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Not that I’m worried.
Honestly, I’m more concerned about her going batty in recovery and having to actually sit still.
She sounded good when we spoke over the phone this morning. Marty left a few hours ago to pick her up.
They should be arriving anytime.
I’ll be glad when I can see for myself how she’s doing.
I transfer the oatmeal raisin cookies to a cooling rack and slide the cookie sheet in the dishwasher. Thank God this place has modern appliances hidden behind its rustic look.
When it comes to convenience, Gram went all out.
I’m talking full private bathrooms installed in each of the six bedrooms upstairs, and a kitchen remodel that would make a cooking show celebrity jealous.
The massive farmhouse was originally built by Grandpa Doug’s grandparents at the turn of the century. They had a pack of kids, and as those children grew up and got married, they kept adding on to the house and modernizing it.
The entire downstairs was remodeled as well. What used to be the living room now doubles as the lobby.
I’m grateful they left the old fireplace intact, this colossal warm and welcoming hearth made from stones picked out of nearby fields. The shelves in the library were spruced up and refinished as well, and they’re the very same that were hand-milled by my great-grandfather.
What used to be the back parlor—as Gram always called it—and two bedrooms downstairs were converted into Gram’s own living quarters plus a large laundry room.
That’s not the best part, though.
It’s the antiques. The real showstoppers. They’re displayed everywhere throughout the house.
After Gram opened the place, a few old Dakota Cavalry bayonets from the Civil War and hand-painted china sets were even featured in magazines.
This isn’t the first go around as an inn.
Grandpa Doug’s parents ran a boarding house here way back in the thirties and forties. It was something Grandpa always wanted to try, but he was too busy working at North Earhart Oil.
Old man Jonah Reed, owner of the oil company, was even one of his best friends.
Jonah passed on a few years ago, too, but in the early days, the two men along with Weston’s grandfather, Larry, were known around town as the Three Musketeers. Gram still calls them that and I smile every time.
I remove the cookies off the rack, stack them on a platter, and carry it out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the lobby.
There, I set them down on the table that also holds the water dispenser I refilled with a few slices of fresh sliced lemons while the cookies baked.
A longing sigh escapes me as I glance around.
This place smells as perfect as it looks. Movies could be filmed here, and I swear I can feel the history vibrating through my bones when I lay my palm on the smooth, cool table.
A tiny part of me wishes I could stay longer. Helping Gram with the place into the holiday season would be pretty fun.
That can’t happen with my new job waiting, but needless to say I’ve missed being home.
The large grandfather clock in the corner chimes, dragging me out of my nerd-trance.
It’s eleven o’clock.
The sound of a car door banging shut cuts through the musical chime.
Another guest? Hmm.
Check-in usually starts at two p.m., but since we were closed for a day, everything’s been a little off like the new arrivals this morning.
