Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Slightly More Happens - February Fun

Episode Date: February 16, 2026

Our stories tonight speak to the magic of the Inn on the Lake, a secret space behind a hidden door, coffee cake and cat companions, getting to redo a formative moment with your present-day heart and mind, music and glimpses of mid-winter sun, and the hope that comes from bravely wearing your heart on your sleeve. Subscribe to our ⁠⁠⁠⁠Premium channel.⁠⁠⁠⁠ The first month is on us. 💙 Stop waiting and start selling in 2026 with Shopify. Sign up for your one-dollar-per-month trial at ⁠⁠shopify.com/nothingmuch ⁠⁠and hear your first "cha ching." Nature’s Sunshine is offering 20% off your first order plus free shipping. Go to ⁠⁠naturessunshine.com⁠⁠ and use the code NOTHINGMUCH at checkout. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to Living Hope Canine Rescue. Their goal is simple but powerful: to keep dogs out of shelters before they ever have to enter. ⁠⁠⁠⁠NMH Merch, Autographed Books and More!⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Listen to our daytime show ⁠⁠⁠⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠Pay it forward subscription⁠⁠⁠⁠  Follow us on ⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠ Visit ⁠⁠⁠⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠⁠⁠⁠ for more Village fun! Pre-Order Links for Kathryn's New Book ⁠⁠Here⁠⁠! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Hear your first cha-ching this year with Shopify by your side. Welcome to a special, longer episode of bedtime stories for everyone, in which slightly more happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I create everything you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Witterstein. We give to a different charity each week,

and this week we are giving to Living Hope Canine Rescue. Their goal is simple but powerful, to keep dogs out of shelters before they ever have to enter. Learn more about them in our show notes. Many of you have asked for longer episodes, and we're bringing them to you. Once a month, we will give you a two-to-three-story episode on the free feed, and a five to six story episode on our premium feed.

In fact, over on premium, we regularly publish episodes that are over nine hours long, and we're always adding more. So if that sounds helpful or joyful to you, let me remind you that the cost comes out to just 10 cents a day, and that the first month is on us. Also, your support literally keeps us going. Learn more at Nothing Much Happens.com. Just as with our regular episodes, these stories are simply a soft place to rest your mind,

to keep it steady, and allow you to drift to sleep. All you need to do is listen. I'll tell the stories twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to just start them over. again. Our stories tonight speak to the magic of the inn on the lake, a secret space behind a

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20% off your first order plus free shipping. Go to naturesonshine.com and use the code nothing much at checkout. That's code nothing much at naturesonsshine.com. So settle in. Be at eadie. the day was what it was and now we are here with nothing to do and no plans to make or hold on to just deep restorative sleep

take a breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth again breathe in release it good valentines at the inn part one during the summer

we serve breakfast on our back porch. It is such a lovely spot. The porch wraps around the whole back of the house with tables and chairs. And at the far end, a swing is suspended from the ceiling. There are screens to keep the mosquitoes out and rolling blinds that we lower in the afternoon. when the sun begins to drop. And of course, the open view down to the lake. Like I said,

lovely. But in February, breakfast on the porch just doesn't work out. The lake was frozen over, and several inches of snow lay on the ground. Our summer cafe tables were neatly stacked against the wall, and a few done brown leaves tumbled across the porch boards. Luckily, the inn is not short of rooms. So a few weeks ago, when I'd begun readying for our first visitors in months, I'd opened the pocket doors between the formal dining room and the drawing room. These two spaces, when combined, would be perfect for our breakfast service. I'd spent a few days dusting, ironing the creamy white tablecloths,

and putting together vases of roses that had been delivered from the greenhouse outside of town. The fireplaces were laid with seasoned logs, and when chef arrived and had gone straight down into the kitchens, the place began to fill with good smells. Sycamore, my cat, and the inn's chief welcoming officer, had been sitting on windowsills and fireplace mantles as I went room to room, batting the feather duster around, and swatting at the curtain pull cords.

