The Department Store of Lost Things, Stave 2

A soft bell chimed overhead as Rowan stepped inside, the sound warm and round, as if struck by a practiced hand rather than the jostling of a door. The air was rich with the scent of cedar and old paper, the kind of smell that made him think of attics and winter trunks and things kept for reasons no one could quite articulate. He was still brushing the snow from his coat when his eye caught on a heavy, cast-iron tree stand resting at the foot of a display table toward the back of the store. It had deep green enamel and a holly-leaf pattern worn smooth with age. The sight tugged at something in him, a half-memory rising and fading before he could grasp its shape.

“Good evening,” a warm voice offered.

Rowan turned. Behind a counter nearly hidden amongst the myriad display cases, bookshelves, and tables stood a man with silver-threaded hair and a vest that seemed a deliberate nod to some older era, though he wore it with an ease that resisted nostalgia. His eyes were calm, quietly perceptive without probing. “Welcome to Morrow & Reed. I’m Silas,” he said with a small incline of his head. “Please browse as long as you like. Should you need help, you have but to ask.”

Rowan murmured his thanks, grateful for the invitation and the lack of questions. He stepped deeper into the golden lamplight of the nearest aisle, resisting the urge to glance back at the tree stand. He’d come with a purpose. Best to begin with the books.

Rowan moved slowly down the first aisle, the shelves rising above him like quiet sentinels. Books lined them shoulder to shoulder, their leather spines softened by time, gilt titles dulled to a whisper. The paperbacks were yellowed and bowed as though they had been read too many times in too little light. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath his boots, not in complaint, but acknowledgment.

He told himself to focus.

Children’s literature seemed the most obvious place to begin. He trailed a finger along the shelf labels until he found Verse, Seasonal, Classics, then pulled down the first promising volume. “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” published sometime in the middle of the last century. The illustrations were charming enough, all rosy-cheeked children and round-bellied saints, but the book was too pristine, its spine stiff, its pages barely broken in. He returned it to its place.

The next copy was older, its cloth cover frayed at the corners, but when he opened it, the pages crackled sharply, unused. Another was bound in leather so dark it was nearly black, its lettering ornate to the point of severity. Rowan shook his head. That wasn’t it either.

He began to feel foolish, standing there splitting hairs over a poem that was, at its heart, the same no matter the binding. And yet, somehow, he knew. He knew what he was looking for. He could picture the weight of it in his hands, the way the cover bowed slightly inward, as though it had learned the shape of being held.

After several minutes, he closed the last book with a quiet sigh and leaned back against the shelf.

“Not so easy,” he murmured. The heating vents in the store purred on at that moment, as if exhaling in agreement with him.

He wandered on, letting the shelves guide him rather than any clear intention. Somewhere behind him, he heard the faint scrape of wood on wood. Perhaps it was the shopkeep (what did he say his name was? Silas?) adjusting a chair or opening a drawer, but the sound never came closer. Rowan was grateful for the space.

Near the end of the aisle, a low display caught his eye. It held a small assortment of objects that didn’t immediately announce their purpose: a brass compass, its glass clouded; a child’s music box, its lid chipped; a folded scarf, red yarn dulled by wear.

Rowan slowed.

The scarf was unmistakable now that he was closer. Too small for an adult, knitted unevenly, the stitches tighter at one end than the other. He reached out before he could stop himself, brushing the fabric lightly with his fingertips.

Maren had been ten, maybe eleven. She’d learned to knit that winter, determined to make something “useful” rather than decorative. The scarf had been too short even then, scratchy as anything, but Rowan had worn it every time it snowed until Helen finally insisted he let her wash it.

“You’ll ruin it,” Maren had protested.

“It’s already ruined,” Rowan had said, grinning.

He pulled his hand back as though stung.

That scarf had been lost years ago. Left behind during a move. Or perhaps donated by mistake. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen it, only that one winter it simply hadn’t been there anymore. He straightened, heart thudding a little harder than before, and forced himself to move on.

Further along, tucked between two bookcases, sat a narrow worktable. On it lay a small wooden bird, pale and unfinished. One wing had been carefully shaped, smooth beneath the light; the other was little more than a suggestion, rough with tool marks.

Rowan swallowed.

Thomas had shown him how to carve that bird one afternoon after school, spreading newspapers across the kitchen table and setting a small block of wood between them. Rowan had been impatient, his hands clumsy around the knife.

“Slow down,” Thomas had said, smiling. “The bird’s not going anywhere.”

Rowan had nodded, tried again, failed again. Eventually, he’d set the piece aside in frustration.

“I’ll finish it later,” he’d promised.

Thomas had nodded as though that were enough.

Rowan had never finished it.

He stepped back from the table, pulse quickening now, unease creeping in alongside the warmth. Coincidence, he told himself. The world was full of unfinished projects. Full of red scarves and half-carved birds and people who left things behind.

He turned the corner into the next aisle.

The snow globe was impossible to miss. It sat on a small pedestal, its glass dome slightly cracked at the base, the liquid inside faintly clouded. A miniature house stood within, crooked chimney capped with snow, a pine tree leaning just a little to one side.

Helen had given it to him one Christmas when his mother was working a double shift. Rowan had dropped it years later during an argument with Maren. The argument was nothing terrible, nothing worth remembering the details of, but he remembered the sound the globe made when it hit the floor. Remembered how Maren had gone quiet afterward.

“You didn’t have to bring it,” she’d said, too carefully.

He hadn’t known what to say then, either.

Rowan rubbed his palms against his coat, grounding himself, and moved on more quickly now, as though momentum might protect him from whatever pattern was forming.

He nearly collided with a small crate placed at the end of the aisle. Inside it, among a jumble of objects, stood a tin soldier, its paint chipped, one drumstick missing.

A laugh escaped him before he could help it, soft, surprised, and gone almost immediately.

He and Maren had spent hours one winter night inventing stories for that soldier during a power outage, turning him into a hero, a fool, a villain redeemed at the last moment. When the drumstick broke off, Rowan had wanted to throw it away.

“It’s still a soldier,” Maren had said, offended. “Just a quieter one.”

Rowan closed his eyes briefly.

He felt as though he were walking through a dream stitched together from pieces of his own life, and yet everything here was solid beneath his fingers, real beneath the soft glow of the overhead lamps.

“You find what you were looking for?” Silas’s voice came from nearby, the same gentleness and tranquility in it as with his first greeting.

Rowan turned. The shopkeep stood a few steps away, hands folded loosely, expression open but unreadable.

“I...” Rowan hesitated, then shook his head. “Not yet.”

Silas nodded as though this were expected. “Sometimes what we look for is shy,” he said mildly. “It prefers to be sought rather than found.”

Rowan gave a faint, humorless smile. “I’ve been doing plenty of seeking.”

“So it seems,” Silas said. His gaze flicked, not pointedly, but observantly, toward the shelves Rowan had just passed. “Take your time.” With that, he moved away again, leaving Rowan alone with the quiet and his thoughts.

Rowan exhaled slowly again. He hadn’t meant to wander this far. He hadn’t meant to linger. And yet, here he was, surrounded by evidence of a life he’d stepped away from piece by piece.

At the far end of the store, partially obscured by a tall bookcase, he noticed something heavy leaning against the wall. He approached it cautiously. He realized as it came into view that it was the Christmas tree stand he’d seen from the entrance.

The stand was old-fashioned, cast iron, painted a deep green. The tightening screws were worn smooth, the enamel chipped in places where hands had gripped it year after year.

Thomas had taken him out alone that year. Maren had been sick, curled under blankets with a book, disappointed but resigned.

“Just us this time,” Thomas had said, clapping Rowan on the shoulder.

