Chapter 3
Mrs. Jennings . . . missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. —Sense and Sensibility
Edward
Stepping into the faded elegance of the Norland Park Hotel lobby feels like stepping back in time.
My eyes immediately fly to Jebediah, the taxidermied bison head hanging above the enormous river-stone fireplace.
Upon seeing him, I feel a swell of nostalgia.
An oversized leather couch sits in front of the fireplace, surrounded by worn but comfortable looking armchairs.
Beneath it all lies a sprawling Persian rug, so faded that the colors blend into a hazy memory of brown, scarlet and gold.
Late afternoon sun spills through the windows flanking the fireplace, making dust motes shimmer like fairy dust.
The room takes me back to the happy summer I once spent here with my grandpa.
I particularly remember a rainy afternoon of playing checkers and eating gingersnaps with a young girl named Ellie.
Ever since my mom told me the Greenwoods live at Norland Park, I’ve wondered if Elinor Greenwood might be that same Ellie—the girl who wore her hair in long, black braids and smeared so much sunblock on her face that she appeared a bit like a friendly ghost.
Meeting Ellie is one of my core memories.
I was ten, nearly eleven, and it was my first and only visit to Norland Park with my grandpa.
I was down at the cove, lying on my towel and shivering, pretending that the June sky wasn’t gray and gloomy.
I was making a feeble attempt to read Treasure Island, a book my grandpa had given me that morning.
He told me it was one of his favorites growing up.
Always eager to please him, I brought the book to the beach.
But I was distracted by a group of kids nearby who were digging in the sand and running to the surf to fill buckets of water.
Whatever they were doing looked more fun than my book.
A shadow passed over me. I glanced up to see the gap-tooth smile of a girl about my age.
“Hi!” She shaded her eyes from the sun. “I’m Ellie. Do you want to help us build the world’s most amazing sandcastle?”
“Sure,” I shrugged, not wanting to show just how pleased I was to be invited.
“Great! We’re playing over there.” With her braids flying she skipped away to the group of kids I’d been eyeing jealously.
I jumped to my feet and dropped my book, following her.
The rest of the summer was a blur of green and golden days of running wild across the campground, digging moats on the beach, building forts in the woods, and playing pirates on the rocks.
For six weeks, each day was a new adventure with Ellie, her little sister, and a rotating crew of kids vacationing at Norland Park.
Those were the brightest days of my childhood.
Could Ellie, my favorite childhood friend, be Elinor Greenwood? Ellie is a nickname for Elinor, right? It’s possible.
Curious, I called my mom on the drive here
“Did I ever meet Elinor Greenwood?”
“Probably,” my mom says. “I think dad might have said something about you playing with her at some family event. I’m not sure.”
So that’s a definite maybe.
I really hope Ellie and Elinor are not the same person. I don’t have the stomach to kick Ellie, the girl who could identify all the local trees, flowers and rocks, out of her childhood home.
I scan the lobby looking for someone who might be a grown version of Ellie.
An ornate piano sits at the far corner of the room.
Nearby an older man with white hair sits in a wingback chair, his eyes fixed on the empty piano bench.
A couple of construction workers in neon vests relax in the velvet arm chairs near the fireplace.
At the front desk a plump smiling middle-aged woman watches me.
When she catches me looking at her, she waves me over.
“Are you meeting someone?” asks the woman behind the desk whose name tag reads Jenn Juarez. “I saw you searching the room.”
“No, not exactly. Just taking in the ambience,” I answer. “I’m staying here tonight. I should probably check in.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place. And let me just say, you look dashing. And you’re really not meeting someone?”
“Um no . . . I’m here on my own.”
“Really?” Jenn Juarez stretches out the word with meaning.
“If you’re single, you should really meet one of the Greenwood girls.
That’s Annie, now.” A young woman marches up to the piano bench with a stormy look.
She sits down and immediately begins to play a fast and complicated-sounding piece of classical music.
“I’ll introduce you later.” Ms. Juarez says with a knowing smile.
“Mac over there drives down from Marina at least once a week to watch her play.” She nods to the man in the wingback chair.
“So pretty, and she plays with such passion,”
The pianist definitely has a lot of feelings. Her whole body sways as she attacks the instrument. But what catches my attention is her hair. Ellie’s little sister had curly red hair just like the melodramatic pianist.
“What do you think?” The clerk looks at me expectantly.
“Um, she certainly plays with emotion,” I answer uncertainly.
“Hmm . . . perhaps Elinor’s more your type.
I can see that. Most men don’t notice her as much as her sister.
Which is a shame, since Elinor is just as lovely, if you ask me.
She’s the one who keeps this place running.
” I’m not sure why I let this lady go on—perhaps because of my burgeoning curiosity about Elinor Greenwood.
Still, I need to set her straight before she gets carried away with matchmaking.
“She sounds great, but . . . uh . . . I’m not exactly—”
“Yes, I see it now. You’re perfect for Elinor,” Jenn Juarez continues. “What’s your name?”
“Edward Frechette.”
“Love it! So distinguished. Why’s it familiar?”
“Maybe because you have a reservation for me?”
“Silly me. Yes, of course.” She checks her computer. The pinecones carved into the dark wood of the desk give me another rush of nostalgia. “By the way, I’m J.J.” The receptionist puts out her hand to shake.
“Nice to meet you, J.J.”
“Hmm there’s no Edward Frechette here,” J. J. looks at the computer screen with a confused expression.
“Sorry, the reservation might be under my mom’s name. Barbara Norland.”
“Wow! Handsome and the owner’s son,” says J.J. “You definitely should meet Elinor.”
Embarrassed, I pretend to be fascinated by the arrangement of fresh flowers on the desk.
“Hmm . . . there’s a note on your reservation.
It says—” she looks up with a scheming grin.
“Well look at that! What a happy coincidence. The note says: See manager.” She leans forward as if telling me a secret.
“Do you know who the manager is? It’s . .
.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Elinor Greenwood. Don’t you see? It’s fate.”
It kind of feels like it. I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is silly. Elinor Greenwood is just an ordinary woman who I knew I was going to meet today. It’s not fate, it’s business.
“If you wait just a minute, I’d be more than happy to take you to her office,” J.J. offers.
Two other guests fidget in line behind me. J.J. has a fun energy, but I certainly don’t want this woman with me when I meet Elinor Greenwood, possibly Ellie. Who knows what embarrassing thing she might say. I’m already on edge as it is.
“That’s kind of you, but I’m certain I can manage if you point me in the right direction.”
“Of course, you’re probably good with directions. My late husband was, and he was tall like you.”
I am tempted to ask how his height helped him with directions.
But eager to wrap up this conversation, I hold my tongue.
“Take that door just to the left of the piano,” she points to a nondescript door that blends into the wood paneled wall.
“Go straight down that hall. Elinor’s office is the second one on the right.
You can’t miss it. There’s a shiny plaque with her name on it and everything”
“Thank you! An absolute pleasure to meet you, J. J.” I put out a hand to shake. I suspect that if there wasn’t a desk between us, this woman would give me a hug. She has strong hugger vibes. Kind of the complete opposite of my mom.
“Same with you, Mr. Frechette. Go get her, tiger.”
The hallway leading to the manager’s office is significantly more run-down than the lobby.
It’s a lot more shabby than chic and has a slight musty smell.
I can see my reflection in the brass plaque that reads Elinor Greenwood.
I hesitate before knocking. J.J.’s comment about fate is messing with my head, and I have a preposterous feeling that when I open that door, my life will change.
“Come in,” calls a woman’s voice. I open the door.