They had stayed at a small inn whose name she couldn’t recall, had eaten fish and chips at a pub called the Rusty Nail, and then hung around for trivia. They’d been happy then, newlyweds with the whole world before them. What had happened to that couple?
On impulse, she peeled off at the exit and followed the main road through the center of town. Not much had changed. The town was small and picturesque, the sidewalks lined with trendy shops and locally owned cafés. Her mouth watered at the thought of food, but her first order of business was finding a place to sleep.
She pulled into the parking lot of the first inn she saw, an old converted farmhouse called the Fife and Feather. It was small but charming; two stories of clean white clapboard fronted with black shuttered windows and a small porch of weathered brick.
A wreath of magnolia leaves and creamy satin ribbon hung on the front door, reminding Christine with a bit of a jolt that Thanksgiving had come and gone. In the chaos after Stephen’s death, the holiday had simply slipped her mind, along with the turkey she had ordered from Longley’s. She was still wondering what had become of the unclaimed bird as she stepped into the Fife and Feather’s cozy lobby, a snug, low-ceilinged room decorated with shaker furniture and primitive American folk art.
“Hey there!” A pretty blonde stood grinning behind the registration counter. She looked to be in her thirties, but there was an air of prom queen about her too, perky and bright with her messy bun and shimmery pink lips. “Welcome to the Fife and Feather.”
Christine ran a hand through her hair, painfully aware of her bedraggled appearance. “I was driving by and saw the VACANCY sign. I’m hoping you still have a room available.”
The woman’s smile widened as she produced a registration form from somewhere below the counter. “You’re in luck. The leaf peepers are gone, and it’s too early for Christmas guests. You can pretty much take your pick. What brings you to Sweetwater?”
“I’m, uh . . . just passing through.”
“So just the one night then?”
“Yes. Just one night.”
“Well, we’re happy to have you. I’m Missy Beck, by the way—the owner. And since we’re so quiet, I’m going to put you in my favorite room. It was actually the library back when the Holcombes owned it. The bookcases are all original.”
Christine didn’t have the heart to tell her she wouldn’t be paying attention to much of anything except the bed. “Does the inn serve dinner?”
“Sorry. I’m afraid we’re limited to breakfast. But I can offer you one of these to take the edge off.” She held out a plate of what appeared to be freshly baked oatmeal cookies.
Christine took a cookie, nibbling politely. “I don’t suppose the Rusty Nail is still in business, by any chance?”
Missy looked surprised. “The Nail’s been closed for years. It’s a pizza place now, and a pretty good one if that’s what you’re in the mood for. I take it you’ve been to Sweetwater?”
Christine nodded. “Years ago, on my honeymoon.”
“Oh, nice. Is your husband traveling with you this time through?”
“No, he’s . . . I’m a widow.” The word stopped her cold. It was the first time she’d said it out loud, and it surprised her how easily it had slipped from her tongue.
Missy reached across the counter to give her hand a squeeze. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. And you, so young. Was it sudden?”
“Yes. He was—” She paused, realizing she was about to say too much. “He drowned.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either—at least not all of it. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to dislodge the images that had been haunting her for days. Had he been conscious? Had he struggled, and if so, for how long before the water had finally filled his lungs?
Missy’s gray-green eyes filled with sympathy. “You poor thing. I have a friend who lost her husband a year ago, and I’ve seen what she’s gone through. I know it’s hard in the beginning, but it does get easier. Tomorrow will be better, and then the day after that. As long as you have friends, you can get through anything.”
Christine managed what she hoped would pass for a smile as she reached for the registration form. She was grateful for the words of comfort. She even wanted to believe them. But if things getting better was dependent on having a circle of friends, she was out of luck. There were a handful of women from the club she had socialized with now and then, most of them the wives of Stephen’s friends. A few had even sent cards filled with condolences, but that’s as far as it went—and as far as Christine wanted it to go.
“I’m sorry,” Missy blurted. “You were asking about dinner, and as usual, I went down a rabbit hole. I’d definitely recommend the Cork and Cleaver. It’s right next door, and the food is wonderful. Queenie Peterson owns it. She’s a friend of mine, so I’m a little bit biased, but they really do have the best food in town.”
Christine nodded vaguely, staring at the line on the registration form asking for her name. She didn’t dare use Ludlow. Instead, she picked up the pen and printed the name she’d given up eight years ago when she married Stephen. From here on out, she was Christy-Lynn Parker. Now all she had to do was remember.
“Do I pay you for the room now?” she asked when she had completed the form.