They’d trudged through snow to the edge of a small lot outside town, breath puffing, boots crunching. Thomas had let Rowan choose the tree (a little crooked, but sturdy) and had shown him how to secure it in the stand back home.

“Doesn’t have to be perfect,” Thomas had said. “Just has to stand.”

Rowan reached out and rested his hand briefly on the cool metal.

His chest tightened, not with pain exactly, but with something heavier, recognition, perhaps. Or regret, more likely. He straightened abruptly, suddenly aware that he was very tired.

He drifted back toward the front of the store, unsure what else to do. The bell over the door was visible now, the outside world just beyond it. Snowy, lamplit Pinebridge was waiting.

Maybe he should go. Maybe he should try again tomorrow.

Silas appeared beside the counter, as if summoned by the thought.

“Leaving already?” he asked kindly.

“I don’t think what I’m looking for is here,” Rowan said, though even as he spoke the words, they rang false.

Silas studied him for a moment, then inclined his head slightly toward a narrower aisle Rowan hadn’t noticed before. The light there was softer somehow, warmer.

“You’re welcome to look a little deeper,” Silas said. “Some things keep to the quieter corners.”

Rowan hesitated. Then, slowly, he turned toward the aisle and took a step forward, the shelves closing around him like the turning of a page.

The Department Store of Lost Things, Stave 1

Rowan Monaghan drifted down the familiar brick sidewalks of Pinebridge as if wandering through an old photograph, the kind faded at the corners from years of handling. A light snow fell in soft, lazy spirals, gathering along the storefronts he used to race past as a boy, back when Christmas Eve meant warm lights and open doors. The streetlamps began switching on as he walked, their glow exactly as he remembered: golden halos barely visible against the ochre of the dusky horizon. For a moment he could almost pretend nothing had changed. But memory had a way of warming the air and chilling the heart all at once, and Rowan felt the tug of both as he wandered, waiting for his mother to finish her shift, wishing he knew how to mend the years that had slipped away.

He checked his phone. No new messages. His mother would still be at the hospital, and given the time, would likely be there until well past seven. Christmas Eve for an ER nurse was rarely a courteously quiet night. When he was young, he’d wait for her by the living room window of their tiny house. He’d press his forehead to the glass, which was only slightly less cold than the small icicles hanging from the gutters, and try to guess from footfalls on the sidewalk whether his mother had finally come home. At that age, Pinebridge’s winter nights felt too wide, as though they were holding more silence than should be allotted at what should have been a joyous time of year.

Now, at thirty, he didn’t wait at windows anymore. He walked.

He passed the old bakery, the one that still made gingerbread men with googly-eye candy. It was run by someone new these days, but the sign was the same: a wooden plaque carved into the shape of steaming loaves of bread. Light glowed warmly through the front windows and spilled across the sidewalk. It made the snowflakes dance, momentarily bright before vanishing.

Two children hurried by him, one dragging the other by a mittened hand, both wearing coats a size too big. Their father trailed behind them with a paper bag of last-minute purchases and the weary patience of a man trying to preserve holiday cheer by sheer force of will. Rowan stepped aside to let them pass. He found himself smiling a little, then immediately felt slightly foolish for it.

At the end of Main Street, Rowan stopped. If he turned left here and went all the way up the walk, following the gentle rise framed by leafless but fully decorated old maples, he’d eventually reach the Ridley house. He could picture the porch light, warm against the snow, illuminating the wreath with pinecones the size of his fist, hung on the door by Mrs. Ridley (Helen to her friends). And there, head pressed against the windowpane, Maren’s silhouette could just be made out through the slight frost on the outside.

He did not turn left. He stayed where he was.

Standing there, the wind carried a thread of music to his ears, barely audible. It wasn’t until he heard the faint rise of voices, a mingling of young and old, high and low, that Rowan realized carolers must be out tonight. He glanced toward the town square. The sound was coming from that direction, like a steady pulse of warmth to help fend off the growing chill. The music tugged at him, gentle but insistent.

He walked toward it.

Pinebridge’s small town square looked just as it had when he was young: the old fountain wrapped in evergreen boughs, benches lightly dusted with snow, a scattering of families bundled in coats and scarves. A group of carolers stood near the fountain, their songbooks lifted toward the lamplight as the last glow of the setting sun retreated beyond the horizon. The harmonies floated across the space in soft waves, only slightly warbled by the increasing intensity of the falling snow.

Beside them stood a thin man with a well-worn book in his hands. His hair was nearly white beneath a wool cap, and he adjusted his stylish muffler so that his face was well-exposed. A half-circle of children sat at his feet in the thin snow, fidgeting, eager to hear what the man had to say.

The carolers finished their song, their breath pluming in the air. A smattering of applause drifted through the square. The man with the book cleared his throat. It barely made a sound, but was enough to turn everyone’s heads toward him, immediately paying attention.

“Well now,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “We’ve sung our carols, haven’t we? I think that earns us a tale.” Several children wriggled in evident approval. One boy bounced impatiently on his knees.

The man withdrew a pair of small, round spectacles from his coat pocket, put them on, then held the book up so that the crowd could clearly see it. Its cover, dark green cloth worn smooth at the edges, shimmered in the lamplight.

“I thought,” he said, “that tonight might be just the night for an old classic.”

He opened the book to the first page and began to read, his voice carrying nearly-forgotten words in an immediately familiar cadence:

“‘Twas the night before Christmas…”

Rowan’s breath hitched as his eyes closed.

In an instant, he was in the Ridleys’ living room again. He could smell the pine of the Christmas tree, sharp and comforting; hear the soft crackle of logs in the fireplace; sense the warmth of Maren’s father Thomas presence beside him on the couch. Maren, sprawled on the rug, would always begin by making faces at the rhyming couplets, only to end up mouthing them along by the poem’s midpoint. Mrs. Ridley would slip into the room with cocoa, passing mugs that steamed in the cozy firelight.

And Rowan, small, awkward, uncertain, had felt, for reasons he didn’t fully understand at the time, like he belonged.

Thomas Ridley was the one who’d made space for him. That first Christmas in Pinebridge, his mom working late, Maren had invited him to spend the first part of Christmas Eve with them, at least until his mom got home. So he’d gone over there, but wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He wound up standing somewhere in between the front of the Christmas tree and the fireplace, his hands thrust into his pockets, not really knowing what Christmas Eve was actually all about.

“Come on, lad,” Thomas had murmured, shifting to give Rowan a spot on the couch. “No sense perching there like a bird on a wire.”

The memory struck with its familiarity. He felt it in his chest, sudden and sharp.

He had forgotten how the original book looked, until now. Green cover, gold lettering faded around the edges, the spine soft from decades of use. Maren had once dropped it on the hearth, probably his second or third Christmas in Pinebridge. Rowan remembered the little nick on the corner. Eventually, years later, the book had fallen apart altogether. Thomas had held the pieces in his hands and shaken his head with fond resignation.

“Guess that’s what happens when you love something a little too hard.”

Rowan blinked back to the present as the storyteller reached the final lines.

“…and to all a good night!”

The crowd applauded. The children hopped up, shaking snow from their coats. Parents tugged mittens back onto impatient hands. The carolers began to gather their things. Rowan remained where he stood, feeling the last chord of the memory thrumming in his chest.

He could find that book for Maren. He should find that book for Maren.

Not the original, of course. The Ridleys’ copy was long gone, but one as much like it as possible. Old. Soft-edged. Lived-in. Something that carried the quiet gravity of winters past. Something that could say everything he hadn’t been able to tell Maren.

I remember your dad. I remember sitting in your home. I remember being part of something good.

The idea arrived with such clarity that it startled him.

