Page 11 of The Weekend Crashers
“Mom, men knit.”
“You think those guys are here to knit?”
Piper shakes her head. “I’m sure they’re even less interested in us than you are in them.”
That’s entirely not the point.
Chapter Seven
Sometimes, Belinda Yarrow wonders how she’s made it through thirty-five years of marriage. Clearly, it’s not due to great communication. She still can’t understand how Max could have booked a bachelor party during her knitting retreat weekend. She brought it up again last night.
“Belinda, everyone can fit. We have plenty of room,” he said.
“Barely.”
“And besides, with everything that’s going on, I couldn’t turn down the chance to have full occupancy.”
She can’t be too cross with Max. Things are, as he said, “going on”: A businessman from Philadelphia recently approached them about buying the inn. They hadn’t been thinking about selling, but the big numbers being tossed around were slowly changing their minds. Max’s mind, especially.
“Bee, the bachelor party isn’t just anyone—it’s the Cavanaughs,” Max said. “You know Barclay Cavanaugh. His son-in-law owns Danby Markets.”
Of course she knows the Cavanaughs. It seems everyone knows everybody in Bucks County. She likes the Cavanaughs. That isn’t the issue.
“My retreats are supposed to be a mood board come to life.A half dozen rowdy bachelor party attendees is not part of that mood.”
“These are outdoorsmen. They will barely be around the inn except for meals—if that. Your retreat ladies will have the run of the place every day.”
That was what he told her last night. Now it’s the morning, and the lobby is jammed with both groups checking in at once. And all she can do is damage control.
“Can you at least put up a banner for the knitters, too? Maybe inside over the desk?”
A few years ago, Max’s friend in the printing business started selling canvas banners customized for local businesses. Sometimes Max hung banners that read, “Go Eagles!” or “Happy Holidays!” The one today welcomes the bachelor party.
The front desk is one of the first things guests see when they walk in: a heavy wood piece they saved from the previous owner, with the nicks and scars to signal it’s a sentinel of bygone eras. They keep an antique copper bell on the front ledge, along with a leather-bound guestbook.
The lobby is wide and accommodating. To the right of the check-in are two chocolate-brown leather couches facing each other with an antique chest serving as a coffee table between them. Beside that, a stone hearth and fireplace. When they bought and renovated the inn they preserved as much of the lobby interior as possible. The charm of the place is in its imperfections: the patina on the banister, a slight unevenness of the walls, and well-worn tapestries. The high tin ceiling typically absorbs noise in a way that keeps the lobby pleasantly muted. But it seems the entire bachelor party arrived at once, a group that has so much energy they seem to take up all the space in the room.
Looking around to make sure her knitters are navigating the logjam, she spots a woman in a lavender cable-knit cardiganbusily tapping away at her phone. She has thick brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. The sweater is intricate and constructed with obvious skill from good yarn. Beside her sits a striking young woman, tall and willowy with long blond hair. Belinda approaches them.
“Welcome to the New Hope Knitting Retreat,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Belinda.”
The brunette stands. “Yes, I’m Maggie Hodges. We spoke last night. I didn’t realize there’d be so many...” She looks pointedly around the lobby.
“I assure you, once check-in is finished, you won’t even know anyone else is here aside from our group.”
Two of the men are busy tossing a football back and forth. The catcher misses, and the ball hits the tower of paper coffee cups at the coffee station, sending them toppling to the floor.
“Dude, you suck!” the thrower says, running over to fix the mess.
This is embarrassing. This is not what walking into a knitting retreat should feel like.
“Stay right here—I’ll get you checked in,” Belinda says quickly.
She walks behind the desk, where Max is busy handling the bachelor party. They still use physical keys on brass key rings engraved with the room numbers. She pulls the keys for room 226 and delivers them to Maggie Hodges.
“You’re in the Margaret Meade Room. One of my absolute favorites.”
When Belinda and Max left Center City Philadelphia for the Bucks County countryside thirty years ago, they felt defensive explaining the move to their city friends. Max got into a habit of reciting the names of all the brilliant people who spent time in the Pennsylvania countryside: Gertrude Stein. Margaret Meade. Pearl S. Buck. And those were justthe women! So when they undertook renovations of the inn, in homage to their newly adoptive town, they’d name each room after one of Pennsylvania’s long list of luminaries. (In 2018, when they learned Taylor Swift was from nearby Berks County, Ben Franklin got bumped.)
