4. Claire
Claire
T he breakfast rush at the inn always left me exhausted yet satisfied.
The tables now stood empty, crumbs and coffee stains their only guests.
I wiped down the wooden surfaces, inhaling the lingering scent of bacon and freshly brewed coffee.
The warmth of the morning sun filtered through the lace curtains, casting a soft glow on the dining room.
Dishes clattered in the sink as I scrubbed away remnants of scrambled eggs and syrupy pancakes.
I glanced out the window, catching a glimpse of Christian as he walked away from the inn.
His movements were precise, each step somehow revealing his practiced strength.
Or maybe that was me daydreaming after squeezing his shoulders earlier. I blushed at the thought.
As I dried my hands on a dishtowel, the doorbell jingled softly. Mrs. Thompson from down the road stepped in, her cheeks rosy from the cold.
"Morning, Claire," she greeted with a warm smile.
"Morning, Mrs. Thompson," I replied, returning her smile. "Just finished up with breakfast."
"Busy morning?" she asked, eyeing the cleaned tables.
"Always is," I said, shrugging lightly. "But that's how I like it."
She nodded, her gaze drifting to Christian outside. "Who's that young man you have living in your loft?"
I shouldn't have been surprised people in town knew about Christian, but I was.
"Christian," I said simply, unsure how much to reveal, especially since I didn't know much.
Mrs. Thompson raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Well, I know what a friendly town we are, but outsiders..."
I sighed. I wasn't in the mood for dramatics, especially from Mrs. Thompson.
With her gone and the last of the dishes put away, I swept the floor. The rhythmic motion of broom against wood felt almost meditative. Dust motes danced in the sunlight as I moved through the room.
As I finished sweeping, the familiar creak of the back door announced my grandmother's arrival. She wore her usual apron, faded from countless washes, and carried a basket of fresh linens.
"Morning, sweetie," she greeted, setting the basket down and moving to the sink. "Need a hand with those dishes?"
"Sure, Grandma," I replied, handing her a dish towel. "Thanks."
She started drying the plates I had just washed. I watched as she hummed a tune under her breath, her movements practiced but slow. I appreciated her help, even if she often put things in the wrong places.
"So," she began casually, "I saw that young man helping you with the Christmas lights this morning."
I glanced out the window where Christian had been. "Yeah, he's actually really helpful. And tall."
I decided to leave out the part where he caught me before I crashed to the floor, and how I groped his impossibly broad shoulders.
Grandma's eyes twinkled with curiosity. "He's a hunk."
"Grandma!"
"It's true," she said. "What's his story?"
I shrugged, reaching for another plate to scrub. "Not sure yet. He doesn't talk much about himself."
She placed a dry plate on a shelf meant for bowls and handed me another one. "You think he's in some kind of trouble?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "He seems... guarded."
Grandma nodded thoughtfully. "Well, sometimes people just need time to open up." She dried another plate and set it in the cupboard meant for glasses.
I forced myself to chuckle softly at her misplaced organization. "Grandma, plates go over there," I said gently, pointing to the correct shelf.
"Oh dear," she laughed lightly, shaking her head. "You'd think I'd know by now."
We continued our work in comfortable silence for a moment before she spoke again.
"Have you tried talking to him more? Maybe inviting him to join us for dinner? Maybe he needs a friend. Maybe he needs a girlfriend!"
"Grandma, no," I said. "Well, maybe a friend, sure, but?—"
"Oh, come now." Grandma waved her hand. "You've been alone too long, Claire-Bear. You deserve to have a friend. And when he looks like that …"
I blushed. "Look, I've thought about it," I said, rinsing off a fork. "The dinner part. But he seems like he needs his space."
Grandma smiled knowingly. "Sometimes a little kindness goes a long way."
I nodded, considering her words as I handed her the last dish to dry.
With the dishes finally put away—though not entirely in their proper places—I felt a sense of calm settle over me. The sun climbed higher in the sky outside, casting brighter light into the room.
"Thanks for your help, Grandma," I said sincerely.
"Anytime, sweetheart," she replied warmly.
As noon approached, I took a moment to sit by the window with a cup of tea. The inn was quiet again, a brief lull before guests would start trickling in for their midday meals. My mind wandered to Christian's guarded eyes and how they softened when he wasn't aware anyone was watching.
But there was no rush to pry open those hidden chapters of his life. Instead, I took another sip of my tea and enjoyed this fleeting moment of peace.
After tidying up the kitchen, I wandered into the lobby of the inn.
The room radiated warmth and cheer, decked out in its full Christmas splendor.
Twinkling lights wrapped around the banister of the grand staircase, their soft glow adding a touch of magic to the old wood.
Evergreen garlands hung above doorways, dotted with bright red berries and golden ribbons.
Mom would have loved it.
The centerpiece of it all was the towering Christmas tree in the corner.
I had spent hours carefully placing each ornament, from delicate glass baubles to handmade decorations collected over the years.
Tinsel shimmered like icicles, and a star sat proudly at the top, its light casting gentle shadows on the walls.
Stockings hung by the fireplace, each one embroidered with names of family members and regular guests who had become like family over the years. I smiled at the sight, remembering the joy on their faces when they saw their names each year.