He took a step backward, away from the crowd. The storyteller snapped the book shut and tucked it beneath his arm. For a moment, just a moment, he glanced in Rowan’s direction. The man’s eyes were shadowed beneath the brim of his cap, but they seemed gentle, knowing, in a way Rowan couldn’t quite place. Rowan turned away before their gazes could meet fully.

The square emptied slowly, leaving only footprints that were beginning to fill in as the snow became more insistent. Rowan stood for another moment, letting the air settle around him. Then he walked on.

Page Turners, the local bookshop, was closed; the sign in the window clearly said so. Still, Rowan stopped in front of it and peered in. The shelves were still lit. A stack of children’s books, some old, most not, sat arranged in a neat display. A glance was all it took to confirm his intuition: the book he was looking for was not the sort that regular stores kept in stock.

Snow gathered on his coat collar. Rowan brushed it away and let out a slow, uneven breath. Maybe he should go back toward the hospital instead; his mom’s shift would end eventually, and she’d ask where he’d been wandering in the cold.

The memories evoked by the recitation lingered, though… the warmth of the Ridleys’ living room, the look of the book, the timbre of Thomas’s voice. And beneath that memory, deeper and quieter, lay everything he had avoided since the funeral he hadn’t attended.

He should have been there.

The thought came with its usual bite. He deserved it.

He crossed the street, brushing snow from his collar again, and drifted toward a narrow lane between the old bakery and a stationery shop. He didn’t remember the lane being there, not as a child, not as a teenager, and downtown Pinebridge was the sort of place where everything stayed exactly where you left it. Yet tonight, the space yawned quietly, a slim corridor of warm lamplight and deep shadow. Halfway down the lane was what appeared to be the entrance to store Rowan hadn’t heard of. A sign with aged brass lettering above the door read Morrow & Reed — Antiquarian Curios. He’d walked this way a hundred times, maybe more, but he had never seen that sign, never noticed the way the windows tucked themselves back from the street, their displays dim and inviting, like an unspoken secret.

A faint glow spilled from within, soft, golden, its warmth offering proof against the cold. Rowan hesitated at the mouth of the lane, listening to the hush of the snowfall and the distant hum coming from those dwindling out of square. He wasn’t sure why the sight of the little shop made something in him loosen, like a knot pulled gently free, but it did. Before he could talk himself out of it, he took a single step forward, toward the old-fashioned door with its burnished brass handle, wondering how a place he had never seen could feel like it had been waiting for him.

My Year In Books (2024 Edition)

 

Finally back to reading and then posting about it!

Gosh, it's been so long since I've done this that I've almost forgotten what I'm supposed to do! Luckily for me, the graphic helps, as does the last entry in this series (from three years ago!).

I had a goal of reading 24 books in 2024. At this point, I can't recall why I set that as the goal, since it's below my mean and median reading quantities. In any case, I manage to just push past that with a final count of 51 books, totaling 16,394 pages (according to goodreads.com). The real number, by my spreadsheet, is actually 50, and a total page count of 16,074. I'll be using the latter numbers for the purposes of analysis.

Five Stars

This year, I rated 12 books as 5 stars. Here's the list (ordered by date read) and a quick blurb about each of them.

[secret novel beta read], by Matt Carson

Oops, I can't actually tell you anything about this one, sorry! However, ff you're an agent or publisher, Matt's still querying, and you'd be well-served to give him a moment. 

The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman

I think this marks my third time reading this book, and I did so very early in the year before the SA allegations came to light. I won't comment any further on the author, but will say that I won't be able to bring myself to read it again unless something changes.

Severance - The Lexington Letter, by Anonymous

This isn't actually a book; it's supplemental content for the excellent Apple TV series Severance. I highly recommend both, but start with the TV series (otherwise the supplement might not make as much sense, nor be worthy of 5 stars).

Heroes: Mortals and Monsters, Quests and Adventures, by Stephen Fry

The second entry in Stephen Fry's Great Mythology series, and it's just as well-written and entertaining as the first. If you're into audiobooks, these are read by the author, and he is a great writer and reader. You should definitely read both!

The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark, by Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan

There's a large part of me that wishes Carl Sagan had lived to see where we've made it to as the human race, and a smaller part of me that cringes at the notion. This book was released in 1995 and I'm astounded at how well it describes what's happened in the years between. Sagan was a brilliant mind and a fantastic writer, and you should read this book.

The Only Pirate at the Party, by Lindsay Sterling and Brooke S. Passey

If you're a Lindsey Stirling fan, this book is essential reading. It's eight years old at this point, but offers an excellent insight into who she was at the time of publishing and how she became that person. It's simply and wonderfully written by her and her sister, and definitely worth picking up in general.

Misquoting Jesus: The Story Behind Who Changed the Bible and Why, by Bart Ehrman

The way mythology emerges has been and continues to be fascinating to me. How the Christian Bible got to be the book it is today is explained in layman's terms in this book, and it's a bit of a wild ride. If you're a history buff, especially the religious history type, this book is definitely for you.

Cowpuppy: An Unexpected Friendship and a Scientist’s Journey into the Secret World of Cows, by Gregory Berns

I actually reviewed this on goodreads, so I'll copy/paste that review here:

I received an advanced reader copy of Cowpuppy from Harper Horizon (via a Goodreads giveaway).

What a fantastic and well-written book, especially for those interested in a little science and a little narrative about the secret life of zebus and new cattlefolk! I grew up adjacent to cows (small-town Texas, although my family didn't own livestock), and while I was no stranger to cattle, I had no idea of how little I (and humans generally) actually knew about them. I highly recommend this book if you're curious about herd animal lives and interactions in a microcosm, and how a scientist made the transition from deliberate clinical lab work to accidental/incidental field lab work!

Empire of Silence, by Christopher Ruocchio

This is the first in a series of sci-fi books, told in a memoir style by the main character. There's a lot (the book is over 700 pages long), so I encourage you to read the synopsis on goodreads. Pick this one up if you're looking for an epic sci-fi book in a (nearly finished) series.

The Elements of Style [Illustrated], by William Strunk Jr., E.B.White, and Maira Kalman (Illustrator)

The content of this book is essential for anyone that wants to write well. The illustrations add a level of delight!

Solaris, by Stanislaw Lem (Bill Johnson, translator) 

If you want a well-written collection of observations about human nature (and perhaps its limitations) packaged up in a sci-fi setting, this book is a great one. I can only vouch for this specific translation, however.

A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens

I read this book every year, but this year, after watching The Man Who Invented Christmas, I wound up buying a Manuscript edition. Seeing the "original prints" next to the typed words, with the scratches and edits, is pretty fantastic for a guy that used to write in spiral notebooks with Bic pens...

Facts and Figures

OK, let's get some dang METRICS up in here!

This table brought to you by Microsoft PowerPoint!

Interesting that the median was so much lower than the mean. Seems like my weightier books must've been pretty dang weighty! In fact, the top five books by page count sum to 3,324 pages. So, roughly 10% of my books made up 20% of my pages!

Given that, what's the distribution of books (and pages) over the months of the year?

This chart brought to you by ChatGPT!

Once again, I find myself finishing books in a diminishing manner through April and May, then picking up over the summer while spiking in the autumn. It's a little surprising that I finished so many short books at the beginning of the year. The October binge is something not completely uncommon, but it seems this year I was unexpectedly inspired!

I was even more surprised to see the diversity by genre!

This chart brought to you by Apple Numbers!

I was all over the place this year! Fantasy dominated, followed by sci-fi, but there were also respectable appearances by non-fiction, fiction, and short stories. I used more categories this year, as it felt appropriate. If I were to group all of the smaller non-fictional categories into non-fiction, the total would have been 13, or 26%. That's a considerable amount given my penchant for escapism!

As to how I read books this year, the majority were consumed via my ears.

This chart brought to you by Microsoft Excel (online)!

