Chapter Ten
Piper follows Hannah Elise to a small room on the second floor that appears to be serving as a makeshift knitwear studio.
It’s filled with bins of yarn, boxes of needles, an automated yarn spinner, a sewing table and clothing racks on wheels filled
with handknits on velvet-cushioned hangers.
“This rack is all my designs,” Hannah Elise says, separating a few of the hangers. “Feel free to try anything on.”
“Really?” Piper is thrilled. She truly is a fan of her work. “These are extraordinary,” Piper says, pulling out a pair of
patchwork pants with a drawstring waist and flared bottoms. “Is this the pair you made from all the different leftover yarns?”
They were spectacular. Weeks ago, Hannah Elise posted a video showing a pile of half-used balls of yarn in every color and
shared her obsession with “scrap wear.”
“Yes, and they’d look amazing on you. Can I take a few photos? I haven’t had a decent chance to post them yet,” Hannah asks.
Piper wants to say yes, and at any other time would have. But she can’t put herself out there after what happened at Betsy
Toledo.
“I’ve sworn off social media for the weekend,” Piper says. She means for it to come off as light and half joking but it sounds like she’d just announced she’s in rehab.
“Hmm,” Hannah Elise says.
“What? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t feel the same if it were you.”
Hannah picks up a pink metal crochet needle and works it casually through bulky butter-colored yarn. “Maybe at one point I
would have. But now I know better.”
Piper is skeptical. “I find it hard to believe you ever had a bad moment on social media.”
“No, but I once did an internship at a crisis PR firm.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Do you work there now?”
“No. I have the most heinous bureaucratic job in the world.”
“Doing what?”
“I literally don’t want it entering my mind long enough to tell you.”
“That bad?”
“Soul-crushing,” she says. “I’m just biding my time until this knitting influencer gig starts bringing in real money. But
that’s a whole other story. My point is this: At the PR firm, one thing I learned is that when something negative about you
is out there, you have to reframe the narrative.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning—if there’s a viral video of you falling on your ass, you better put out a video of yourself doing something more
interesting.”
“Like what? Modeling your clothes?” She raises her eyebrows. “I don’t think so.”
“No! Knitting. Show yourself creating something instead of wearing something. Do it now. Right here. I’ll record it.
Use something of mine. Here . . .” She leans over, fishing through a wide-open canvas bag, and passes her knitting sample.
“The part of the pattern I’m at now is simple stockinette for a few rows, so you can pick that right up here. ”
“Are you sure?” Piper arranges the piece on her lap and takes hold of the needles. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“It’s just a swatch for one of my classes. You won’t mess it up, and if you do I can fix it.”
Well, okay then. It’s worth a try.
She picks up the first stitch and Hannah Elise starts recording.
Maggie doesn’t know what came over her back there in the restaurant. But as soon as the man at the table stood and apologized,
it was like a spell broke and she saw herself from the outside, shrieking at people simply enjoying themselves at a restaurant.
She’s becoming the Dragon Lady. And she needs to reset, immediately.
With Piper otherwise occupied, Maggie takes Sheila Bevins up on her invite to stop by the room for the yarn swap. Ever since
her favorite knit shop closed, yarn swaps have been one of her favorite ways to build her stash without breaking the bank.
Especially as she’s completely adopted the philosophy that there’s no such thing as having too much yarn.
The Edgar Allan Poe Room is on the top floor. She knocks, and Sheila’s low, raspy voice calls out, “Come in!”
Maggie opens the door and finds Sheila sitting on the edge of the mahogany canopy bed, surrounded by balls of yarn, needles
in her hands. One half of the honeymoon duo—Alexis? Lexi—is sorting through piles of yarn on a wood side table. The room has
blue-and-white toile wallpaper and wainscotting—just magnificent. It’s much larger than her twin room, and she assumes after
so many years at the retreats Sheila knows exactly what to book for her stay.
“Welcome, welcome. You just missed the rush—and you get to peruse all the goodies left behind. Help yourself.”
Maggie holds up her offerings: some worsted-weight yarn with a plush smooth texture in a shade called Lettuce, then a felted
tweed in an orange-brown color called Cinnamon. Sheila gestures for her to leave them both on the table. “If they don’t have
labels, use the Post-it pad to note the fiber and yardage if you know offhand.”
“I like this green,” Lexi says, picking up the Malabrigo.
“Isn’t it great? I used it for a fantastic little shawl and miscalculated how much of that color I’d need,” Maggie says.
“Where’s your daughter?” Sheila says.
“I think she’s doing something with the crochet instructor. They know each other from social media.”
“KnitTok,” Lexi says.
“I guess.” In the swap pile, Maggie spots a deep, dark blue she needs for a quilt she started and never finished.
“What do you think of the retreat so far?” Sheila asks, not looking up from her clacking needles.
