Page 95 of The Weekend Crashers
The yarn swap.
Maggie stands up. “Belinda. I think I figured out what to do tomorrow.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Saturday
Maggie stands in front of the inn with Belinda. Elaine should be arriving any minute.
The morning is bright but damp, the river shrouded under a veil of soft mist. The air carries the fragrance of rich soil. Leaves cover the lawn, and on a morning like this it’s easy to remember that under the blanket of foliage, nature is working its alchemy to prepare for winter. Maggie inhales, fortifying herself to work her own sort of magic, to find a way to combine her past and her present to prepare for the future.
The plan is they’ll give Elaine a tour of the inn, culminating with the Purl, and then Bucks Tavern to talk over lunch.
Elaine’s car pulls up right on time. Elaine steps out of her car dressed in a gray wool pencil skirt and a houndstooth blazer. Her high heels are impractical, and when they sink into the soft earth, she says, “Clearly I’ve been in the city far too long.”
Maggie makes the introductions, and they walk inside, making easy small talk about the area.
“And Maggie told me you grew up here? All through high school?” Belinda says.
“That’s right. I went to New Hope-Solebury High.”
“It must have been an incredible place to be young.”
“Oh, this town in the eighties? Nothing will compare.When I moved to New York after college, I was the only one unimpressed with the village.”
“Well, welcome home. I really appreciate you coming on such short notice.”
“My pleasure. I’ve known Maggie for over twenty years and I’ve never seen her this excited about anything before. Aside from that gorgeous daughter of hers. But who can blame her?”
“Wonderful young woman,” Belinda agrees.
“You two do know I’m still here, right?” Maggie teases. It feels remarkably natural to have the two of them together. By now, they’re in the lobby. She wonders if Elaine is experiencing the entrance the way she herself had last weekend—if she’s taking in the pumpkin pine floors and the antique moldings and that warm apple butter scent. She looks at the spot where Scott Cavanaugh and his friend tossed around a ball that first morning and feels a weird flash of nostalgia. Can she be nostalgic for something that happened just a week ago?
Belinda sets the pace of their stroll—energetic but leisurely. She asks Elaine more questions, and Maggie can tell she’s trying to gauge the extent of her history with the inn.
“My mother used to take me here for Sunday tea,” Elaine says. “This predates your ownership, obviously. And when I first revisited a few years ago, I was impressed by how much of the original feeling and sensibility was preserved. You and your husband did a fantastic job.”
Belinda thanks her, and the groups makes a turn down the hall toward Bucks Tavern.
Elaine asks if she operates the restaurant as well.
“The restaurant is independently owned—they lease the space. The chef is a Bucks County native, and the menu changes seasonally. The bar serves craft beer, artisanal wineand signature cocktails. There’s a table waiting for us as soon as we finish the tour.”
Their next stop is one flight up, the second floor, so Elaine can see a few examples of the accommodations. “The common areas and guest rooms are a mix of antique and reproduction furniture...”
“And all the guest rooms facing northeast have a water view...”
When Elaine asks about the knitting retreats, Belinda looks at Maggie and gives her a nearly imperceptible wink. “Well, any conversation about the knitting retreats should take place in the Purl.”
The trio heads back downstairs through the lobby, where a staffer Belinda called in last-minute is busy checking in two guests. Belinda greets them, but keeps things moving. “I created the room we’re going to next with the knitting retreats in mind, converting ground-floor guest rooms into a private event space. Its official name is the Pearl S. Buck Room, but we call it ‘the Purl’ spelled with au.”
“I love that,” Elaine says.
“Welcome to our little knitters’ sanctuary,” Maggie says, opening the doors.
The room is full of people everywhere, the couches, the armchairs, the high-back wooden chairs—all filled with knitters. Dozens of people showed up for Belinda’s email blast announcing a pop-up “Yarn Swap and Sip & Stitch.” The only price of admission was one skein of yarn for donation, and some yarn to swap.
Maggie and Belinda managed to pull off a last-minute rustic morning picnic vibe. Tables are set with burlap runners, bowls of fresh fruit and handcrafted coffee mugs. Shelves and ledges are decorated with mason jars stuffed with zinnias anddahlias, and a hot cider station is surrounded by mini pumpkins. The fireplace is lit, and the misty sliding glass doors open to the backdrop of the river. And everywhere, yarn: soft merino wool in muted earth tones, shimmering silk blends in jewel hues, hand-dyed skeins with unique color gradients. The swap table overflows with bundles tagged with fiber type and yardage, some with notes from the donators with messages like, “Perfect for a summer wrap” or “Leftover from a hat project.”