I'm glad to say that I read more books with my eyes than my ears this year, and for the first time in a long time, I read more printed books than ebooks. Part of that was due to the fact that I had several books on my shelf that I decided had gone too long unread, so I remedied that. In addition, I won several giveaways from goodreads this year (more on that later), and tried to get through some of those as well. The result was that I had a book or device in hand more often than buds in ears, which... might also mean I wasn't working out in the mornings as much as I usually do (since that's when I listen to books, primarily). This is probably also true, as I was injured a lot this year, because I'm getting old and broken. (Sidebar: I was really fortunate this year to get some fantastic physical therapy, and am trying earnestly to get better.) All of that to say: expect more audio next year!

Goodreads Giveaways

I should take a moment to mention that I had forgotten about Goodreads giveaways but was reminded of it again this year. When I enter, I leverage the following strategy:

1. Filter the giveaways by "Ending", so that you see things that are ending the in the next few hours first.
2. Filter by "Print Only", since receiving a book in the mail is pretty dang cool!
3. Look for entries where the ratio of available copies to current entries is "favorable."

I deliberately do NOT try to limit to genres in which I'm interested, as having an unfiltered genre field is an easy way to find other writers and other genres that I might like. The ratio mentioned above that I look for is generally anything that's better than a 1 in 50 chance of winning. For example, if there are 50 copies in a giveaway, and the number of entries is around 2,500, I would enter the giveaway. Using that approach, I managed to win 7 giveaways this year, and read 4 of them. (Sidebar: you should also enter giveaways for books that you actually want -- after all, SOMEONE wins those things too!)

Here's the rub, though. Since I don't filter by genre or target audience, one of the books I won was a complete miss for me, so far outside my pleasure that I decided not to rate it. Two of the other books were good (3 stars) -- one of them had fantastic writing, but I didn't care for the subject matter, while the other was insightful but not engaging. The last one was Cowpuppy (mentioned above), which was an unexpected 5-star from me, and made the entire exercise worthwhile!

Conclusion

It's good to be back reading a bunch and writing a little. Hopefully this summary will inspire you, gentle reader, to continue finding and indulging in things you enjoy! I suspect we could all use a little more joy in our lives! To that end, let me know how your year went, or if you're interested in other metrics/topics that I used to cover but didn't this year. Happy reading (or whatever floats your boat, so to speak)!

The Hushed Hearth, Stave 5

Stave 1 : Stave 2 : Stave 3 : Stave 4 : Stave 5

Courtesy Kennebunkport Inn/Nicole Wolf

Erin and Riley were awakened by light streaming in through the open curtains and a low rumbling from the street outside and below gently rattling the window. Sitting up, Riley looked out the window.

“Looks like Brynn Wilson is plowing Main Street,” Riley said, leaning back against the headboard as Erin stretched over him to get a view for herself.

“And it’s sunny! A Merry White and Bright Christmas to you, honey!” she said, cupping his face in her hands and kissing him.

“Mrry Chrsms, hny,” he replied without withdrawing from the kiss.

She finally pulled away and, stretching, said “I slept great! Snug as a bug! I wonder how everyone else slept? Did the heater kick on?

Riley flipped the switch on the bedside lamp. It clicked, but didn’t turn on. “I’m not sure the power’s on, but maybe it was for a bit…?”

Erin was already up and out of bed, reaching back long enough to grab Riley’s hand and pull him towards the edge of the bed. “Let’s check on our guests!”

“I wonder if Maud slept at all,” Riley mused, climbing out of bed much more slowly than Erin. “We didn’t actually turn down a room for her.”

“I’ll check!” Erin said, slippers already on her feet as she left the bedroom for the hallway. After a quick splash of water on his face, he joined Erin where she was already putting her ear to the door of Room Six, having presumably listened at Room Seven and heard nothing of note. A moment later, she shrugged and moved on to Room Five. Her brows knit together as she opened the door. She only took a moment to peek in.

“Empty,” she said, a slightly puzzled tone in her voice. She pushed past Riley back to Room Six, peeked, then repeated the exercise on Room Seven. “All empty! I could have sworn I heard some shuffling of some sort on this floor during the night.”

Riley looked into Room Seven as well. Everything looked neat as a pin (or neat as a button, depending on your emphasis). Then it hit him.

“Apparently Maud was up here at some point last night. We didn’t turn this room down originally,” Riley said. He and Erin took one more look at the other rooms and found them all in the same neat state. None of the rooms appeared to have been stayed in.

“I guess she stayed on the first floor with the others. Let’s go see!” Erin said as she headed down the stairs, Riley in tow. “Who was where?” she asked, using her best stage whisper voice as they approached Room One.

“Skyler Mills was here, and the Fosters were in Room Three.”

Erin knocked lightly on the door. “Skyler? Are you up?” She received no response, so knocked harder and called his name more loudly, waiting a moment. Silence. Finally, she opened the door a crack, then pushed it all the way in. The room was just as empty as the ones above, also showing no signs of occupation.

Erin looked at Riley, confusion clear on her face. Riley moved down to Room Three and knocked, but didn’t wait as long as Erin had before opening the door. Room Three was also empty. He quickly checked the other two rooms as Erin went towards the dining room and kitchen.

“They’re not here either,” he heard her call from the other room. 

Riley entered the dining room as Erin emerged from the kitchen. The fire in the hearth was still burning well, and the firewood rack was still full. The room was just as spick and span as they’d left it the night before.

“The kitchen is spotless, and the wood stove is still working. It looks like someone was maintaining this stuff all night long, Rye.”

Riley crossed the lobby to the front doors, pausing only long enough to check whether or not they were locked (they weren’t). He opened the doors and stepped onto the porch, which looked as if someone had worked very hard at shoveling and sweeping. The sidewalk that led from the porch out to Main Street was completely clear of snow. Riley had just finished taking this in when a voice called to him from up the street.

“Merry Christmas Riley! And Erin!” The voice came from Brynn Wilson, who had apparently stopped his plowing long enough to wish them well.

“Merry Christmas to you, Brynn! You’ve been busy already, it looks like.”

Brynn Wilson walked up the sidewalk to shake hands with Riley and hug Erin. “Yep, well, Main Street won’t clear itself of snow, that’s for sure! Do you guys have power or something?”

“Nope, it’s still out for us,” Riley replied.

“Oh, that’s odd. I could’ve sworn I saw lights on in there while I was going by. And the way your porch is clear, I thought maybe you’d taken a hair dryer to it!” He laughed at the thought, Erin joining in. “Are you guys prepared for a chilly and powerless Christmas?”

“Actually,” Erin said, taking Riley’s arm, “we are. Is power still out everywhere?”

Brynn nodded, saying “As far as I can tell anyway. It’s definitely out on east side, and the little bit of the west I’ve got to so far looks about the same.”

“In that case,” Riley said, putting his arm around Erin’s shoulders, “and if you don’t mind, Brynn, please spread the word that the Hushed Hearth Inn is set to host anyone that wants to celebrate and needs a warm place to stay and active kitchen in which to prepare food.”

Brynn looked surprised. “Your power’s out, but your kitchen works? You got a special generator just for that?”

Riley smiled at Erin, then said, “No, but we have a huge wood stove and a top tier chef working it.”

“That… sounds like an invitation to a proper Christmas shindig! I’ll start letting folks know!”

“Thanks, Brynn. And we’ll expect to see you by lunchtime.”

“Deal! Thank you two!” Brynn said, almost jogging back to his truck. He gave the couple a wave as he climbed into the cab.

Erin and Riley stood in the morning sunlight for a moment longer, then by mutual unspoken agreement, went inside to prepare for a Christmas party.