Today I'd dressed in my neat corduroy trousers and comfortable shoes, since I'd be going up and down the many stairs countless times, helping guests with their bags, and delivering extra towels on request. But I'd added my favorite pale pink sweater and some heart-dotted socks, since it was Valentine's Day, after all. Around noon, the first cars had made it down the long drive to the inn,

and Sycamore had been overcome with excitement. He raced from window to window, watching couples climbing from their vehicles, meeting them as they came through the door into the large entryway, for guests who had already had the pleasure of meeting Sycamore. There was a reunion of purrs, dare I say, an expectation of treats, and in any case, lots of your scratches. We weren't quite full up.

The vacancy sign still hung on the gate at the road, but only by a room or two. And we found we definitely had our hands full. That first evening, chef prepared beautiful trays of small bites that we set out in the cozy library, where our guests could serve themselves at their leisure. The fire was crackling and popping in the grate. And I walked among the couples with bottles of sparkling juice

and champagne, besides the crudities and dips, the volvents and fruit, crackers and baguettes, chef had made a beautiful squash soup with coconut milk and ginger. And though I thought a few folks might find the pull of the restaurants in the village, irresistible, no one had left. Everyone seemed content to sip and snack, to listen to the music, playing from the record player, and relax by the fire.

This morning, we were all up early. Sycamore and I were in the butler's pantry, starting the coffee and getting out the sugar bowl, and creamers for each table. When chef paused in the doorway, on their way down to the kitchens, we smiled at each other as I filled a cup and passed it over.

It was good to see them in their apron, a neat bandana tied over their hair and a pocket full of sharpies. I love my quiet time here, alone but for Sycamore. But having an inn full of guests and chef packed by my side made me feel so happy, and like everything was as it should be. First round of coffee cakes will be ready in a half hour, they said, over the brim of the coffee cup, the smell of fresh coffee, mixed with the old wood, and the not quite namable smell.

of the inn itself. They gave me a wink and turned back to the hall, took a few steps to the kitchen stairs, and stopped. By the way, they said in a low voice from the hall. You mentioned something in one of your letters, right after I left in November. About something you found the night of the Halloween party?

I've been curious about it ever since. Are you going to let me in on it? I stuck my head out into the hall, and we eyeballed each other for a moment. There was a secret I was carrying around, but besides Sycamore, and apparently a loose-lipped moment of my own in a missive to chef,

I hadn't shared it with anyone and wasn't sure I wanted to yet. I bit my lip and tilted my head. I opened my mouth, though I wasn't sure what I was going to say when chef stopped me. Listen, it's your business. But I just want to suggest that there might be secrets I've stumbled upon in my time down in the kitchens that you might be interested in.

So think about it, but swapsies are available. They turned back toward the kitchens, and I looked down to where sycamore was sitting on my foot. My mouth was hanging open. Could chef know things about the inn? That I didn't? Sycamore's tail twitched with interest, and we both wandered back to the trays of coffee cups and sugar bowls. I took one and made my way to our winter breakfast room, where the fire was already burning bright. As I laid out cups and bowls,

the sun began to rise over the snowy landscape. The weekend had just begun, but it was promising to be an exciting one. Part 2. Up in the ballroom on the second floor. Things were nearly ready. It was Valentine's weekend at the inn. And we had a nearly full house of loved birds and sweethearts, ready to clink glasses and wander into the lonely corners of our vast rooms. Today we'd served breakfast in the dining room and drawing room, with fires burning in the grates and flowers on each table. Chef had made our famous coffee cake. as well as cinnamon rolls and cardamom buns.

We poured cup after cup of coffee and fresh squeezed orange juice. There was a light snow falling, the kind with tiny thin flakes, and the sun came out now and then to sparkle on the frozen. Lake. It was romantic. There was no argument there. But

tonight was going to top it. Our guests were encouraged to visit town for lunch. We'd put out some soup and sandwiches in the dining room,

self-service style. But we'd highlighted the excellent cafes and bistros downtown, the shops and sites that were perfect for idling away a winter afternoon. And thankfully, most of them took us up on it. Because I was a bit like a parent who needed the kids out from under my feet for a bit so that I could set up the ballroom.

