Page 35 of The Weekend Crashers
Up until the moment they signed the paperwork, she’d never fully believed Max was serious about it. She felt the bid was an exercise to show how far he’d go to save their marriage. But then to both of their surprise, they got it. From that point on, she viewed their worst relationship crisis as a happy accident that served to bring them to the place where they belonged.
“I know we discussed the offer on the inn. And I know you’re already making plans. But I think it’s a mistake.”
“You’re just getting cold feet,” he says. “That’s normal.”
“Max,” she says carefully. “We’ve built a life here.”
He takes her hand. “Life should be fluid. It’s not a stake you drive into the ground and then say, ‘I’m done.’ I’mnotdone.”
Belinda looks around for her robe and pulls it on. “This isn’t just about you. And nice to know you feel like living here with me is like a stake driven into the ground.”
She leaves the room.
Maggie can’t sleep. Long after Piper is softly snoring, she’s thinking about the conversation with Ethan. She replays it in her mind on an endless, tortuous loop. The more she thinks about it, the worse it gets, until there’s a version in her mind in which she’s not only telling him to wait for a more practical time to get engaged—she’s telling Ethan to actuallybreak upwith Piper. It’s like a waking nightmare.
Unable to take it anymore, she slips out of bed and dresses in sweatpants, the nearest sweater she can find in the dark andher boots. She tiptoes out into the hall, closing the door slowly behind her so it doesn’t make more than a small click. Then she pads down the hall to the stairs.
The inn is quiet. At this hour, with the shadows of night and the creaking of the old bones of the building, she feels its history. She wonders how many people have roamed those halls, sleepless with their own secrets and problems and mistakes.
And then she nearly collides with someone.
“Oh!” she yelps.
It’s Kalli Dimitriou, and she looks every bit as startled as Maggie feels.
“Sorry,” Kalli says. “I was just heading out.”
“Out?” Maggie says, even though it’s not that late. Certainly not as late as it feels. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said it like that. Well, have fun. Good night!”
“Good night,” Kalli says, and hurries down the stairs.
The central staircase is lit by brass wall sconces. The hallway smells of spices and cinnamon, as if someone spilled a potent herbal tea on the burgundy-colored runner. When she reaches the lobby she hears loud, drunken male voices, and turns in the opposite direction toward the Purl.
The room is dark, but the crescent moon shines in through the big windows. Movement out on the deck catches her eye, and she’s surprised to see Belinda, her long white hair blowing in the wind, standing at the balustrade facing the river.
Maggie opens the French doors and steps outside into a chill that cuts right through her sweater. Belinda must be freezing wearing only a flimsy robe, her bare legs peeking out from the mid-calf down.
“Belinda?” Maggie inches closer so she doesn’t startle her. Belinda turns and it takes a few beats for recognition to set in.
“Maggie. Can I help you with something?”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry to intrude. I just can’t sleep.”
A cluster of lights glow faintly from distant riverbank cottages, twinkling like fireflies along the far shore. The moon casts a silvery-blue sheen across the river’s surface, and it looks almost like an undulating path of light, stretching and bending with the gentle current. Leaves drift lazily across the surface, carried downstream in slow, languid swirls, their ochre and crimson shapes faintly visible under the glowing surface.
“Well, typically I’d say fresh air is a good cure for that. But it’s gotten chilly. So shall we have tea?” Belinda says, not waiting for a response and walking back inside. With one last glance at the shimmering water, Maggie follows her.
Belinda leads her down the hall to a galley kitchen. It has wood-plank floors that are uneven and creek as they make their way to a small table in the corner. The kitchen has soapstone countertops, a ceiling rack of hanging pots and a farmhouse sink.
“You canfeelthe history of this place,” Maggie says. “How old is the original building?”
“The original footprint dates back to 1871—the place began operating as a hotel in 1906. Then during Prohibition it was a speakeasy. The previous owners preserved the side door with the peephole, and we still have it here on the property.”
This is news to Maggie.
“This is one part of the inn we didn’t spend much time renovating,” Belinda says, filling a copper kettle with water and setting it on the stove. “I’m not much of a cook, and we really only need it for breakfast.”
“It’s adorable. Really lovely.”