***

By the time they had finished breakfast, the first of the townsfolk arrived with a tentative knock on the lobby-side of the hearth. Cory Hughes and his young son Toby greeted Erin and Riley, stating that Brynn Wilson had told them the inn would be a good place to go if they were a little cold, hungry, or wanted a little more company this morning. Erin ushered them to a table near the fireplace, but Toby immediately went to the tree.

“There’s no decorations,” he said, seeming confused.

Riley joined him there. “You’re right, Toby. Not a single strand of tinsel, not a star on the top… what should we do about that?”

“Well…” Toby replied, a little shyly, “I’ve got this one ornament back at the house. It’s a black and white dog dressed up like a World War I flying ace, and he’s got a little yellow bird with him. I… could…” he trailed off.

Riley glanced back at Cory, who nodded, then asked “Toby, would it be alright if you brought that ornament for the tree? I think it would go really well… here.” He pointed to a spot near the middle.

“No, I think it would go better here!” Toby replied, pointing to a place nearer the window.

“That sounds perfect. How about you run get it as soon as you’ve had a little breakfast?”

Riley had never seen a young boy eat eggs so quickly, and he had been a scrappy young boy himself at one point.

The scene repeated itself several more times. Steff Wood and her partner Hayden, then Emerson Rees (one of the older community members, although he still described himself as a “very eligible bachelor”), then Rowan Hart and family all arrived in succession. Before long, word had spread that folks should bring decorations as well as any food they’d like to prepare. By lunchtime, it was, indeed, a proper Christmas shindig, and the entire inn had been trimmed in all manner of handmade and random decorations.

Some of the last people to arrive were Blake and Kerry Foster and their children, along with another couple and children that neither Riley nor Erin recognized. They were introduced as Hector Bardin and Alexis Stone, up from New York City. Hector was a cousin of the Foster’s, which reminded Riley of part of his conversation with Reed and Elys the night before.

“Oh, so you were the houseful of guests we heard about, huh?” Blake only stared back at Riley as Hector gave him a tentative smile and nod. “We had a couple of guests here last night that said they were spill-overs from your place, Blake. Did Reed and Elys wind up going back over there?”

It was actually Hector that replied. “Did you say Reed and Elys?” Riley and Erin both nodded.

“Reed and Elys were the names of my great-great-grandparents.”

Riley and Erin both looked at each other, then back at Blake and Hector. “That’s… how they introduced themselves.” Riley went and fetched the guest book from where he’d put it back in the lobby desk. Opening it, he flipped to the last page.

Hector’s eyes widened a bit. “Skyler Mills as well?”

“Does that name ring a bell with you?” Erin asked.

“Yes,” Hector replied, “Skyler Mills was one of New England’s most noted Traveling Troubadors in the mid nineteenth century. What did they look like?” Hector asked. Riley and Erin described them all, and Hector nodded, saying, “I actually don’t know what Skyler Mills looked like, but your description of his outfit certainly fits with the style he might’ve worn. Maybe your visitor was… acting the part?”

While Riley and Erin considered this, Hector added, “What you said about Reed and Elys certainly sounds like the photos I’ve seen of them. I’m just not sure why anyone would… I don’t know, try to impersonate them? Would you mind telling me about what they said?”

Riley and Erin smiled at each other and began telling the stories from the previous evening as they, Hector, Alexis, Blake, and Kerry sat down at the round table in front of the hearth. The kids went to join some of their friends that were being entertained by another townsperson that had brought a guitar. They were singing Christmas carols to the great delight of Emerson Rees, who some of the kids were convinced was Santa Clause in disguise (mainly because he was the oldest person in the room and kept suspiciously chuckling with a distinct “Ho ho hoo!” under his breath).

The morning, afternoon, and evening saw the Hushed Hearth Inn as busy as it ever had been, and no one left without at least one special moment or memory. For many, it was Riley’s toast, which was apparently a quote from someone up through his family tree:

“To all of us gathered here today… I thank you for the friendship you have shown to us and to each other. Let us all remember today, that we were able to gather despite the weather in a place that will forever fill the role as haven for love and laughter in Whispering Fork…”

***

Three weeks later, the euphoric feeling from Christmas had not quite worn off, but Riley found himself worrying once again about the bills. They only had two weeks to come up with the balance on the lien. Business had picked up a bit, and in fact a somewhat exotic couple was currently in the dining room, having booked a room for a full week. Erin was chatting with them in her typical Erin-ish way, and seemed more animated than usual. The couple were responding in kind. A moment later, Erin was frantically waving Riley over to the table.

“Riley!” Erin said, barely containing her excitement. “Did you know that Matteo and Teresa are from Texas? Well, not originally, but that’s where they’ve lived for the past twenty years?”

“No, I don’t think I knew that. Interesting!” Riley said, turning to Matteo and Teresa. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“We just couldn’t resist staying a while in the world-famous Hushed Hearth Inn!” Teresa replied, a slight accent marking her as Eastern European, although her light hair and complexion would have fit better on someone of Scandinavian descent.

“World-famous, huh? Well now I have to ask — where in the world did you hear about us?”

Erin couldn’t contain herself any longer. “We’re in this months’ Condé Nast Traveler!”

“Condé Nast Traveler? What’s that?” asked Riley.

“Only the most important travel magazine in the northeast, if not the whole US.”

Matteo leaned over and pulled something out of his backpack. A moment later, he handed a copy of a slightly-worn magazine to Riley.

“Here you go!” he said, his accent and dark complexion marking him as likely Italian. The magazine he’d handed to Riley featured a flattering picture of the Hushed Hearth Inn from Christmas Day on the cover. The lead story was titled “The Hushed Hearth,” and the author’s byline read Hector Bardin.

Riley flipped toward the center of the magazine and began reading the article.

At the request of my illustrious editor, Alexis Stone, on the 100th anniversary of the first issue of Signature Magazine (from which emerged Condé Nast Traveler, the periodical you, dear reader, currently hold in your hands), I originally intended to write about Signature’s founding by my great-great-grandparents, Andrew Reed Foster and Katherine Elys Foster. Instead, and given the season, it seems more compelling to tell you the tale of the founding of my great-great-grandparents themselves, the story of which was uncovered during a holiday excursion to my cousin’s ranch in Whispering Fork, Connecticut.

Centrally featured in this story is the Hushed Hearth Inn, located squarely between the tines of the fork from whence the town gets its name. When tragedy struck Reed and Elys (they went by their middle names), the Hushed Hearth Inn became their second home, providing them with everything they needed to survive and thrive.

The article then detailed, in touching tribute, the story that Reed and Elys related to Riley and Erin, and then Riley and Erin had shared with Hector and Alexis. It then switched to Hector’s perspective from Christmas Day.

The current owners, Riley and Erin, carry on the family tradition with seemingly effortless grace. The entire town had been without power for all of Christmas Eve and on into Christmas Day itself. My cousin was both frantic and despondent, as most of the Christmas glory he’d planned relied on a steady supply of alternating current. However, when word reached us that a party was forming at the inn, we decided to hoof the half mile through the snow and see what the hubbub was about. 

Arriving, we were greeted by a scene straight out of a Dickens story. The outside of the inn was modestly appointed with holly garlands and evergreen wreaths smartly trimmed with simple red bows and ribbons. The interior, however, was in the process of being grandly decorated by a large but disparate group of townsfolk of all ages. A collection of mismatched tinsel, holly, and garland  was draped or hung throughout the lobby and on into the dining room. It turned out that the decorations had been brought by the townsfolk — the inn itself only providing the canvas for decorative art.

The description Hector had written of the day was touching and sentimental, capturing all that Riley had hoped everyone in town would feel and experience. The article ended with an unexpected call to action.