I'd had an idea a little cheesy, maybe, but I hoped it would prove to be both romantic and fun. We were hosting a little grown-up prom for our guests tonight. The ballroom was decorated with streamers and balloons, flowers, and bowls of chocolates. I was up on a ladder in the far corner behind the piano, twisting the last of the crepe paper streamers. into place, while my cat Sycamore chased a red balloon under a table. I'd been telling him about my own prom many years before, how it had been mostly a letdown, a night that had been overhyped for years and could not have lived up to all that I'd expected. That, in the end, I'd wished I'd danced more,

cared less about my hair and dress, and just had fun. Well, that's why we're having a do-over, called a voice from the hall. I smiled to myself as I climbed down from the ladder. Sycamore and I had been alone at the inn for a few months now, and I'd forgotten that we could, a hem, be overheard. Chef came through the door, their hands full of a large tray of desserts. I went over to help them set out the tarts and cakes on the buffet by the window. Did you like your prom? I asked.

They paused, smiling down at the sweets. Oh, come on. I knew it. You had a blast, didn't you? You probably had a line of people. waiting to dance with you. What can I say? I've always been popular, they laughed, as they tucked the empty tray under an arm, and headed back to the kitchens for more. Well, tonight, everyone would have fun, would dance as much as they liked, be fed wonderful food, celebrate, and hopefully fall even deeper in love with their person. Sycamore and I kept at it through the afternoon, and just as I was lighting the candles on the tables,

I started to hear guests coming through the entryway downstairs, shoes clapping against the slate floor. I checked my watch and realized the band would be here soon. We closed the double doors to the ballroom as we left, not wanting guests to come peeping till we were ready. We followed the sweeping curved staircase down into the entryway, saying hello to guess as we passed them. The sun was setting and sending her rose-red glow through the windows.

It burnished the dark wood of the banisters and caught the silvery sparkles in sycamore's blood. coat on the central table at the bottom of the stairs. Beside the giant fern, I'd kept alive for three winters now. We're urns of coffee and hot tea. Guess who needed a pick-me-up. We're filling mugs. And we wove past them to the front office. where I'd spotted the members of the band we'd hired,

there was a piano player and singer who would serenade us during dinner, and then a drummer and guitar player, who would join in to get folks dancing afterwards. Sycamore loves music, and had heard the band play for our Halloween party. He rushed toward them, rubbing against their legs and instrument cases. I followed and greeted them, taking their coats, and leading them down to the library,

where they could relax and gosh on the snack plates. chef had prepared for them before they took the stage. I liked this part. Everything was coming together. Before I'd been an innkeeper, I'd never organized anything more complicated than a brunch reservation. But now I'd overseen weddings and parties. busy holiday weekends and summer fates.

Tonight, I was sure, would be magical, with dinner, music, and dancing cheek to cheek. This old place had seen lots of magic over the years, and this would be another night for the books. 3. The busy weekend was winding down. What fun we had had. The inn had bustled with activity for the last three days. Guests, of course, our small staff. A band of musicians, florists, and Sycamore the cat, we'd served fantastic meals, poured many cups of coffee, poured many cups of coffee, in the breakfast rooms

and kept the fireplaces burning through the days. Now, as guests were checking out, I was behind the tall desk in the office, sliding room keys back into their cubbies and tidying up paperwork. I could hear our maids in the halls above, vacuum cleaners running along the floorboards,

and doors opening and closing as one room was finished and another began. Poor Sycamore was exhausted. He lay in the inbox on the desk, his long black tail slung onto the keyboard, and his nose pressed against the blotter. I stopped to massage his little body. Oh, sickie, I crooned. Was it hard to have so much fun? All those people telling you how handsome you are,

wanting to pet you and give you treats. He purred thickly, and I lifted one of his legs to free the stapler from underneath him. He would sleep all day. I stepped into the hall and saw the last couple of guests coming down the stairs. There was a sparkle about them as they smiled at each other. Their hands clasped between them. This weekend had obviously done them good.

and I took a bit of pride in whatever part we had played in that as they stopped to hand over their room key and filled to go cups from the urn in the entryway. They thanked me for the special event. We'd hosted the night before. We'd had a fancy dinner in the ballroom with musicians and beautiful decorations. a kind of grown-up prom. I didn't have a great time in high school. One of them confided in me.

And I feel like I got a do-over last night. I nodded, smiling brightly. That's the nice thing about having some space from those moments, right? We can rewrite them when we're older and own the best version. He slung his arm around his partner and nodded. And I saw them out to their car in the drive. On the way back in, I sighed, realizing that the inn was now empty, besides her caretakers. I'd loved the weekend, but it was a relief to know.

