impulsive drive to the cape – with no plan, the exuberant reception, his good looks, his wit, his confidence. I accepted his invitation, “ I would love to.”
The entrance to the Inn was an expansive foyer with a beautiful crystal chandelier. The inside was lavishly furnished and not in the least bit worn looking as the outside had been when I walked the property in August. We crossed the foyer into a large sitting room. There was a fire in the fireplace and the most magnificent Christmas tree stood, undecorated, in the center hall. As if was hypnotized I allowed him to remove my coat and hang it in the hall closet, then he placed my handbag on the table in the foyer.
He put his hand on my shoulder, “are you okay?”
I nodded my response, all the while taking in the amazing grace of the Inn and thinking about the warmth emanating from the space where his hand lay gently on my shoulder.
“Please come this way,” he guided me to the couch closest to the fireplace. I don’t know why I wasn’t frightened. On the contrary, his hand made me feel safe and protected, although I had never met him.
I sat on the couch where he lead me, “Is your wife home?”
“I haven’t a wife,” his response was clean.
“But you said – when I asked you outside if -- you said your wife wouldn’t mind-“
“No. You asked if I was sure my wife wouldn’t mind .and my response was, I’m sure,” he smiled that delighted “gotcha” smile he displayed for me outside only a few minutes ago, “I’m sure of that because I haven’t a wife. “
“I’m sorry, I misunderstood,” I braced my arm on the armrest of the sofa for support. “I think I should go now,” I started to stand.
He put his hand on my hand, “Please don’t. I’ve been expecting you,” he applied a gentle pressure too my hand and looked directly in my eyes, “Please--” I looked down at my hand, where his hand was attempting to restrain me or at least slow my ascent, his eyes followed mine and he released the pressure, although he left his hand on mine, “--hear me out.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on here.”
“I know. But if I’m right, and I believe I am, you will,” he stood up and began to pace slowly in front of the fireplace. It was a minute or two before he started to speak but when he did it was the music of angels, in the form of words, that filled the grandiose room, “I had a dream last December 13th, my parents wedding anniversary. My parents were in it. My father was grumpy in my dream because they had gotten a dog and he is not a dog person. They visited me in my dream because they wanted to tell me to settle down. They were worried that we, my siblings and myself, would sell the house, this house,” he gestured the space around himself, indicating the walls all around. “Apparently they worry that I will never settle down and that everything our family has built out here on the cape will be lost forever. They told me to hold on to the house and wait. They said that someone will be coming and that when she got here I should hold on to her. Hold on to her because she is the one and together we will fill this space, once again, with love. I am a practical man, as I was raised to be, so I didn’t share this experience with anyone nor did I act on it. When the spring rolled around I decided to make a few calls to friends around town. I put out the word that if anyone came poking around about the family or the house they should phone me. After all, what did I have to lose? I got the call in August, you were here.” He sat down next to me and took my hand, “you were here in August, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.” I smiled shyly.
“And you were asking about the Inn?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And you told Claire that my dad was grumpy.”
“Claire?”
“Yes, Claire – the waitress at the coffee shop.”
“Yes, I did,” I giggled a little embarrassed thinking about my conversation with the waitress at the coffee shop.
“You were right,” he said gently.
“About?” I asked eagerly.
“Him.“ He pointed at a large portrait of a fisherman hanging over the fireplace, “my dad. You were right about him being grumpy, he was! Not in general during his life, he was not grumpy, he was a hard-working man and very content with the life he had with my mom and us kids. But when my parents came to see me that night he was VERY grumpy. Well, when Robert called that afternoon,”
“Robert?”
“My cousin, he was reading the paper in the luncheonette when you came in.”
“Oh, right, the guy I couldn’t see who kept interrupting the conversation with gestures.”
“Yes, he was listening to everything. When him and Claire and good old Floyd-boy told me what you had said, or asked, I think, about my dad being grumpy, well, that was all I needed to hear. Those few words tumbling unknowingly out of your sweet mouth was all I needed to validate my dream. The dream was REAL! You were REAL! YOU WERE HERE!”
I was nodding profusely overcome by excitement and validation because I knew too, I just hadn’t been able to weave the parts together.
“I immediately came down. I was here the day after you visited the coffee shop but you were gone. I even drove around Loyton, that’s where they said you were staying.”
“I was. But I came to Townsend the day before I left.”
“Obviously I couldn’t find you. When you didn’t come back right away I packed myself up and relocated to the house. There was so much to do anyway between the grounds and the structure and the interior.”
I looked around at my immediate surroundings, “well it looks amazing.”
“So far, thank you. There is still so much that needs to be done. But I hear there’s plenty of time for that”
“Really now? And where do you hear this from? Pray tell.”
“I’ve got great sources.”
“I bet you do. Sounds like insider information if you ask me!”
Bill was sitting on the sofa next to me. We both sat for a moment in silence, looking into the fire. Bill turned and looked straight into my eyes, again, “so here I am,” he took both of my hands into his, “and now here you are. And, oh, there is one more thing. I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared through a door and down a hall. He came back a few minutes later with an absolutely adorable basset hound puppy with a big red bow around her neck. He carried her into the room and put her down so she could run up on me herself. No sooner had she made her way to me for a rub and scratch did she bow her head and drop the chewed up baseball from her mouth.
Bill was standing beside me now “this is Sandy. I told you she was all right.”
We sat up all night, we both had so much to say. It was December 13th, we were together, at the Merry Weather Inn. It WAS magical!
I will always remember that strange episode on the dock, my last December in New York: The old man with the glass eye, his words to me, the snow globe, the chewed up baseball and the box of wet matches all made sense.
###
About Janice Thorn:
J. Thorn author of Second Week of December is a native New Yorker. She has been writing since 1st grade, but started stringing words into stories and poetry for over 20 years in addition to managing family and work. She has a Bachelor’s Degree in Liberal Arts from Hofstra University. She currently resides on Long Island with her family and their two dogs, cat, geckos and goldfish.
Connect with Janice Thorn:
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