I have no idea what actually happened on Christmas Eve at the Hushed Hearth Inn, but I do know this: Mathilde (or Maud, if you’re more familiar) created a legacy that carries well on to this day. If you ever find yourself in need of rest and rejuvenation, warmth and welcome, fellowship and family, you would do well to reserve a room for yourself at the Hushed Hearth, and consider spending at least a week there, enjoying all that Whispering Fork has to offer.

Riley put the magazine down, then looked back to Matteo and Teresa. “Is this actually what brought you here?”

Teresa nodded vigorously. “Absolutely! We read about the inn in the magazine, then did a little research on the town on the Internet. It sounded perfect for a venture we’d like to undertake, but wanted to visit the area for a bit before committing to it fully.”

“A venture?”Erin asked. “Ooo, sounds intriguing and exciting already! We’ve lived here all our lives. What do you need to know?”

“Well,” Matteo said, slipping the magazine back into his backpack, “We’re in the antiques, art, and decor business. We’ve been looking to move to the northeast for a while now, but haven’t found quite the right place to try to start a seasonal antique market.”

“When we read about Whispering Fork, something clicked for us,” Teresa continued. “The main issue is that this is a farming community. Do you know of anyone that might be interested in selling some land that they aren’t using for anything else?”

Erin looked at Riley, who looked at the couple sitting in front of him.

“I… think we might know someone with thirty unused acres available…”

The Hushed Hearth, Stave 4

Stave 1 : Stave 2 : Stave 3 : Stave 4 : Stave 5

The woman strode straight up to Riley and deftly pushed his dinner plate toward Erin while picking up the guest book with her other hand. She was dressed in an apparently homespun woolen dress to match her cap, and thick leggings beneath that ended in workman style boots. She opened the guest book, flipped through the pages to where Riley had been writing, then finally looked up.

“You’ll be Skyler, then?” she asked, pointing toward Skyler. He nodded slowly, and couldn’t hide the slight smile on his face. “And you’re the Fosters, right?” she followed, shifting her pointing to the couple. They, too, had grins on their faces, and also nodded.

She clapped the book shut and set it back down on the table. “Right. C’mon, Riley. We’ve rooms to prepare.” She practically dragged Riley out of his chair, heading toward the guest rooms. She paused long enough to glance back toward Elys and state, “You can help Erin figure out the kitchen. We’ll come check on you in a bit. You two,” she said, somehow pointing at both Skyler and Reed at the same time, “can start getting this dining room spick and span and properly set.” With that, and with Riley in tow, she disappeared down the hallway, then turned left toward the first guest room on the first floor.

She stopped in front of the first door. “Room One will do for Skyler. Room Three, the Fosters. You and Erin will be in Room Eight.”

“Excuse me,” Riley said, finally gathering his wits enough to speak to this woman, “but… who are you, again?”

The woman looked back at him as if he’d grown a second nose. Squinting at his face, she seemed to decide that he had not, in fact grown a second nose and, nodding, said, “You can call me Maud. Let’s go!” Without further introduction or explanation, she opened the door to the first room and disappeared inside.

“First order of business: a little fresh air and a little less dust!” Maud said, moving around the bed to the window on the far side.

“Uh, Maud? That window is pretty sticky. I usually have to really work at it—” Riley began.

Maud swiftly thumped both sides of the frame with her balled-up hands, then smacked the top before grasping the lift and hoisting it open with apparent ease.

“I think I figured it out, Riley,” she said. She then turned to the bed and grasped two corners of the comforter on her side, looking expectantly at Riley.

Riley, moving as if in a daze, picked up the two corners on his side, and together they gave the comforter a smart flap to knock the bit of dust covering it off and toward the open window.

“Who are you?” Riley said as they laid the comforter back on the bed, folding it down for the occupant.

“Like I said, I’m Maud,” Maud replied, an impish grin on her face. 

Realizing that was probably the best he was going to get from her, Riley asked, “Well Maud, I… uh… certainly appreciate the help, but… what are you doing here?”

Her grin widened as she walked past him and out of the room. “I’m here to help. You’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.” she said from down the hall. She was opening the door to Room Three when Riley joined her. “Don’t worry — we’ll close the windows after the rooms’ve had a chance to air out.”

“OK.” Riley automatically replied, then followed up with a quick, “Wait, tomorrow? What’s tomorrow?”

Maud turned to look at him for the second time, again searching his face for the second nose. “It’s Christmas Day, of course!” she finally declared, managing to open the window in Room Three with the same ease as shown in Room One.

They repeated the comforter fluffing and turning down as Riley stated, “I know it’s Christmas Day, but that still doesn’t explain—”

“You’re going to be busy,” Maud said, cutting him off as she exited the room and headed towards the stairs that led to the second level. Riley practically had to jog to keep up with her.

“Busy? Are you joking?” Riley asked, then, deciding to take a different tack. “How could you possibly say that?”

“Riley, my boy… I know more about the Hushed Hearth Inn than anyone.” Maud replied simply.

Of all the things she’d said and done so far, this took Riley aback the most. “Really? I’ll have you know that the Hushed Hearth Inn is my family’s inn. I doubt you know more about it than I do.”

“Oho, is that so?” Maud chuckled as Riley looked slightly exasperated. “Let’s test it then, shall we? Tell me the story of the inn’s founding, if you please.” They were into Room Eight at this point, and Maud was repeating the same exercises she’d gone through in the other rooms. 

“Fine,” Riley said, still assisting her in the preparations. “The Hushed Hearth Inn was constructed by my eight-times great grandfather Jean Poissant in 1769. It was the first inn and public house in Whispering Fork, and has entertained everyone from paupers to princes, so to speak. It’s one of if not the oldest continuously operating inns in the state.”

Maud glanced up at him from where she was smoothing the comforter. “Nice story. You only mentioned a single line about the inn’s actual founding, and it’s not quite right.”

Riley was actually getting upset at this point. “Yes, it is,” he insisted. “Like I said, the inn is my family’s inn.”

Maud held her hands up at him, apparently attempting to placate. “Alright Riley, alright. Would you like a few more details about how the inn actually came about?”

Despite his best efforts, Riley was intrigued. “Yes, but only if they’re factual.”

“I promise that I will tell you the truth about the inn,” Maud said as she moved past him once more into the upstairs hallway. “Let’s see how everyone else is doing and what else needs to be done, and I’ll fill in some blanks along the way…”

***

As they headed down the stairs, Maud began speaking. Her voice seemed slightly different. For one thing, it was less bossy. For another, it was somehow… younger. No less strong, and no more energetic, but with a spark of agelessness that defied her appearance.

“It was the springtime of 1769,” she began, “and Jean and Mathilde Poissant moved from Boston, Massachusetts to Whispering Fork, Connecticut. Jean had made a modest name for himself in the textile industry, but after several encounters with industrious farmers and ranchers, decided a more rural lifestyle would suit him and his family much better. He obtained two parcels of property in Whispering Fork, over 100 miles from Boston, and moved there as soon as his affairs were in order. The parcels included thirty acres just outside of the village, and another two acres between the branches where the river forked. Jean determined that he would farm and raise a bit of livestock on the thirty acres, and figure out what to do with the other two acres at some point.”

Riley and Maud entered the dining room in time to see Reed and Skyler setting fresh tablecloths out to spread on each table. Maud nodded at them and they returned the gesture before Maud continued her story.

“The main problem with Jean’s plan was that he didn’t know the first thing about farming or raising livestock.” she said, helping gather a collection of napkins and silverware for the tables. Riley automatically fell into step with her, putting place settings out on the tables after Reed and Skyler covered them with tablecloths. “Try as he might, he couldn’t get anything to grow or take root. It didn’t matter if it was spinach or squash, legume or lettuce, it just wouldn’t grow. Combine that with the fact that the areas he’d staked out for pasture failed to produce any but the meanest of grasses, and he couldn’t keep his livestock fed. By the end of the second year of the Whispering Fork Expedition, as he called it, he was completely disheartened.”

