Page 6 of Fetch Me A Mate
He rocked back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. “Didn’t expect room service.”
“Miriam’s orders.” She passed him a steaming mug. “How’s it looking?”
“Better than I thought.” He gestured at the exposed subfloor. “Rot didn’t spread far. I can sister new joists to the old ones. Solid for another century.”
She crouched beside him, studying the wood dark with age but sound at its core. “Beautiful work. Whoever built this knew what they were doing.”
“Henry Caldwell and half the town. Nineteen ninety.” Rowan accepted the plate of eggs and bacon. “Miriam’s husband led the crew.”
“I didn’t know she’d been married.”
“Lost him young. Heart attack. She never remarried. Said the inn was family enough.”
Diana’s chest ached for Miriam, a woman who’d poured herself into these walls. “She chose well.”
“She did.” His eyes met hers briefly before he bent back to his meal. “This is good. Thanks.”
They ate in companionable quiet, birds calling from the lake’s edge and a doorbell chiming faintly from Griddle & Grind across the square.
When she gathered the dishes, Rowan caught her wrist lightly. “Stairs are solid from here down. Watch the third step till I fix it this afternoon.”
His hand was warm, callused. For a breath, neither of them moved. Then footsteps sounded below, and he let go.
Miriam waited in the lobby, wrapped in a wool coat the color of autumn leaves, a wicker basket looped over one arm.
“Good morning, dear.” Her smile was bright, spectacles glinting. “Ready for a proper introduction to your inheritance?”
“Rowan says the bones are sound.”
“Of course they are. Henry built this place to last.” Miriam opened the basket, producing a tin painted with roses and a thick folder. “Earl Grey with lavender—good for nerves. And these”—she tapped the folder—“are the stories that matter.”
“Stories?”
“Every inn needs mythology. Come on.”
She led Diana through the lobby, pausing at the mantel where photographs crowded the shelf: wedding guests, children opening presents, strangers raising toasts.
“That one’s from ’98,” Miriam said, tapping a photo of bundled-up families. “Blizzard trapped twelve strangers here for four days. They left as lifelong friends. Still exchange Christmas cards.”
She pointed at another. “This was the night a siren sang in the parlor. Heartbroken over some sea prince. Keened till dawn, and by morning half the town was in love with her.”
Diana studied the images, each one proof that the inn had always been more than shelter.
“They all look… happy.”
“Belonging is powerful magic,” Miriam said. “This place has always specialized in it.”
Upstairs, the thud of Rowan’s work echoed faintly. Miriam’s eyes twinkled as she called, “Morning, Rowan. How’s the patient?”
“Responding well,” he answered, and Diana heard a warmth in his tone she hadn’t before.
“Good boy. Don’t let him skip lunch, Diana. Men forget to eat when they’re focused.”
Heat touched her cheeks as they moved on.
Miriam opened a guest room painted soft blue. “This suite’s seen three marriage proposals. Something about the light makes people brave.”
The next held a story of a famous author, another of a father and daughter who reconciled over hot chocolate and Scrabble. Each space carried its own mythology, its own proof that this inn held lives and shaped them.