The fireplace itself crackled softly, but I noticed it was running low on wood. The flames flickered weakly, struggling to maintain their warmth. I walked over and grabbed a few logs from the nearby basket, stacking them carefully inside.
We were running low…
I made a mental note to chop wood later today.
As I tended to the fire, I felt a sense of satisfaction settle over me. The room was cozy and inviting, a haven from the cold winter outside. The scent of pine mingled with that of burning wood, creating a nostalgic aroma that took me back to childhood Christmases spent in this very inn.
The mantel above the fireplace was adorned with a nativity scene, each figure lovingly placed in its spot.
Tiny lights illuminated the scene, casting a soft glow on Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus in his manger.
Flanking them were figurines of shepherds and wise men, their expressions frozen in perpetual awe.
I stepped back to admire my handiwork once more before heading back to my duties. The lobby was ready to welcome guests into its festive embrace, offering warmth and cheer to anyone who stepped through the door.
I stood back to admire the festive lobby, a sense of satisfaction warming me. The decorations seemed perfect, every detail a nod to Christmases past. It felt like a tribute to the inn's legacy, and maybe, a bit of a balm for my heart.
"Grandma," I called, heading toward the kitchen where she was finishing up making the last table. "I'm going to clean the check-outs now."
She turned, wiping her hands on her apron. "All right, sweetheart. I'll man the front desk. Call if you need anything."
I nodded, grateful for her support. "Thanks, Grandma."
With that settled, I grabbed my cleaning supplies and made my way upstairs. The hallway stretched out in front of me, lined with doors that each held their own stories from countless guests over the years. Today, they were just rooms needing fresh linens and a good dusting.
I started with room 201, opening the door to reveal a scene of mild chaos—unmade bed, towels on the floor, and an empty suitcase left behind by mistake. I chuckled softly; it wasn’t uncommon for guests to forget things in their rush to leave.
As I stripped the bed and gathered the towels, my mind wandered back to Christian. His guarded demeanor intrigued me more than I cared to admit. But as Grandma had said, sometimes people just needed time and kindness.
With fresh sheets on the bed and clean towels in place, I moved on to dusting the furniture and vacuuming the floor. The rhythmic hum of the vacuum was almost soothing as it drowned out my thoughts.
Room by room, I worked through the check-outs, each one presenting its own small challenges but nothing I couldn't handle.
In room 204, I found a child's drawing tucked under a pillow—crayon scribbles depicting a family in front of a Christmas tree.
I smiled at the innocent artwork and decided to leave it on the nightstand in case they returned for it.
Time seemed to slip away as I moved through each room with practiced efficiency. By the time I finished the last one, I felt a sense of accomplishment settle over me.
Returning downstairs with an armful of linens for washing, I saw Grandma at the front desk, flipping through an old recipe book.
"Everything okay up here?" I asked as I approached.
She looked up and smiled warmly. "All quiet on the western front," she said with a wink.
I laughed softly. "Good to know."
With no check-ins expected today, we had some breathing room to relax before lunch preparations began.
As I headed toward the laundry room with my bundle of linens, I felt content in knowing that our little inn was ready for whatever came next—be it guests or unexpected moments of connection like those fleeting ones with Christian.
The familiar scent of fabric softener filled the air as I loaded the linens into the washer. I added detergent and set the cycle.
Satisfied, I made my way to the kitchen, ready to help with lunch preparations.
The moment I stepped in, I froze. Grandma stood by the stove, a heaping spoonful of sugar poised over the simmering stew.
"Grandma, wait!" My voice echoed sharply in the quiet kitchen.
She paused, spoon hovering in mid-air. "What is it, Claire?"
"That's sugar," I said, trying to keep my voice gentle. "The stew needs salt."
Grandma frowned at me, confusion clouding her eyes. "Nonsense, dear. I've been making this stew for years."
I took a deep breath and walked over, gently taking the spoon from her hand. "Look," I said softly, holding up the jar labeled sugar .
She blinked, her expression shifting from confusion to shock. "Oh... oh dear," she murmured.
"It's okay, Grandma," I whispered, setting the sugar aside and reaching for the salt instead.
But my heart broke as I watched her struggle to understand what had happened. She stood there, looking lost and vulnerable in a way I'd become all too familiar with. I had to blink away tears quickly so she wouldn't see them.
With practiced ease, I added salt to the stew and gave it a stir. The familiar aroma began to fill the kitchen once more.
"Why don't you sit down for a bit?" I suggested gently.
Grandma nodded slowly, allowing me to guide her to a chair at the small kitchen table. She sat down heavily, her shoulders slumping.
"I'm sorry, Claire," she said quietly.
I squeezed her hand reassuringly. "No need to apologize," I said firmly. "Everyone makes mistakes."
She nodded again but didn't say anything more.
As I returned to stirring the stew, my mind raced with thoughts and emotions I couldn't quite sort out. But there was no time for that now. Lunch had to be ready soon, and guests would be expecting a warm meal.
I busied myself with chopping vegetables and preparing ingredients, my hands moving automatically through motions practiced over years of working alongside Grandma in this very kitchen.
But despite my best efforts to focus on the task at hand, I couldn't shake off that moment of confusion in Grandma's eyes. It lingered like a shadow over our bright kitchen filled with Christmas cheer.