Chapter Seventeen #2
“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 each day, 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.
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’m not done.”
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 actually break up with 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 and her 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 can feel the 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.”
Belinda motions toward a dozen Harney & Sons tea tins lined up on the counter. “Take your pick,” she says, and Maggie selects
Hot Cinnamon Sunset. Belinda passes her a heavy handcrafted mug to steep it in.
They sit at the table waiting for the water to boil, making small talk until the kettle lets out a shrill whistle. Belinda jumps up to tend to it and then brings the kettle over to fill both of their mugs. The scent of cinnamon fills the air.
“Is this your favorite time of night—when the guests are in their rooms and you have the place to yourself?” Maggie asks,
wrapping her hands around the hot mug.
“No, not at all. I love having people around. But tonight, I can’t seem to quiet my mind, either.”
“Well, I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I’m happy to listen.”
Belinda shakes her head. “I’ve talked enough tonight,” she says. “I want to hear more about you. What do you do in the city?”
Maggie tells her about Denim, and Elaine Berger—that Elaine is from the area and is the one who told her about the retreat.
They talk about retail, and a little more about Belinda’s experience owning a knit shop.
“Where do you buy your yarn in the city?” Belinda asks.
“I mostly order it online. My neighborhood knitting shop closed a few years ago.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. So much is lost when you can’t buy in person.”
“I know. I really miss it. Sometimes I go to one in SoHo, a place on Mercer Street. But it’s expensive.” And more, it fell
short of the things she loved most about her old knit shop. There’d been a community at Hattie’s Knits. Hattie herself offered
Maggie a job once. It had been tempting, but she could never leave Elaine. When she declined the knit shop offer, she accepted
the probability that she’d be working at Denim until the day Elaine closed it down. A day she hopes never comes.
“I haven’t seen a yarn store in town,” Maggie says. “Do you have one?”
Belinda shakes her head. “We used to. Closed a few years ago. I miss it. During retreats, I used to take everyone there for a little field trip.” She shrugs. “Things change. We adapt. That’s why I started hosting my own yarn pop-up.”
Things change. We adapt.
Maggie isn’t ready for things to change. She doesn’t want to adapt. But she has to face the fact that her twenty-three-year-old
daughter is going to get married. And nothing will ever be the same.
This knitting retreat weekend is their last hurrah. What was she thinking making plans with that guy Aidan? Time is precious.
She’s not going to waste a minute of it. Hopefully, by morning, he’ll change his mind or forget about it.
She certainly plans to.