Page 6 of Frappe to Know You
“I’m sure the drive wasn’t great, but you’re here now,” Maren said. “The hard part is done, and you’ll have plenty of time to settle in before cocktails and dinner. I’m sure—”
“I told Jasmine a summer wedding would have been more sensible,” Mrs. Adamczyk interrupted, though she appeared only to be voicing her complaints and not specifically speaking to Maren or anyone else.
“Winter weddings do have their own magic,” Maren tried again.
“Do they?” Mrs. Adamczyk returned shortly.
Mr. Adamczyk stepped forward, putting his hands, which held his wallet, on the desk top. He was possibly several years older than his wife—or her sour puss had made him look that way after many years, Maren thought uncharitably—with thinning silver hair and a distinguished yet approachable appearance. His smile was warm and friendly.
“Thank you for having us. The drive wasn’t that bad and now it’s done,” he said, turning a pointed look onto his wife, who ignored him. “We’re looking forward to celebrating with our daughter.”
Maren returned his smile, and this time she didn’t have to fake it. She checked them in quickly and sent an apologetic glance to the waiting couple as she took a few more minutes to show the Adamczyks to their room, helping them to carry their luggage.
When she returned, she welcomed the next couple.
“Mark and Emily Thompson,” the petite and pretty brunette said. “We’re friends of Liam’s. He steered us toward your Inn. This house is great. How much am I allowed to explore?”
Maren liked her straight away, liked anyone who expressed appreciation for the old house and a desire to know more about it.
“Aside from the individual chambers and the stairs leading to the third floor, which is my private apartment,” Maren explained, “there are no locks on any door. Wander freely. I’ll show you a book later, about the original family who built the house.” Her voice quickened with enthusiasm. “And if you’re interested and don’t mind creepy old cellars, I’ll show you the massive basement. They used to smuggle liquor during prohibition, brought it down the lake from Canada and then up from the beach to this house. The cellar is a maze of passageways, false walls, and hidden rooms.”
Emily’s brown eyes went wonderfully wide. “Oh, gosh. I’m never going to want to leave.”
Her husband, Mark, who was lanky and sported a full beard and a studious looking pair of glasses, said indifferently, “If this snow keeps up, we might not be leaving anyway.”
They chatted a bit more before Maren showed the Thompsons to their room.
Maren returned to the kitchen, this time able to don her apron and get to work on the appetizers, the first being mushrooms stuffed with sausage, garlic, and herbed cream cheese.
When she had the mushrooms all stuffed and in the oven, with the time set for Bethany to take them out, Maren used the back staircase and went to her apartment on the third floor to get dressed.
Ellie B had transformed the massive third floor attic into her living quarters forty years ago so that the five bedrooms on the second floor could be used exclusively for guests. Maren had only to update the décor when she took over, which had been the last thing she’d done, after focusing most of the renovations on the first two floors. She climbed up the worn and creaking steps and opened the door at the top into her small living room, outfitted with an antique Persian rug and plenty of natural lightfrom a number of windows. Against one wall stood a mahogany bookcase, filled with her favorite novels, while plush high-backed chairs and a small, tufted loveseat were arranged for a tiny sitting area. She only used this living room on the occasions when several rooms were letandshe had downtime, which was rare. A little kitchenette sat just beyond, with only a small bistro table and chairs and a six-foot counter and sink, microwave, and mini fridge. Even when no rooms were occupied, she mostly made use of the much larger, better-equipped kitchen downstairs.
The bedroom exuded a cozy ambiance, with an antique queen sleigh bed dressed in layers of embroidered linens and a plush quilt. A Victorian era vanity, salvaged and refinished, sat prettily against one wall. The bathroom was at the front of the house, and featured a clawfoot tub with polished brass fixtures that Maren kept meaning to replace since it was a chore to keep clean and hard water stains drove her nuts. Normally the frosted window above the bathtub provided plenty of daylight, but today only a dreary grayness streamed through the glass.
Quickly, she washed her face and hands and brushed her teeth. She pulled out the ponytail from her hair and gave it a quick brush. For dinners with her guests, she liked to strike a balance between casual and formal in what she wore, not wanting anyone in the dining room to feel either over or underdressed. Tonight, she chose a pair of high-waisted, wide-legged black pants with a silk blouse in a soft shade of pink. Maren tucked in the blouse and tied the black fabric belt into a knot at the waist and slipped her feet into her shiny black loafers—heels were not a good idea with all the moving she’d do tonight between the kitchen and dining room. Lastly, she finished the ensemble with a gold pendant and a pair of hoop earrings.
Giving herself a final once-over in the full size mirror that leaned against the floral papered wall near her vanity, shemussed her hair a bit to give it some volume and switched off the small table lamp before going back downstairs.
She arrived in the kitchen just in time to hear the front door’s bell jingle once more.
“Whew,” said Bethany. “I was beginning to worry they wouldn’t make it.”
Maren was, too.
She met Jasmine’s cousin, Rachel Wallace, and her boyfriend, Dan Harris.
“Ugh, I thought we’d never make it,” groaned Rachel, a twenty-something woman with a head of sleek purple and gray hair. “Three times I begged him to turn around.” She wore a short black skirt, horizontal purple-and-white striped tights, and short, heavy black boots.
“And three times I told you we would make it,” said Dan Harris, who looked to also be about mid-twenties, and was short and stocky and giving off accountant vibes with his khaki pants, navy peacoat, thin glasses and boyish, cleanshaven face. There were very distinct red circles in the middle of each cheek.
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Well, excuse me for finding that hard to believe in that little deathtrap of a car.”
“It’s a Subaru,” said Dan, his tone affronted. “They’re literally known for their impressive handling and overall reliability.” He rolled two suitcases up to the counter. “They dominate rally races all over the world and—”
“No one cares, Dan,” sighed Rachel before landing at the desk and smiling thinly at Maren. “Your snow plow guy looks really creepy out there,” she said to Maren. “Like he’s covered in snow from head to toe, looks like a walking snowman.”
Suppressing an overwhelming urge to match Rachel’s tone and weird unkindness, Maren smiled as brightly as she could, recalling the hospitality industry's golden rule: the customer isalways right, even when they might not be. Or when they were simply mean girls.