“Six nights, you said?” she confirms, ignoring Evan like he’s but a speck of dust.
“Yes, please.” I spare Evan an indignant look before he disappears into the parlor in a blur of fury and flannel.
Lucy photocopies my ID and plucks a skeleton key from the corkboard behind the desk. She grabs both suitcases, hoisting them up the stairs with zero effort, high ponytail bobbing up and down with each step. This tiny woman is freakishly strong. What she lacks in height, she makes up for with boundless energy.
“Oh, um, I can take it,” I offer weakly, wheeling my tote and carry-on at her heels.
She doesn’t seem to hear me as she bounds up the staircase, leading me through a long, narrow hallway of doors. To my left, the hallway juts into an entirely separate wing.
The outdated floral wallpaper from the ad photographs has been unpeeled in the hallway, with random bits and jagged sections still clinging to the wall. It’s as if someone ripped it all off in one careless stroke and didn’t bother to go back for the stubborn smaller chunks.
Lucy parks my luggage outside the farthest door on the left and unlocks it. “It’s our best room,” she whispers.
I try to hide my cringe when the door swings open with a toe-curling creak and the light flicks on. The heavy oak wainscoting is the only thing that breaks up the overwhelmingly blue walls. A hefty-looking four-poster bed with a grandma quilt sits in the middle of the room, flanked by turned spindles. There’s a massive window to the right, draped in the heaviest of fabrics, clad with an Astoria valance that belongs to the 1930s and shouldn’t have left. It reminds me of those heavy drapes in The Sound of Music that Fraulein Maria Project Runways into clothing for the children. I’d have preferred something from this century, but beggars can’t be choosers. And at least it isn’t a construction zone like the rest of the house.
Lucy takes the liberty of flopping on the end of my bed like she’s at a slumber party, eagerly spectating as I deposit my things on the upholstered antique ottoman at the foot of the bed. I plaster on a fake smile and give her an exaggerated nod as I kick my boots off.
“There’s a pamphlet if you need ideas for things to do around the village,” she informs me, pointing to the stack of colorful brochures in a dusty plastic holder atop the dresser. “And if you run into Ray Jackson at the waterfront—which you will, because he loves newbies—always have an out. The man likes to talk. He’ll trap you, and the next thing you know, he’ll have told you his whole life story, from his conception over at the old movie theater to his hemorrhoids.” When she sees the concerned look on my face, she adds, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you the full rundown tomorrow at breakfast, but the next week will fly by. You’ll see.”
“Thanks, Lucy,” I squeak, eager for silence and serenity after a long-ass day, a symptom of living alone since undergrad.
She lingers, running a finger over the edge of the quilt. I get the feeling she wants to stay and chat. As much as I love girl talk, making conversation with a peppy stranger is the last thing I want to do right now. When I yawn and stretch my arms theatrically over my head, she gets the hint, stands, and wishes me a good night.
The moment the door closes, I commence my skin-care routine, strip my travel clothes for my pajamas, and slide into bed. The mattress squeaks with the tiniest movement. It’s so firm, it feels as though I’ve draped myself directly over a box spring and called it a day. Chance of sleep tonight: near zilch. Then again, it’s preferable to the alternative—my rental car.
Upon checking my phone, I hardly have any Instagram notifications from the travel story I posted earlier. In fact, I’m at the point now where every time I post, I lose followers instead of gaining them. Great. I’m becoming more irrelevant by the minute.
With that cheerful thought, I promptly close the app with a heavy sigh and fire off a How are you? text to Julian, followed by a brief explanation that I’ll be staying an extra week. I brace myself for upset, but he simply responds with a selfie of him, smiling, thumbs-up, in my kitchen making a frozen pizza. It comforts me knowing he’s having an okay day, despite my leaving.
When I plug my phone into the charger and close my eyes, Lucy and Evan’s conversation is semi-audible from downstairs.
“What kind of people would we be if we tossed her onto the street?” Lucy asks.
“That’s beside the point and you know it.” The rest of Evan’s response is muffled. The stomp of his heavy footsteps is the last thing I hear before I drift off to sleep.