No one needed anything for me for a bit. I stopped back into the office to put away the last room key and scooped Sycamore into my arms like the baby he was. He trusted me completely. And if there was a better feeling than being trusted by a small animal who'd had a rough start in life. I hadn't yet found it. We walked through the hall and into the dining room and drawing room. The sun was bright today, and the rooms were lit with an echoing shine as it bounced off the snow. I would need to put away the sugar bowls to

launder the tablecloths and sweep the floors. But there was no rush. I went through to the hall again and stuck my head into the stairway down to the kitchen. Chef, I called. Are you busy? Do you have time for a little adventure? There was silence for a second. Then a low call back of Should I bring cookies? Duh, I said, and waited till they arrived, still in their apron with a plate of treats. I turned and led them down to the library, with Sycamore still in my arms. I dropped Sicky on the sofa and went back to the door. I looked up and down the hall.

The vacuums were still going upstairs, and probably would be. be for the foreseeable future. I closed the door and turned toward Chef. At the Halloween party, something was revealed to me. I was well aware. I was being a little dramatic and mysterious, but I was having fun. Chef nodded and extended the plate of cookies to me. I took one, crosshatched on its dark brown top with thine marks. Chocolate peanut butter, chef said, a little breathlessly. Well played, I replied. So my friend with the gray cat, you know her, right?

Cinder's mom? Yes. She pulled me in here and told me the inn had a secret. it was ready for me to learn. She didn't know exactly what or how, but after a minute or two in this room, she asked me if there were some questions I'd been carrying around about the inn. Chef had taken a large bite of their cookie, but had forgotten to chew, so caught up in the excitement of the story. I took a deep breath and told them that sometimes out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the first innkeeper that I'd been looking through old pictures

and newspaper clippings for her, that I felt a connection to her. Maybe it was just the house and the job that we'd both done. I walked over to the fireplace mantle and took the ring of keys from my pocket. I held up the small iron key I'd been given that Halloween night and fitted it into a hidden keyhole just under the bracket on the side of the mantle. Chef let out a satisfying gasp and jumped to their feet. Is this really happening? yep, I said, as I grasped the key with both hands and turned it forcefully.

A panel in the wall beside the bookcase moved back and slid away, revealing the bottom step of the hidden stair. The first time I'd gone up those stairs, I'll admit the hair on the back of my hair on the back of my hair. neck had stood up. But I'd quickly learned that this wasn't an eerie place, but a protected one. It felt now as I led the way, chef behind me, and sycamore at the rear, like showing your childhood bedroom to your best friend for the first time. I was excited. The stairway itself curved as it climbed, not quite a spiral, but definitely hugging along the inner walls of the house in a way that disguised its existence. At the top, it opened into a small, small room, about the size of one of our guest's rooms, but instead of a chest of drawers and a bed,

there was a large desk and a straight back chair. Along the walls, there were shelves lined with books and several large trunks. Chef, who still held half a cookie in their hand, gulped as they looked around and stuck it into the front pocket of their apron. Sycamore, who by now, had spent plenty of time in this room, jumped up onto the ledge in front of the single window, and looked out, what is all of this? Chef said, with wonder in their voice. Well, it took me a while, to understand. But I think the first innkeeper was a kind of archivist.

All these books I trailed my fingers across their spines. They're full of local people's stories and the trunks have pictures and family trees, maps and histories. Stories like folk stories? Um, some, but plenty are just the stories of people's lives.

Like, look at this. I picked up a book that was open on the desk and turned it around to show. This whole book is about people's birthdays who lived when the innkeeper did, here in the village. How almost everyone celebrated that year, their cake of choice, what kind of punch was served, the gifts and the decorations.

I opened one of the steamer trunks and squatted down to gather a handful of artifacts and pictures. This whole case is full of stories about people's pets, sometimes just a date of birth and a name, sometimes stories about their favorite places to dig and play. And there are pictures. We looked through a few. Sepia tone shots.

Awkward as many photos from that time period seemed. but still the animals and their humans seemed happy and relaxed. Chef pointed to a snapshot of a small gray cat, sitting on a velvet poof. That one looks just like cinder. I agreed. So, I still don't understand. What is it about?

