Valentine's at the Inn

Welcome to Stories from the Village of Nothing Much. Like easy listening, but for fiction. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you'll hear on the Village of Nothing Much. Audio engineering and sound design is by Bob Wittersheim. In our show notes, you'll find links to our ad-free premium version, our other shows, and our merch and partner products. Hey friends, welcome back to one of the coziest corners of the internet. We made this show to remind you that good things still exist, to help you find joy in small details, and give your mind and heart a place to rest and recuperate. So if that sounds like your cup of homey, cheerful tea, pull up a chair. And if you'd like even more conflict-free, feel-good fiction, please pre-order my new audiobook, On the Street Where You Live. It'll be available from July 28th anywhere you listen to audiobooks. It tells the story of nine villagers and how their lives intersect over the course of the last weekend of the summer. And the cast is amazing. Like, I can't believe some of the talent we have on this project, including Mara Wilson and Juan Munoz. We have a link to pre-order in our show notes. Now before we head into our stories, let's take a deep breath in through the nose. And sigh through the mouth. Again, inhale. And exhale. Good. Valentine's at the Inn. During the summer, we serve breakfast on our back porch. It's 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 is frozen over, and several inches of snow lay on the ground. Our summer café tables are neatly stacked against the wall, and a few dunbrown leaves tumble 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 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 seasonal 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 from 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 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 we definitely had our hands full. That first evening, Chef prepared beautiful trays of small bites, and we set them 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 crudités and dips, the voulevants 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 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 bowls 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 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 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 I 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 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 tale 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. Thank you If you hearing this it means you already made sleep a priority And that's something worth applauding. You've carved out this quiet moment to wind down. And I have something that fits beautifully into that routine. It's called Moonbird. It's a small screen-free device that gently expands and contracts in your hand, guiding your breath with a calming rhythm. You don't have to count or focus. Just hold it and breathe. I got mine first, and I'm using it right now. I use it whenever I record this podcast. It helps me stay calm and centered as I read to you. And after seeing how much it helped me, my wife wanted one for herself, and now she loves it too. There's no screen to distract you, but if you like data, there's an optional app that tracks your heart rate and HRV. A recent study found that people fell asleep 28% faster and had 37% better sleep quality using Moonbird daily. If you're ready to take your bedtime ritual even further, you can get 15% off at moonbird.life slash nothingmuchhappens. We'll have that in our show notes, moonbird.life slash nothingmuchhappens. 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 their 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's 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 guest 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 mostly been a letdown, A night that had been overhyped 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 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, ahem, be overheard. Chef came through the door, their hands full of large trays of dessert. 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 wanting 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. Everyone would dance as much as they like, be fed with 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 doors downstairs, shoes clapping on 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 guests as we passed them. The sun was setting, 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 a singer who would serenade us during dinner, and then a drummer and guitar player who would join in and get folks dancing afterwards. Sycamore loves music, and he had heard the band play for our Halloween party. He rushed toward them, rubbing against their legs in instrument cases. I followed and greeted them, taking their coats and leading them down to the library, where they could relax and nosh 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. 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. Thank you. let's take a deep breath together in through the nose and out through the mouth it feels good to breathe deeply and the air we breathe especially at night matters more than we might think while we sleep our bodies are hard at work restoring, repairing, and recharging. But that work can be quietly disrupted by what's floating in the air, things like dust, pollen, and other allergens. I didn't used to think much about indoor air quality, but once I did I realized if we care about what we eat and drink why not care just as much about what we breathe That why I sleep with a Jasper air scrubber in my room It has no annoying lights and doubles as a gentle white noise machine that's become essential to my bedtime rhythm. But more than anything, it's turned my bedroom into a sleep sanctuary. A space where the air helps me sleep, deeply and peacefully. I can't recommend Jasper enough. You can learn more at jasper.co. And if you use the code SLEEP, you'll get $300 off. That's j-a-s-p-r dot c-o. Use code SLEEP for $300 off. Part 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, 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 housekeepers in the halls above, vacuum cleaners running along the