Eggnog & Evergreen

38 • Room at the Inn

We mosey down our street, quiet. I'm letting the crisp night's silence speak for me. It's a very different walk than the one Nik and I just shared.

"A lot of charm in this place," Preston says as we turn onto Main Street. "For a town no one has ever heard of."

"Yes." I kick a chunk of icy snow with my boot.

"Still has nothing on New York," Preston adds, matter of fact. I know this isn't up for dispute. "The streets are almost empty. It's barely 11:30."

"Mhmm." I steal a glance at him.

"Will this Queenie's even be open now?" Preston asks.

"Good point," I joke. "It's a B&B, so let's hope there's someone there 24 hours!"

The door to Maple's pub bursts open and two drunk girls stumble onto the snowy sidewalk. They spot Preston and giggle to each other, whispering poorly behind their ungloved hands.

"Who's HE?" The nearest girl laughs.

"—Sooo handsome." They laugh.

"So this is just like NYC after all," I tease, rolling my eyes at Preston.

"Stop." He laughs.

Queenie's comes into view. Her gold-lettered sign swings from an iron post over the front door. The stone facade is whitewashed with snow. Holly hangs in the frosted windows, and jumbo wooden blocks read DEC 23.

The B&B's warm glow spills onto the street as Preston holds open the door. I enter into the quaint foyer to find the reception desk covered in tinsel and a roaring fire flickering in the open grate beside the stairs. A miniature Christmas tree gleams in the corner.

I've only been in here once before –when a cousin from my dad's side of the family visited one summer. It was very mehthen, very ordinary. Now –it's like this place should only exist at Christmastime.

"Feel like I've stepped into a 19th century inn," Preston says beside me. He's already shaking out his coat.

"Let's hope there's room at the 19th century inn. Come on." I pull him over to the desk. Preston hangs up his coat and scarf on the rack beside the fire.

There's a quick bang on the other side of the door followed by shuffling footsteps. It sounds like someone is carrying sleigh bells. I shake images of Trotter from my mind. the large Roman Numeral clock behind the desk says 11:43 PM.

"Hello dears. Welcome to Queenie's." A woman emerges from the other side of the door. "Just getting in? Oh, you aren't guests."

"Um, no. But he's hoping to be," I nod to Preston. "Do you have any rooms?"

"Let's see here," she says, humming absentmindedly.

She pulls open a large, leather-bound book. Clearly they don't believe in anything digital here.

"We have one room left. The left corner room. A tad small and just a twin bed." The woman looks between the two of us.

"Oh, that works. It's just him," I say, smiling. I look at the snowman broach pinned to her collar.

"Yes, it sounds fine." Preston chimes in.

"Hokey. I'll just need your name and a card for our files."

Preston gives her all the necessary info and within three minutes, she's ushering us upstairs. We move down the creaky hallway; foiled snowflakes dangle from the sloped ceiling.

"This is it."

We walk into a shabbily quaint room with a low, angled ceiling and a single twin bed pushed against the wall. A red lampshade filters everything rosy.

"Bathroom is down the hall. Center door. Breakfast is at 8 AM. I'll leave you to it, then." The woman clicks the door shut behind her.

"Well," I say, biting my lip.

Preston goes to the bed and sits on the edge, pulling at the frayed blanket.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" He asks, looking up.

"Yes," I blurt out.

I remember Nik is picking me up for the Barn Benefit. I will have to meet Preston earlier in the day. For breakfast maybe, or lunch. We will need to discuss whatever it is that's still between us –or might still be between us.

But what's between me and Nik? Preston showing up unexpectedly –no matter what he says –doesn't negate whatever Nik and I had blooming.

"I will call you in the morning?" I almost ask.

"That sounds nice." Preston nods.

I'm almost at the door when I hear him clear his throat. I spin around to see him standing right behind me.

"It is really great to see you, Noe. It really is."

Preston pulls me into a hug, tight and firm. I close my eyes and breathe him in. His shirt smells like cologne and cold winter and a little bit of the cinnamon air freshener from the downstairs foyer. What it doesn't smell like is pine, smoke, or musk.

"Goodnight," I say, pulling away.

"Goodnight."

...

It's past midnight by the time I exit Queenie's. Preston is right –this place is definitely not New York. Main Street is dead empty; even Maple's seems about to close. No more giggling girls.

My feet carry me home, up the porch stairs, and through the front door. It's quiet inside –my parents must be asleep. I wander into the kitchen and spot the source of the spicy smell. The crockpot is on. My mom's mulling orange slices, cinnamon sticks, and whole cloves.

I change into my flannel pajamas and curl up on the couch. The glow from the mantle garland is the only source of light. I lay back and breathe in the spiced aroma, my thoughts melding together just like the contents of the crockpot.

Nik. Preston. Hawaii. PA. Christmas.

It all blends together.