What's it for? I scratched my head and looked around the small room. I didn't have an exact answer. I think she just collected stories, kept them like other people collect music or paintings. I think they were beautiful to her. And she felt the need to document the lives of the people in her village, even if it was really small, simple stuff,

like someone might be an artist and just sketch a friend or a house in the neighborhood. She did that, but in a different way. And chef asked the question that had been nagging at me since I'd found this room on Halloween night. Why is it hidden away? Didn't she ever show it to anyone? I plopped down into the straight back chair

and rested my hands on the desktop. There were dust motes floating in the air, sunlight cutting through the small window. Sycamore turned his head and looked at me, as if he wanted to hear my answer too. I think that's what I meant to do, I said, my voice quiet, but sure. She anthologized.

And I'm going to share it all. It's all been so perfectly organized. It's just waiting for someone to exhibit these stories. Sycamore jumped down and came to rub against my ankle. I reached down and lifted him into my lap. I think we'll set up an exhibit. Some of it can be here. Some at the library, the museum, other places in town,

and we can share the stories of her villagers with ours. I turned to look up at my friend. What do you think? Are there recipes? I laughed. That was just what I'd hope. hope they'd say. I reached up to pat their shoulder. My friend, there are even pickle recipes. We would have a busy summer ahead of us, of curating and cooking, of sharing, and showing.

Valentine's At the Inn, Part 1. During the Summer, We serve breakfast on our back porch. It is such a lovely spot. The porch wraps around the whole back of the house with tables and chairs. And at the far end, a swing suspended from the ceiling. There are screens to keep the mosquitoes out

and rolling blinds that we lower in the afternoon when the sun begins to drop. And of course, the open view down to the lake. Like I said, lovely. But in February, breakfast on the porch just doesn't work out. The lake was frozen over, and several inches of snow lay on the ground. Our summer cafe tables were neatly stacked against the wall, and a few dun brown leaves tumbled across the floorboards.

Luckily, the inn is not. short of rooms. So, a few weeks ago, when I'd begun readying for our first visitors in months, I'd opened the pocket doors between the formal dining room and the drawing room. These two spaces, when combined,

would be perfect for our breakfast service. I'd spent a few days dusting, ironing the creamy white tablecloths, and putting together vases of roses that had been delivered from the greenhouse outside of town. The fireplaces were laid with seasoned logs. And when chef arrived and had gone straight down into the kitchens,

the place began to fill with good smells, sycamore, my cat, and the inn's chief welcoming officer, had been sitting on window-sills and fireplace mantles as I went room to room, batting the feather duster around, and swatting at the curtain pull cords. Today, I dressed in my neat corduroy trousers and comfortable shoes since I'd be going up and down the many stairs, countless times, helping guests with their bags,

and delivering extra towels on request. But I'd added my favorite pale pink sweater and some heart-dotted socks, since it was Valentine's Day, after all. Around noon, the first cars had made it down the long drive to the inn, and Sycamore had been overcome with excitement. He raced from window to window. watching couples climbing from their vehicles,

meeting them as they came through the door into the large entryway. For guests who had already had the pleasure of meeting Sycamore, there was a reunion of purrs, dare I say, an expectation of treats, and in any case, lots of ear scratches. We weren't quite full up. The vacancy sign still hung on the gate at the road, but only by a room or two. and we found that we definitely had our hands full. That first evening, chef prepared beautiful trays of small bites

that we set out in the cozy library, where our guests could serve themselves at their leisure. The fire was crackling, and popping in the grate. And I walked among the couples with bottles of sparkling juice and champagne besides the cruditates and dips,

the Vulevants and fruit, crackers and baggats, chef had made a beautiful squash soup with coconut milk and ginger. And though I'd thought a few folks might find the pull of the restaurants in the village irresistible, no one left. Everyone seemed content to sip and see. and snack, to listen to the music playing from the record player, and to relax by the fire.

This morning, we were all up early. Sycamore and I were in the butler's pantry, starting the coffee, and getting out the sugar bowls and creamers for each taste. table. When chef paused in the doorway on their way down to the kitchens, we smiled at each other. As I filled a cup and passed it over, it was good to see them in their apron. A neat bandana tied over their hair. and a pocket full of Sharpies. I love my quiet time here, alone but for Sycamore. But having an inn full of guests and chef back by my side

made me feel so happy. And like everything was as it should be. First round of coffee cakes will be ready in a half hour, they said. Over the brim of the coffee cup, the smell of fresh coffee mixed with the old wood and the not quite nameable scent of the inn itself.