Maggie is about to offer the expected It’s great! But she’s still feeling a bit hungover from the encounter at the restaurant. So she says, “I guess I just imagined it to
be a more intimate, knitters-only vibe here.”
Lexi, having claimed the Malabrigo Rios for herself, starts winding the yarn on her knees.
“Oh, you mean the dudes? They’re harmless. Weekend warriors,” Lexi says.
Maggie had been tempted to confide in the two women about somewhat losing it and reprimanding the bachelor party. But she
reconsiders.
“I think it’s nice to have some male energy,” Sheila says. “You young gals take it for granted. But at my age—I’m happy for
even sideline viewing.”
Maggie can’t help but smile. “I’m not that young. But I appreciate your point.” Now she feels even more foolish for losing her temper. She needs a weekend reset. “So, anything I should do while I’m here aside from the workshops? This is my first trip to New Hope.”
Sheila looks up from her knitting. “Oh, honey. Then you must take the walking tour.”
Maggie isn’t really a guided tour person. She’s more of a “wander around and stumble upon things” tourist. But Sheila is emphatic,
and says, “I’ll even go with you. This town is such a treasure. Always something new to learn.” She waves her phone. “I’m
signing us up now. And wrangle your daughter. She won’t want to miss it.”
Belinda has a short break between the yarn market and her first workshop of the afternoon, and she steals a few alone moments
on the back deck. Max comes out to join her, and she pulls her chair closer to his, brushing the dried fallen leaves off the
seat cushion. He hands her a mug of their local hot chocolate that tastes like liquid molten lava cake.
It’s brisk when the wind picks up, but the heat lamps do their job. They’re a relatively new addition. Belinda and Max bought
them during Covid, looking for any creative way to create space for guests. Turned out, people really loved sitting outside
into the late fall and even the winter.
Like a good marriage, the inn is constantly evolving.
When they assumed ownership in 1996, the building—dating back to 1871—needed a lot of work.
Originally constructed as three separate buildings, two were combined in 1902 to form a hotel.
The third building was added as an expansion after Prohibition, when the property had been used as a speakeasy.
Somewhere in storage on the property is the preserved, original speakeasy side door with sliding peephole.
When they bought the place, it hadn’t been in service as a hotel for almost a decade. Belinda and Max were in complete agreement
about the interior renovations, as they were about most things in life. They decided the common areas and guest rooms should
be a mix of antique and reproduction furniture, including four-poster beds, wingback chairs, settees and plaid tapestry. They
maintained as much of the original hardwood flooring as possible, covering any problem areas with patterned rugs in deep,
warm colors. The lighting was also warm and soft, with antique-style chandeliers and wall sconces. They added new brass fixtures
with wrought-iron detailing and glass shades. They filled empty wall space with large ornate mirrors with gilded frames. In
the lobby, shelves were decorated with hardcover books and framed black-and-white photos of New Hope dating back to the early
1900s.
A year after they assumed ownership, Belinda had the idea to host knitting retreats, and this inspired another set of renovations.
She initiated a project to combine three ground-floor rooms into a private event space with doors opening to a back deck.
She knocked down an interior wall to combine two rooms into one, then expanded the footprint by a thousand square feet. That
extension has floor-to-ceiling windows, a river view and a sliding glass door leading to the back deck. The Purl was born.
“How’s it going so far?” Max asks.
“Good.” She nodded. “It’s a nice group.”
“I’m sorry about the double-booking. I just have to be practical right now.”
She looks at him. “It’s fine. It’s really not a big deal.”
“Okay, good. Because—”
“Max!” Barclay Cavanaugh, standing in front of the patio on the river promenade, waves to get their attention. “I’ve been looking for you. I need a minute.”
He walks briskly around the wooden-beamed barrier between the public space and the deck to get closer to them. “Sorry to interrupt,
Belinda.”
“You’re not interrupting,” she says, wondering what Max had been about to say before Barclay interrupted.
“The boys and I were having lunch in the tavern, minding our own business, having a good time—and one of the knitting ladies
marched in and let us have it! Said we’re making too much noise. Is there some sort of new protocol around here I don’t know
about?”
Belinda looks at Max as if to say, See. I told you. But he’s focused on Barclay.
“We apologize for the disruption,” Max says.
“I suspect one of my retreat attendees might just be having a bad day,” Belinda says. “Did you happen to catch her name?”
Barclay crosses his arms. “Her name’s Karen, I’d guess.”
Max laughs and she shoots him a look.
“Can you describe her?”
“Medium height. Brown hair. Wearing some sorta fluffy purple sweater.”
Maggie Hodges.
“She’d be damn attractive if it weren’t for the bad attitude,” Barclay says. “But that just ruins the whole picture, you know
what I mean?”
“Absolutely,” says Max.
Absolutely? To that sexist remark? She shoots him a look, but he doesn’t notice.
“Well, I’m going to excuse myself,” she says. She’ll leave them to their juvenile conversation.
She’s got a retreat to run.