floorboards, and doors opening and closing as one room was finished and another begun. Poor Sycamore was exhausted. He lay in the inbox on my desk. His long black tail slung across 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 fill 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? I said, 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 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, I haven't 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? You got 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 Siki 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 towards 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, cross-hatched on its dark brown top with tine 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 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 caught 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 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 the 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. The 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 had stood up on the back of my neck. 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 a cookie in their hand, gulped as they looked around and stuck it into the front pocket of their apron. Sycamore, who'd had plenty of time in this room by now, 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. The trunks have pictures and family trees and maps and histories. We stared at each other for a second. Stories? Like folk stories? 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-toned shots, awkward as many photos from that time period seemed, but still the animals and their 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 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 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 me since I'd found this room on Halloween night. Why is it hidden away? Didn't she ever show it to anyone? I sat 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 as well. I think that's what I'm meant to do, I said, my voice quiet but sure. She anthologized, and I'm going to share it. 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 up to my lap. I think we'll set up an exhibit. Some of it can be here. Some in 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 hoped they'd say. I reached up to pat their shoulder. Friend, there are even pickle recipes. We would have a busy summer ahead of us, of curating and cooking, of sharing and showing. Thank you. I love the inn. Did I mention that the innkeeper and chef are in my new book? And that I get to play the innkeeper? Those are some big and sensible shoes to fill. and I hope I did the part justice. Now, some of the gentle surprises, let's not call them spoilers, that exist in these intersecting stories have already been explained in stories that have been heard on Nothing Much Happens, but not yet over here at Stories from the Village. And let's be honest, they aren't really even heard over there because 99.9% of listeners are deep into their beauty rest by the time I finish the introduction. So I won't say what Chef might have been able to offer up for their side of those swapsies, but I promise that will eventually come to this feed, and in a form that won't make you conk out. While I was writing about the grown-up prom, I remembered a trip into a little hidden neighborhood near Lake Michigan that my wife and I had stumbled on a few summers back. There is this honest-to-goodness castle that was built in the Gilded Age. And around it is a tiny and probably private, like we had to sneak in, neighborhood. And the castle is now owned jointly by the people who live around it. No one lives in the castle anymore, but the neighbors use it regularly. And the day we were there, they had a sign-up announcing coming events. And that night, they were scheduled to have a village dance. And I was like, what is happening right now? because I feel like the universe regularly conspires to show me ridiculously charming and inspiring things. But this felt a little too on the nose. I was in a hidden neighborhood with a real castle a few hundred feet from Lake Michigan, and they were having a village dance that night. And maybe we should bring back dances, by the way. I don't think that they should just be for junior high. Anyway, that idea got into my system, and this is where it came out. By the by, I don't think I went to prom. I have some problems with my memory because of a brain difference, so I don't remember a lot of my life. Like, first kiss? No idea. Did I go to prom? I don't think so. But as someone who loves set dressing, who loves atmospherics and romance, I think it would most certainly not have lived up to my hopes, so maybe that is for the best. Chef, who is a reoccurring character in many stories, uses they-them pronouns, and I wanted to make it clear that they have always been a catch. As a queer person myself, and as a queer writer, my goodness, I am exhausted by queer stories where all we see are tortured people that have happiness snatched away from them before it can arrive. Of course, that is part of the reality of being queer in the world. But we also need stories and characters that show joy and confidence and happy endings. But that is why so many of us are still at the cottage. And I want to point out that seeing positive representations of your own culture, seeing them be popular and desired and successful, can have a real psychological effect on folks who have trauma from not being supported for who they are. It's called reparative witnessing. And just like it sounds, it helps repair harm just by witnessing good things. It's kind of what underpins all of my work in fiction. It's good for everyone, but I want to just take a second to say that if you are like Chef, or like me, or just not like the assumed default version of a person, in the village there are people just like you, and they are living happy, loving lives. They are your analogs. So when you hear me tell their stories, weave them into your own, like threads in a fabric that keep you warm. I think I'll leave it there today. Thanks for listening, for being here, for being yourself. Till next week, I wish you sweet treats, secret rooms full of magic, and a chance to drive off into the sunset.