Page 13 of The Weekend Crashers
Aidan Danby looks around the lobby of the New Hope Inn, a place he’d been visiting his entire life. Back in the late eighties, he’d go with his grandparents and parents for dinner and special occasions. Today, all these years later and with new ownership, it feels almost exactly the same.
It’s strange to be standing there with his son and his father-in-law on a Friday morning. Aidan doesn’t typically do long weekends. In the twenty-five years since he’d opened his first grocery store, Danby’s Market, the idea that he needed a break never crossed his mind. But it’s his nephew’s bachelor party, and family is one thing Aidan always makes time for.
Now that his son, Cole, is grown up, there are fewer occasions to see his in-laws; the Cavanaughs are his late wife’s family. And Nancy has been gone twelve years.
“Good morning, Aidan. Welcome,” Max Yarrow says from behind the front desk.
He hands over his credit card. Beside him, Cole flips through a printed itinerary.
“Seriously, Dad,” he says, holding up the sheet of paper. “What’s all this stuff we’re scheduled to do?”
“Wilderness training,” his father says. “I told you the theme’s bushcraft.”
“When you said theme, I thought you meant for drinking games. Or commemorative T-shirts.”
“It will be fun.”
Cole looks dubious.
“I’m twenty-four years old. I’ve made it this far without knowing how to build my own firepit.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” a voice booms behind them. It’s Barclay, his father-in-law. Barclay Cavanaugh has a deep voice, ragged from years of nicotine and yelling from the sidelines of football games, and it gives every statement he utters a certain gravitas. In his seventies, Barclay still has a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair and, today, a mustache. Nancy once told him that all her friends in high school had crushes on him.
“Hi, Grandpa. No offense,” Cole says.
Back when Cole was a child, Aidan was praised for making so much effort to keep Cole close to the family on his mother’s side. But now, friends seem to raise an eyebrow at his continued determination to be a part of the Cavanaugh clan. “What do you call your former father-in-law?” one of his buddies asked last week when he mentioned the bachelor party weekend. Aidan told him, “He’llstillmy father-in-law. I call him Dad.” The thought of the conversation still irks him.
“These are things boys used to learn just in the regular course of growing up. We didn’t have a fancy name for it,” Barclay says, holding up his bushcraft itinerary.
He walks over to Aidan and gives him a half hug, half back-slap. “We’re doing beer and bratwurst in the restaurant in an hour. I was there during Oktoberfest, and trust me, you don’t want to miss it.”
Cole consults his phone.
“Do we have time for beer and bratwurst? This itinerary says we have to get to fort building.”
“I think we can fit in a few beers first,” Barclay says. “It’s a bachelor party, not basic training. Am I right?” He shadowboxes Cole’s arm.
“You got it, Grandpa,” Cole says.
Across the room, a group of women sit on couches chatting, a few of them furiously working knitting needles. Barclay lets out a low whistle. “Who invited the ladies? I told your grandmother this is strictly a boys’ weekend.” He gives Cole a wink, but Cole seems not to hear a word of it. He’s staring at the group of knitters like he’s seen a ghost.
“Everything okay?” Aidan says.
“I need to make a phone call,” says Cole. And then he rushes back outside.
Shopping for yarn has the same effect on Maggie as browsing fresh fruit at the Yorkville farmer’s market. She wants to devour everything in sight.
Belinda’s pop-up yarn market is held in a large first-floor space. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the river. The windows are dressed with sheer linen drapes to let in all the natural light. The furniture is a mix of rustic and contemporary: polished wood tables and upholstered armchairs, velvet sofas, and agrand stone fireplace complete with an antique iron grate. And everywhere, tables are piled high with yarn.
There’s yarn in bins, skeins clipped to metal frames and prewound balls of yarn in lined baskets. Small, delicate bundles of cashmere are nestled side by side on a table along with a display of fluffy mohair. Beside it is a basket of hand-dyed merino wool.
“Mom, look,” Piper says, pointing out a pile of Quince & Co. yarns, a brand Maggie finds particularly elegant. She picks up a few skeins in a deep charcoal color, Finch, and places them in one of the lined wicker shopping baskets.
“Maggie, hello,” Belinda says, walking over. “I hope you both are settling in.”
Belinda is slender and tiny, no more than five foot three. Her white hair trails down her back in a single braid. She wears large round tortoiseshell glasses and coral lipstick. Her button-down denim shirt is paired with wide-legged, rust-colored corduroys with embroidered pockets.
“Yes, the room is great,” Maggie says. “And so is this one. It’s a beautiful place you have here, Belinda.”