They gave me a wink and turned back to the hall, took a few steps toward the kitchen stairs, and stopped. By the way, they said in a low voice from the hall, you mentioned something in one of your letters. Right after I left in November, about something you found the night of the Halloween party. I've been curious about it ever since. Are you going to let me in on it?

I stuck my head out into the hall, and we eyeballed each other for a moment. There was a secret. I was carrying around, but besides Sycamore, and apparently a loose-lipped moment of my own in a missive to chef. I hadn't shared it with anyone and wasn't sure I wanted to yet. I bit my lip, tilted my head. I opened my mouth, though I. I wasn't sure what I was going to say. When chef stopped me, listen, it's your business,

but I just want to suggest that there might be secrets I've stumbled upon in my time down in the kitchens. that you could be interested in. So think about it. Swapsies are available. They turned back toward the kitchens, and I looked down to where sycamore was sitting on my foot.

My mouth was hanging open. Could chef know things about the inn that I didn't. Sycamore's tail twitched with interest and we both wandered back to the trays of coffee cups

and sugar bowls. I took one and made my way to our winter breakfast room where the fire was already burning bright as I laid out cups and bowls.

The sun began to rise over the snowy landscape. The weekend had just begun, but it was promising to be an exciting one. Part 2. Up in the ballroom on the second floor. things were nearly ready. It was Valentine's weekend at the inn, and we had a nearly full house

of lovebirds and sweethearts, ready to clink glasses and wander into the lonely corners. of our vast rooms. Today, we'd served breakfast in the dining room and drawing room with fires burning in the grates and flowers on each table. Chef had made our famous coffee cake

as well as cinnamon rolls and cardam buns. We poured cup after cup of coffee and fresh squeezed orange juice. There was a light snow falling, the kind with tiny thin flakes, and the sun came out now and then to sparkle on the frozen lake.

It was romantic. There was no argument there, but tonight was going to top it. Our guests were encouraged to visit town for lunch. We'd put out some soup and sandwiches in the dining room, self-service style, But we'd highlighted the excellent cafes and bistros downtown, the shops and sites that were perfect for idling away a winter afternoon. And thankfully, most of them took us up on it, because I was a bit like a parent who needed the kids out from under my feet for a bit so that I could set up the ballroom.

I'd had an idea, a little cheesy, maybe, but I hoped it would prove to be both romantic. and fun. We were hosting a little grown-up prom for our guests tonight. The ballroom was decorated with streamers and balloons, flowers, and bowls of chocolates. I was up on a ladder. I was up on a ladder in the far corner. behind the piano, twisting the last of the crepe paper streamers into place, while my cat, Sycamore, chased a red balloon under a table. I'd been telling him about my own prom many years before, how it had mostly been a letdown, a night that had been over-hyped for years,

and simply could not have lived up to all that I'd expected, that in the end, I'd wished I'd danced more, cared less, about my hair and my dress and just had fun. Well, that's why we are having a do-over called a voice from the hall. I smiled to myself as I climbed down from the ladder.

Sycamore and I had been alone at the inn. For a few months now, I'd forgotten that we could, a hem, be overheard. Chef came through the door, their hands full of a large tray of desserts. I went over to help them set out the tarts and cakes on the buffet by the wind Did you like your prom? I asked. They paused, smiling down at the treats. Oh, come on. I knew it. You had a blast, didn't you? You probably had a line of people waiting to dance with you. What can I say? I've always been popular. They laughed as they tucked the empty tray under an arm and headed back to the kitchens for more.

Well, tonight, everyone would have fun, would dance as much as they liked, and be fed wonderful food, celebrate. and hopefully fall even deeper in love with their person. Sycamore and I kept at it through the afternoon, and just as I was lighting the candles on the tables, I started to hear guests coming through the entryway downstairs, shoes, clapping against the slate floor.