“It was a good thing his wife, Mathilde, was as wise as she was industrious. She saw what was happening with the family farm by the end of the first season and started making plans for another venture: an inn on the two acres between the river’s forks, for what was quickly turning from village into town, with plenty of folks passing through on their way between Boston and New York City. Her dream was for the inn to become a place that not only they could call “home,” but anyone that traveled through might have the same opportunity. It would be a place of cheer and celebration during the good times, and respite and renewal during the hard times. People from all over would be able to share company and enjoy fellowship while under its eaves.”

“By the time Jean was ready to pack up the farm and head back to the textile industry, Mathilde told him they could keep his dream alive by making a slight alteration away from cultivating crops to hosting guests and travelers. Jean was skeptical at first, but he also trusted his wife, and they invested what was left of their capital in the construction of the Hushed Hearth Inn. By the next season, it opened, and has been open ever since.”

“And that, my dear boy, is the real story of the inn’s founding.”

Having finished setting all of the tables, Maud headed toward the kitchen. Riley followed, wondering at the story he’d just heard. Could it be true? Was the Hushed Hearth the result of a failed attempt to farm the same thirty acres that he had been trying to sell to pay off the tax lien?

On entering the kitchen, Riley saw that Maud was conferring with Elys and Erin about something. A moment later Erin waved him over. As he joined the group Maud and Elys went to the pantry and began digging around, apparently for ingredients.

“So, this is beyond strange,” began Riley.

“I know!” Erin exclaimed. “We’re going to bake pie crusts in this old wood stove!” She seemed genuinely excited.

“No, I mean her,” Riley said, pointing to where Maud was pulling items off of one of the shelves in the pantry. “She just told me in detail about how the inn started, and it’s not quite the same as the story I’ve always heard. None of the claims seem to be unbelievable, but... I'm not sure what to think.”

Erin yet again took Riley’s hand, squeezed it, and stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Honey, nothing about this evening has been normal. But we have a couple of paying customers, and we need to do something in order to make sure they’re taken care of. They all seem not only agreeable, but like they’re genuinely enjoying what’s happening. I get the sense that Elys and Reed know Maud, and really like her.  And I’m not sure why, but I do too. And I… trust her, somehow.”

It was Riley’s turn to squeeze Erin’s hand and lean down and kiss her cheek. “I won’t pretend that I have any idea of what’s going on here tonight, but I’m with you. As long as everyone’s happy and taken care of, I’ll try not to worry about it.”

Erin smiled up at him again as Maud and Elys returned with a square basket full of various dry ingredients as well as oils and preserves. Elys put the basket on a small table and began taking the contents out, motioning for Erin to help her.

“They’re in a good spot. Lots of work to do, but Erin’s a wizard with that stove,” Maud said. “We have one more task to do: gather some wood.”

***

They exited the kitchen via the service entrance. It was dark now, and the snow was actually picking up slightly, the flakes getting fatter and heavier. They crossed the small yard to the shed. It was used mainly for storage at this point, but was also where the inn’s main woodpile was kept. The woodpile was currently only about a quarter full, which given the state of disuse of the inn, seemed fine to Riley. He grabbed a few logs off of the pile and was about to turn back toward the kitchen when he saw that Maud hadn’t actually stopped at the pile. She had instead continued walking around the corner of the shed and was almost out of sight of Riley as she called back over her shoulder without looking:

“Not that wood. We’ll get some of that on the way back.”

Riley quickly put his small load down and followed her around the shed. They crossed the narrow but still well-maintained foot bridge over the dry creek bed and continued straight for a few more moments. The trees were somewhat thicker here, and the light was dim, but Riley knew where he was going in general. He was wondering if Maud was as familiar with the grounds as he was when he almost bumped into her. She had stopped at the edge of a tiny clearing, the grove circled by relatively small evergreen trees. The scent hit him a moment later — Balsam firs, and he was instantly transported back to every Christmas from his childhood.

“Here we are,” said Maud, her voice more quiet than it had been all evening. She turned to Riley and said, “You need to pick one.”

“Wait, you want me to use one of these as for a Christmas tree?” 

He could see Maud nodding in the dimness, then saw that she had produced a small hatchet for the job from somewhere in her long coat. 

“That’s what they’re here for, after all. Sometimes the inn needs a tree, and when no other is available, the grove provides.”

Suddenly Riley had a vision of a memory long forgotten, of himself as a small child with his mother, wandering around through the trees at the back of the inn, looking for a perfect Christmas tree. That had been a hard year, but his mother had insisted they get a tree and put it up in the dining room. They had eventually found what must have been this little grove, and his mother had said something.

“I need to pick one.”

Then, turning to Riley, she said, “Remember this Riley: take a tree, leave a tree.”

As this memory washed over him, Maud echoed his mother’s words.

“Remember, Riley: take a tree, leave a tree.”

Riley moved to the center of the small clearing, slowly turning to really look at each tree along the perimeter. Eventually, as he completed a circuit, the clouds behind one tree broke just enough to allow bright starlight to shine through. One tree in particular seemed illuminated, as if the stars above were somehow decorating the tree, with the brightest near the top.

“That one. I choose that one.” Riley said, moving toward it. He carefully lifted the limbs at the base of the tree and used the hatchet to quickly and cleanly create the first notch, then moved to the other side to finish the job. As he did, a single cone fell alongside the tree. Riley carefully picked it up and put it in his coat pocket, making sure the seeds were still intact. He would need those in order to plant a tree to replace this one. Once the cone was safe and secure, he handed the hatchet back to Maud and hoisted the tree onto his shoulder. Together, they headed back toward the inn.

As they passed the shed, Maud grabbed an armload of wood. Riley looked like he was about to try to do the same, but Maud waved him off. “You go get that tree set up. I’ll get the firewood.”

Riley crossed through the kitchen, drawing the attention of both Erin and Elys as he went. He didn’t pause, but continued on down the hall and into the dining room. Reed and Skyler had finished the rest of the settings and had found some boxes that looked vaguely familiar to Riley but which he couldn’t immediately place. He carried the tree to the back of the dining room and set it up directly in front of one of the large windows there. The clouds remained gappy enough that the twinkling of the stars continued to have the effect Riley had observed in the grove. Stepping back, he admired the tree, then realized what the boxes Reed and Skyler had found contained: decorations.

He joined the other two as they went through the boxes. He retrieved the tree stand and skirt, but before he could actually pull any of the decorations out, Maud entered the dining room. She dropped her logs in the firewood rack there, then crossed to the three of them.

“No decorations necessary. The skirt and stand will do just fine. Those,” she said, pointing at some candle holders and handles, “and those as well,” indicating some stockings, “but nothing else, if you please.”

“Are you sure?” Riley asked. Both Reed and Skyler also looked to Maud as she nodded.

“I’m sure, Riley. The rest will take care of itself in due time.”

Riley wasn’t sure what that meant, but he had promised Erin that he would not worry about it. Even more, he wanted to believe what Maud was saying, which is something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

With that, Maud took both of Riley’s hands. As she did, he felt a tremor of some kind, almost like a shock of static electricity, but warm instead of painful.

“Everything is set. Go close the guest room windows and see if they need anything else in the kitchen. After that, everyone should get some sleep.”

“Wait, we didn’t prepare a room for you, Maud,” Riley stated as the realization hit him.

She chuckled at him. “I’ll see to myself when I’m ready. For now, I’m going to tend to the hearth.” She let go of his hands, but the warmth the conveyed remained.

