Page 34 of The Weekend Crashers
“A month ago. Thirty-two days ago, to be exact. But then when I checked before leaving last night, it was gone. And it’s not like we have a trip coming up or anything where it’s like oh, obviously he’s waiting for that. And sure, he could have moved it somewhere else. But why would he? No, I feel there’s a disconnect.”
Maggie is panicked.
She and Piper do not lie to one another. They’ve had it pretty easy as far as mother-daughter relationships go. She’d been warned by countless articles and books about the Terrible Twos, and then it waswatch out for middle school, and then the common knowledge that her daughter would hate her throughout high school as she established her own identity. But none of those things happened. And Maggie felt not just lucky, but a little smug. She and Piper are different.
“Piper, again, I think maybe he’s waiting for the right time.And I give him credit for that. You have other priorities right now.”
Piper doesn’t say anything.
Maggie, her eyes wide open, is thankful for the darkness.
There’s only one way to fix this: She’s going to have to tell Ethan to disregard what she said about the timing. She’ll tell him she was wrong, that if he thinks this is what Piper would want, then he should act accordingly. But for now, she just wants to end the conversation.
“Piper, try to get some sleep.”
“Okay. I will. Thanks for listening,” Piper says. “You’re the only one I can talk to about this.”
Maggie swallows hard. The joy she experiences from the compliment is tempered by a fresh wave of guilt. As soon as they’re back in the city, she’ll talk to Ethan.
Until then, she’ll make sure she and Piper have so much fun this weekend, neither one of them gives it another thought.
Belinda had an epiphany earlier that night. An unwelcome one.
It happened somewhere between the braised lamb shank and the chocolate custard with blueberry-lavender compote: She heard herself telling the story of how she and Max fell in love with this historic place—not just the inn, but also the town—and realized it was home. Until that moment, it had somehow still felt temporary, an experiment, a phase. But now that they were leaving, she realized it was the longest she’d ever lived in one place since childhood. No wonder she doesn’t want to leave.
After dinner, she convinced herself the nostalgia was because of the wine. But as she settles into bed next to Max, she understands that it wasn’t the wine. This was her first retreat since agreeing to explore a sale. And it’s giving her second thoughts.
Their living quarters are two guest rooms combined into one suite with a full kitchen, a living area, and a bedroom. Briefly, years ago, Max had converted the living room into a second bedroom because Belinda hit perimenopause and needed the room to be so cold at night, Max couldn’t sleep. Separate bedrooms seemed to be a logical solution, until Max came storming into hers one day and announced, “Do you know we spend the equivalent of twenty-five years of our lives asleep? I refuse to spend that much time apart.” From that night on, they negotiated a compromised sleep climate.
Really, so much of their lives together in New Hope had been a compromise. Moving there in the first place. After spending the first decade of their marriage in center city Philadelphia, she agreed to the experiment in small-town living, certain Max would get it out of his system and they’d be back downtown in time for the next SEPTA strike.
But then he discovered the inn for sale. It wasn’t something they’d planned, but it had fallen into place so easily. Like it was meant to be.
Beside her in bed, Max is readingThe Philadelphia Inquirer. As a former reporter for the newspaper, he still insists on getting the print edition, and she also likes having physical copies around. If it wasn’t for theInquirer, they never would have met. Max was covering the local beat and was assigned to do a piece on South Street businesses. She’d recently opened her knitting shop, South Street Knits, and he interviewed her. When the piece published, Max hand-delivered a few copies to the shop and asked her out to dinner. The rest, as they say, is history.
“How’s everyone getting along down there?” he says, turning the page absently.
“You mean my knitters and your bachelors?” she says, reaching down to the canvas bag on the floor next to the bed. She pulls out the scarf she started last night. At the end of eachday, she relaxes by knitting something mindless, a habit that’s resulted in endless hats, scarves and socks that she donates to Goodwill. “I have a feeling this might be an accidental stroke of scheduling genius.”
She watches his mouth curve into a slow smile, one that still surprises her with its charm. But it’s his eyes—those dark, steady eyes—that truly captivate her. They still catch her off guard with their intensity, like they did the first day he walked into her knitting shop.
Max reaches out and touches her, and they kiss. For now, the issue of the inn is forgotten. Her entire body stirs with desire for him, and she drops her knitting to the floor. Max unties the sash of her robe. Being with him now, physically, is about more than just passion—though the passion is still there. It’s also about memory, weighted with what they’ve built and endured together.
Afterward, she lies in the crook of his arm, the covers pulled high to her shoulders. She feels a chill and moves closer to his body.
“Max, I’m having second thoughts.”
“About what?”
“About selling.”
He sighs. “Bee, we’ve discussed this. If we’re going to have another chapter, another adventure, the time is now.”
Max has always been a searcher. A dreamer. It’s part of why she’s his perfect counterbalance: She’s practical. Methodical. Rooted. It’s what gives her the patience to knit. Stitch by stitch, she creates beautiful things. Some projects take months of devotion. Errors are made, rows ripped out, progress. Max would never be capable of knitting.
But Belinda is not afraid of mistakes. There’d been a time when Max made a huge one. And they almost separated over it. Instead, they moved to New Hope.
Buying the inn had given them a good excuse to uproot themselves from the city. The inn was something they could tell their friends in art and journalism. Falling in love with a charming, small-town inn for sale was a good narrative. It was unassailable—admirable, even.