I checked my watch and realized the band would be here soon. We closed the double doors to the ballroom as we left, not wanting guests to come peeping till we were ready. We followed the sweeping curved staircase, down into the entryway, saying hello to gas as we passed them. The sun was setting, and sending her rose-red glow through the windows. It burnished the dark wood of the banisters and caught the silvery sparkles in sycamore's black coat. on the central table at the bottom of the stairs.

Beside the giant fern, I'd kept alive for three winters now. Were urns of coffee and hot tea, guests who needed a pick-me-up, were filling mugs, and we wove past them to the front office. where I'd spotted the members of the band we'd hired.

There was a piano player and singer who would serenade us during dinner, and then a drummer and guitar player, who would join in to get folks dancing afterwards. Sycamore loves music and had heard this band play at our Halloween party. He rushed toward them, rubbing against their legs and instrument cases. I followed and greeted them, taking their coats and leading them down. to the library where they could relax and gnaw on the snack plates chef had prepared for them before they took the stage I liked this part everything was coming together

before I'd been an innkeeper I'd never organized any anything more complicated than a brunch reservation. But now I'd overseen weddings and parties, busy holiday weekends and summer fates. Tonight, I was sure, would be magical with dinner, music, and dancing cheek to cheek. This old place had seen lots of magic over the years when this would be another night.

For the Books, Part 3. The busy weekend was winding down. What fun we had had. The inn had bustled with activity for the last three days, guess, of course, our small staff, a band of musicians,

florists, and Sycamore the cat, we'd served fantastic meals, poured many, many, cups of coffee in the breakfast rooms, and kept the fireplaces burning through the days. Now, as guests were checking out,

I was behind the tall desk in the office, sliding room keys back into their cubbies and tidying up paperwork. I could hear our maids in the halls above. Vacuum cleaners. running along the floorboards, and doors opening and closing. As one room was finished, and another began. Poor Sycamore was exhausted.

He lay in the inbox on the desk. His long black tail slung across the keyboard, and his nose pressed against the blotter. I stopped to massage his little body. Oh, sicky, I crooned. Was it hard to have so much fun? All those people telling you how handsome you are, wanting to pet you and give you treats.

He purred thickly, and I lifted one of his legs to free the stapler from underneath him. He would sleep all day. I stepped into the hall and saw the last couple of guests coming down the stairs. There was a sparkle about them

as they smiled at each other. Their hands clasped between them. This weekend had obviously done them good. And I took a bit of pride in whatever part we had played in that, as they stopped to hand over their room keys and fill to go cups from the urn in the entryway. They thanked me for the special event we'd hosted the night before. We had a fancy dinner in the ballroom with musicians and beautiful decorations, a kind of grown-up prom. I didn't have a great time in high school.

One of them confided in me, and I feel like I got a do-over last night. I nodded, smiling brightly. That's the nice thing about having some space from those moments, right? I said. We can rewrite them when we're older. I know the best version. He slung his arm around his partner and nodded. And I saw them out to their car in the drive. On the way back in,

I sighed, realizing that the inn was now empty, besides her caretakers. I'd loved the weekend, too, but it was a relief to know no one needed anything from me for a bit. I stopped back into the office to put away that last room key and scooped Sycamore into my arms like the baby he was. He trusted me completely. And if there was a better feeling than being trusted by a small animal who'd had a rough start in life. Well, I hadn't yet found it.

We walked through the hall and into the drawing room and dining room. The sun was bright today and the rooms were lit with an echoing shine as it bounced off the snow. I'd need to put away the sugar bowls to launder the tablecloths and sweep the floors.

But there was no rush. I went through to the hall again and stuck my head into the stairway down to the kitchen. Chef, I called. Are you busy? Do you have time for a little adventure? There was silence for a second. Then a low call back. Should I bring cookies? Duh, I said, and waited till they arrived, still in their apron. With a plate of treats. I turned and led them down. to the library. With Sycamore still in my arms, I dropped Sicky on the sofa and went back to the door.

I looked up and down the hall. The vacuums were still going upstairs and probably would be for the foreseeable future. I closed the door. and turned toward Chef, the Halloween party. Something was revealed to me. I was well aware.

