laughing. Sometimes,
she’d discovered, remembering the best of times sustained you through the
worst.