Riley did as she asked, closing the guest room windows and making sure the rooms were otherwise prepared. By the time he returned to the kitchen, everyone except Maud was there, finishing whatever cleaning and preparation had been underway.

Skyler was the first to take his leave with a courteous bow, and went straight to Room One. The Fosters lingered a bit longer, gazing around the kitchen, before taking each other’s arms and saying goodnight to Erin and Riley. 

Looking around the kitchen, Erin took in a breath and exhaled it quickly. “Well, that was an adventure! I’m a little bit beat, honey. Are you ready to turn in?”

Riley nodded, and they left the kitchen. As they passed the dining room, Riley glanced back to where Maud sat in front of the hearth, her feet propped on it, her eyes gazing into the fire there. He started to move toward her, but she held her hand up to him.

“Get some rest, you two. I’ll come get you if I need anything. If not, I’ll turn in soon myself. Just remember Riley — Mathilde had a vision when she built this place. That vision was realized and transformed, and became a legacy. You have it in you to honor the past while creating a new future.” Maud had shifted her focus from the fire to Riley and Erin, and Riley felt the love, joy, and good will her gaze conveyed. He wasn’t sure why, but he had quickly come to trust this stranger that seemed to know him and the Hushed Hearth Inn.

“Thank you, Maud. And good night.”

The Hushed Hearth, Stave 3

Stave 1 : Stave 2 : Stave 3 : Stave 4 : Stave 5

Erin was up and around the fireplace in a dash. Riley was stuck somewhere between standing and being flabbergasted. A moment later, Erin was leading a couple to the table, taking their coats and putting them over the back of one of the chairs of a nearby table. The couple was striking; the man’s short cut salt-and-pepper hair was neatly styled to match his much more salty than peppery trimmed beard, and the lady’s straight faded auburn locks were elegantly braided and worn Dutch-style. They were both dressed with what would best be described as casual formality. The man had a bowler hat in his hand and wore a loose suit-style vest over his long-sleeved white button down shirt. The lady’s pants were beyond bell-bottoms, with the legs flowing widely enough to drape like a skirt. They perfectly matched what must have been a custom-fitted blazer-style blouse.

They gave the appearance of being middle-aged, but they also exuded an energy that led one to think they were much younger. They both nodded to Skyler, who returned the nod. For a moment, Riley could have sworn that the greeting was more familiar than it was polite, but the thought was interrupted by Erin suggesting that Riley get the couple seated while she made up two more plates. Riley did so, pulling out the chairs next to Skyler and offering them to the couple.

As they sat down, the introduced themselves. “Hi, we’re Reed and Elys Foster.”

Riley smiled uncertainly at them, feeling like those names and their faces seemed familiar, then it struck him.

“Are you related to Blake Foster?”

“Yup, we’re part of that Foster clan,” replied Reed with a wink at Riley.

“They have so much family in town this season!” declared Elys, laughing. “It’s one of the reasons we’re here — there’s no room at their inn!”

“We wanted to come by here one way or the other,” continued Reed. “Especially given our history with this place.” He took a moment to look around the dining room, apparently lost in thought as Erin returned with plates full Christmas Eve dinner for them.

“Well, if it’s a room you need, we can definitely oblige. How long do you think you’ll be staying?” asked Riley.

“Oh, probably just the night. We’ll… be leaving town again tomorrow,” said Reed.

Riley looked a little disappointed, but opened the guest book and wrote their names in it: Reed and Elise Foster, 12/24/2024

“It’s spelled E-L-Y-S, dear,” said Elys, seeming to know that he’d written it down incorrectly. He fixed the mistake, then introduced himself, Erin, and Skyler.

“Did I hear you say you had a history with the Hushed Hearth Inn?” asked Erin.

“Oh yes. The entire Foster family does, actually,” stated Reed.

“Interesting, I don’t think Blake’s ever mentioned it,” said Riley.

“Well, it’s a hundred-year-old story at this point, and didn’t affect his side of the family nearly as much,” Elys answered. “Are you interested in hearing about it?”

“Definitely,” Erin replied. “This seems to be the night for stories about the inn.”

Reed nodded. “Good! Although it begins with tragedy…” he said, directing his gaze at the fire burning in the hearth.

***

“The year was 1919, and the winter that year was much like this one. Andrew and Katherine Foster owned a small farm just outside of town. Life was hard for them, but they managed… until the fire. They lost everything — the house, the barn, even the animals, and the crops hadn’t been very good that year, so they had no money either. They had no family nearby and no roof over their heads as a dreadful Christmas Eve storm blew in.”

Reed paused, and Elys seamlessly took over the narrative. “With nowhere else to go, the couple wandered into town, cold and hungry, hoping for anything. They arrived at the door of the Hushed Hearth Inn.” Elys paused long enough to look around the dining room, smiling as she did. Then she continued with, “The proprietors at the time… Sydney and Devin were their names, if I recall correctly, took them in without hesitation.”

“Devin and Sydney… I think they were your great-great grandparents, right?” Erin asked Riley. Riley nodded, not having ever heard any of this from anyone in his family.

Reed picked up the story again. “Sydney and Devin gave the Fosters a room, food, clean clothing, and told them to rest. The Fosters didn’t intend to stay more than was required to wait out the storm, but Devin and Sydney wouldn’t hear of them leaving.”

“’You’ll stay until you’re back on your feet!’ was the quote, I believe,” said Elys. “And Sydney and Devin were true to their word. They were more than generous with the Fosters. Sydney taught Katherine the secrets of cooking meals for large crowds in the kitchen as well as how to sew sturdy clothes from pretty much anything that could be sewn. Devin and Andrew went out every day from dawn until dusk, working to clear a patch of ground on the Foster’s property and rebuild the farm house.”

“As soon as it was clear enough, Devin gathered some able-bodied men of the town, and together with Andrew, they managed to rebuild the house and barn before the first Spring thaw. The Fosters continued to live at the Hushed Hearth Inn, which had become their second home, and Sydney and Devin, their second family.” 

As Reed stopped for a sip of whatever Christmas Cheer Erin had poured for them all, Elys continued the tale. “However, once the Spring came around, the Fosters realized they had a decision to make. They were originally from New York, and Andrew had a brother still there that had contacted them during the winter. He was looking for a change of scenery and occupation. Gerald was his name, and he published a small New England periodical, but wanted to follow in Andrew and Katherine’s footsteps and live a farmer’s life.”

“The Fosters had been struggling with the decision for weeks, but once the house and barn were finished, and the fields ready for planting, and a few livestock were available, they realized that New York was calling them home. They wound up selling their farm to Gerald for a fair price, and moved back to take over his periodical business.”

Reed wrapped the story up with, “But they never forgot the kindness that was shown to them at the Hushed Hearth Inn. After losing what they thought was everything, they gained more than they could have imagined. They remained ever grateful to this place.”

“There’s a lesson in that for all of us, I think,” finished Elys. “Even in the worst of times, small acts of generosity can create ripples of goodwill that cannot be measured.”

***

Reed and Elys gazed at each other for a moment, then turned to look at Riley at the same time. “Did you enjoy that story?” Elys asked?

“Oh yes!” replied Erin before Riley had the chance to. “It seems exactly like the kind of thing that Riley’s great-great-grand’s would have done!”

Reed nodded. “Yes, indeed. This place,” he said, gesturing around to take in the whole inn, much like Skyler had done, “tends to bring out the best in people, doesn’t it?”

Erin nodded back at Reed, then said, “Goodness, we should eat! Otherwise, this food’s going to get cold!”

“You’ll have to put Riley’s back on the stove, dear,” said a stranger’s voice, coming from the other side of the fireplace. A moment later, an ancient, squat, but obviously hale woman came into view, pulling off a thick woolen cap, the kind with ear flaps. “He and I have business to attend to first.”