I was being a little dramatic and mysterious, but I was having fun. Chef nodded and extended the plate of Coof, cookies to me. I took one. Cross hatched on its dark brown top with time marks. A chocolate peanut butter, chef said, a little breathlessly. Well played, I replied. So my friend with the gray cat. You know her right. A cinders, mom? Yes. She pulled me in here and told me the inn had a secret that it was ready for me to learn. She didn't know exactly what or how, but after a minute or two in this room,

She asked me if there was some question I'd been carrying around about the inn. Chef had taken a large bite of their cookie, but had forgotten to chew, so caught up in the excitement of the story. I took a deep breath and told them that sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the first innkeeper that I'd been looking through old pictures, a newspaper clippings for her. I felt a connection to her. Maybe it was just the house. On the job we'd both done, I walked over to the fireplace mantle and took the ring of keys from my pocket.

I held up the small iron key I'd been given that Halloween night and fitted it into a hidden keyhole just under the bracket on the side of the mantle. Chef led out a satisfying gasp and jumped to their feet. Is this really happening? Yep, I said, as I grasped the key with both hands and turned it forcefully. A panel in the wall beside the bookcase,

moved back, and slid away, revealing the bottom step of the hidden stair. The first time I'd gone up those stairs, I'll admit the hair on the back of my neck had stood up, but I'd quickly learned, that this wasn't an eerie place, but a protected one. It felt now, as I led the way. Chef behind me and Sycamore at the rear, like showing your childhood bedroom to your best friend for the first time. I was excited. The stairway itself

curved as it climbed, not quite a spiral, but definitely hugging along the inner walls of the house in a way that disguised its existence. At the top, it opened into a small room about the size of one of our guest rooms, but instead of a chest of drawers and a bed. There was a large desk and a straight-backed chair along the walls. There were shelves lined with books and several large trunks, chef who still held half of a cookie in their hand. gulped as they looked around and stuck it into the front pocket of their apron. Sycamore, who by now, had spent plenty of time in this room,

jumped up onto the ledge in front of the single window and looked out, What is all of this? Chef asked, with wonder in their voice. Well, it took me a while to understand. I think the first innkeeper was a kind of archivist. All these books, I trailed my fingers across their spines. They're full of local people. stories, and the trunks have pictures and family trees.

Maps and histories. We stared at each other for a second. Stories, like folk stories? Um, some, but plenty are just the stories of people's lives. Like, look at this. I picked up a book that was open on the desk and turned it around to show. This whole book is about people's birthdays, how everyone celebrated. Their cake of choice, what kind of punch was served, the gifts and decorations, the gifts and decorations, I opened one of the steamer trunks and squatted down to gather a handful of artifacts and pictures. This whole case is full of stories about people's pets, sometimes just a date of birth and a name.

sometimes stories about their favorite places to dig and play. And there are pictures. We look through a few. Sepia-toned shots, awkward as many photos from the time period seemed. But still, the animals and they're humans. looked happy and relaxed. Chef pointed to a snapshot of a small gray cat, sitting on a velvet poof.

That one looks just like cinder. I agreed. So I still don't understand. What is it about? What's it for? I scratched my head. looked around the room. I didn't have an exact answer. I think she just collected stories, kept them, like other people collect music or paintings. I think they were beautiful to her,

and she felt the need to document the lives of the people in her village, even if it was really small, stuff, like someone who's an artist might sketch a friend or a house in their neighborhood. She did that, but in a different way. And chef asked the question that had been nagging at me since I'd found this room on Halloween night. Why is it hidden away? didn't she ever show it to anyone? I plopped down into the straight-backed chair

and rested my hands on the desktop. There were dust motes floating in the air, sunlight, cutting through the small window. Sycamore turned his head and looked at me as if he wanted to hear my answer too. I think that's what I meant to do, I said. My voice, quiet, but sure, she anthologized. And I'm going to share it all.

It's all been so perfectly organized. It's just waiting for someone to exhibit these stories. It's like a more jump down. and came to rub against my ankle. I reached down and lifted him to my lap. I think we'll set up an exhibit. Some of it can be here, some at the library,

the museum, other places in town. We can share the stories of her villagers with ours. I turned to look up at my friend. What do you think? Are there recipes? I laughed. That was just what I'd hoped they'd say.

I reached up to pat their shoulder. My friend, there are even pickle recipes. We would have a busy summer ahead of us. Of curating and cooking, of sharing, and showing sweet dreams.