“They catch lobsters,” he said, and I knew he wanted to add a duh. “Or fix the lobstermen’s boats. Or sell food and cigarettes to the lobstermen. Or marry them.”
The road twisted again, taking us past an old building that looked like a cross between a diner and a bookshop, or maybe between a convenience store and a library. The pink neon sign said the place was called the Grindle Point Shop. I prayed that it was walkable from the inn. I was going to need something to do during my forced two-week isolation, and maybe the Grindle Point Shop was it.
We drove a short way on, at which point the junk food addict behind the wheel decided to turn on a CD. Loud. Then, just when I thought I’d rather walk the rest of the way, the Black Butterfly Inn appeared before us.
Set back a hundred feet from the road, the inn was a three-story battleship in a sea of snow—grey, weathered, a mishmash of eaves and gables. The front door and windows were crowned with pointed arches straight out of some medieval abbey. From the steep roof, multiple chimneys released tongues of smoke that quickly dissolved into the bitter evening. Maybe the inn was supposed to look like a castle or a church—it was definitely commanding, but in a grim, stiff way, not at all charming or welcoming. If buildings had faces, this one would be puckered up in a frosty snarl, its icicle-shaped holiday lights only making it look colder.
“It’s nicer on the inside,” my driver said, eyeing me again in the rearview mirror. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but somehow it was consoling to learn that the inn didn’t dazzle absolutely everyone at first glimpse. Maybe the Black Butterfly scowled at all its visitors. Maybe it even scared some of them. Or maybe this guy was taking pity on the girl who was obviously starting to snap. Either way, I had to admit I appreciated the gesture. And the eye contact.
He drove up the narrow circular driveway but couldn’t reach the top because a truck was blocking the way. The truck, a shiny silver job souped up with black racing stripes and oversized chrome wheels, looked out of place against the gothic exterior of the inn. In bold blue print on the tailgate, it said Mike’s Heating and Plumbing—there when you need us.
“So he finally got around to coming,” my driver said, parking directly behind the pickup. “About time.” I hoped that meant we’d have heat and water tonight.
A plump woman in a bathrobe and faux fur slippers was standing on the wraparound porch, waving energetically at us. Her hair was a wild shade of red from a bottle, and it matched her lipstick. When I stepped out of the minivan, she ran down the front steps, skirted the pickup, and flung her pudgy arms around me. “Penny!” she cooed. “Penny, at last!” Then she took a step back to examine me. “You’re Viv’s child, all right.”
I gave her my best rendition of a knowing smile.
“I’m Bubbles,” she said. “Blanche really, but everyone calls me Bubbles and so should you. I see you’ve met my son George.”
I clamped my jaw to keep it from dropping open. “Yes, we’ve met. Thanks for the ride, George, and for the tour. That was sweet of you.” He pretended he didn’t hear me.
Part of me felt sorry for George. If this was his family’s business, then he was probably a lifer, sentenced to carting people around in the snow and eating meals out of cellophane bags for the next 60 or 70 years. Talk about lousy luck. But another part of me resented the twit for not letting on who he was. He was the son of the owner. He was the son of my mother’s friend. I was going to be spending two weeks with his family. What possible reason could he have for hiding his identity from me? “Mutant,” I added under my breath.
That, he heard. “Pardon?” he asked.
I tossed him a big fake smile.
“Let’s get you in out of this cold,” Bubbles said. “Oh look, it’s starting to snow again.” She looped her arm through mine and led me to the stairs in short, slippered steps. I felt dizzy all of a sudden. Not dizzy like on a roller coaster, where the downs are always followed by ups. More like the free fall, where it’s one freakishly terrifying plummet the whole way. What was I walking into, and why wasn’t anyone rescuing me?
I have a new philosophy.
I’m only going to dread one day at a time.
—Charles M. Schulz, Charlie Brown in “Peanuts”
George was right about one thing: the inn was nicer on the inside, a lot nicer. The lobby didn’t look like any lobby I’d ever seen—no front counter, no tourist posters from the local chamber of commerce, no vending machines. It was more like a den from a fancy house. The paneled walls were hung with oriental rugs of red, gold and blue, and several stained glass skylights studded the cathedral ceiling. A lush brown sectional couch wrapped itself around the fireplace, where a fire crackled and danced. Something about the last bits of daylight mingling with the flames made the air itself seem to flicker and swim.
“Surprised?” teased Bubbles, shaking a set of sleigh bells that rested on a small desk in the corner.
“I live in an efficiency apartment,” I explained. “I’m not sure what to do in a place with working thermostats and chairs that don’t fold.”
She chortled, apparently thinking I was joking. “Glad you like it.”
When did I ever say I liked it? I hated this place, hated it. I hated being here, I hated Mom for sending me here, I hated myself for agreeing to come, and no fancy decorations or pretty lights were going to change my mind.
“Here’s Vincent then,” Bubbles said as an older man answered her bell. “He’ll show you to your room, and we’ll get acquainted over dinner, how’s that? Vincent, the Lilac Room for Penny, please.”
Vincent was a pillowy man with a full head of silver hair framing his baby blues. He wore painter’s pants and a down vest, and his belt buckle was a silver and turquoise fish. “Welcome, Miss Penny,” he said, picking up my duffel bag.
I followed him across the lobby, through an arched doorway, and into a parlor. This room was bigger and brighter than the lobby—creamy walls with framed mirrors, a marble floor, plenty of recessed lighting. Cushioned armchairs haphazardly lined the walls, and a horseshoe of sofas filled the center of the room.
A girl around my age was sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs, looking out the bay window. She was pretty—light eyes, light hair, light skin—but I decided not to hold that against her. I was just glad to see there was another guest, someone I might be able to pass some time with on this iceberg. When she looked my way, I nodded and gave a little smile, but instead of smiling back, she jumped out of her chair and ran out of the room. Just my luck—a bizarro. I followed Vincent, wishing the marble tiles beneath my feet would give way to a secret tunnel back to Boston. Regrettably, they only gave way to a curved staircase.
As we climbed to the second floor, Vincent asked, “Do you have plans for your stay?”
Yes, I wanted to say, I’m planning to die of boredom and loneliness. But I answered, “I brought a couple of books along. And I have a writing project to finish for one of my classes.”
“What are you reading?”
“Right now, a thriller.”
“Thriller. Say, did you know Alfred Hitchcock stayed here when he finished Psycho, back when the Black Butterfly was new?” he asked. “And Stephen King’s wife takes a room almost every Labor Day weekend with her daughter.”
“You mean, some mothers actually take their daughters with them when they go away?” I accidentally said this loudly enough for Vincent to hear. He didn’t say anything though, and for that I was grateful. I didn’t want a pity party or a cheering squad. I just wanted to get through this.
We walked down the hallway, under a crystal chandelier and past garden watercolors. There were four guest