"I don't think I've ever been in the kitchen before," she remarked as Mrs. Ling waved for her to take a seat at the island.
"Oh, not that one, dear. One of the legs is unstable, don't want you tumbling."
Tilly chose a different stool, the wood stiff and the back uncomfortable. She couldn't imagine anyone wanting to sit here for long.
"It's a lovely house. Has great bones. But, and I am sure you have noticed, what covers the bones needs refreshing."
Tilly smiled as Mrs. Ling slid a floral plate of cookies toward her and took one. They looked to be sugar cookies, and as she took a bite, she had to hold back from making a face. They were far too sweet.
While a teapot matching the plate of cookies was steeping, Mrs. Ling dragged one of the old, uncomfortable stools to the other side, across from Tilly.
"Now. You are here because I am ready to retire."
"Oh," she said, around the bite of too-sweet cookie. "I'm sorry to hear that. I mean, I'm glad that you get to retire, but not seeing you here," she looked around and shook her head. "I can't imagine it."
She pictured the many times she'd seen Mrs. Ling handing out wooden crates for blueberry picking.
The first time she'd come to this inn and walked into the backyard, unsure, fresh in town, trying to figure out her new life, Mrs. Ling had waved her over as if she'd been waiting for her, pushing a wooden crate into her hands and pointing her towards the overfilled blueberry bushes.
She smiled. "Yes, well, I'm old. The house is old. My husband has gone ahead and found us a place to live and relax on the coast up a ways. The kitchen is small but has a bay window that looks out over the water," she said, leaning in with a smile. "How delightful is that?"
Tilly smiled back. "That sounds lovely. But, I'm sorry, why am I here?"
"Oh! Yes. Because I would like you to take over here. For me."
Tilly paused, set her too-sweet cookie down, sure she hadn't heard her correctly.
"I'm sorry? You want me to take over The Blueberry House?"
Mrs. Ling's eyes crinkled charmingly. "Oh, I forget sometimes this old biddy has been nicknamed that. Fitting. Though the blue paint could use sprucing. All of the house could use an update. And I cannot be the one to do that."
"But," Tilly dragged in a breath and thought of the replica of this house sitting on Jen's counter this morning. "I don't have experience doing this, running an inn, I mean. Or renovating."
"Neither did I. And this place called to me twenty-seven years ago. At the time, the house needed updates, and I got them done. Because I was the right person for the job. And it's not all thatdifficult, love. Not for the right person. Just a little imagination and an oomph of belief."
This was sounding very Peter Pan, and Tilly looked around for Tinker Bell as she let Mrs. Ling's words fill her.
"I don't-"
"Honey," she cut her off gently as she poured tea into delicate cups, "You don't need to fully understand. And before you ask, you're the right person because The Crescent Inn has a peculiar taste for its caretakers." She slid the cup to where Tilly sat, and she wrapped her hands around it. Her nail polish was chipped in three places. "We have something in common, it would seem."
Tilly shook her head again, her eyes wide, trying to take this all in. "What do we have in common?" She looked over Mrs. Ling's sharp bob of black hair with white strips framing her face.
But then Mrs. Ling leaned forward and with whispered words that were gentle, she said, "Not all men handle us with care, do they? No matter what strength we're made of, our bones tell of their malice."
Her heart thumped against the cage inside of her. How did she know? She'd told two people. Three, including her therapist. Save one person who had handled her truth with as much care as the offender had dealt it, and she'd learned her lesson.
But Mrs. Ling nodded her head in that knowing way. "I knew. The first time you came for blueberry picking those years ago. I recognized it in you.""Sometimes we hold secrets tucked into the places someone else broke inside of us so that we don't have to explain it and risk being misunderstood."
Her words washed over Tilly in an unusual familiarity. She knew exactly what she meant, had felt it for years, holding the damage inside of her carefully.
"Now, dear, I was hoping you could take over quite soon as I am dreaming of that bay window and a cup of tea between my arthritic hands. Does the end of this week work?"
"Uh," Tilly's mind was reeling. "Take over running The Blueberry Housethis week?""Yes, though you will need to get used to calling it The Crescent Inn, as that is how it is known to tourists, and you may confuse them."
She nodded.
She nodded more as thoughts tumbled through her. She didn't know how to run an inn. The sound of an old grandfather clock dinged down the hall through the swinging door and something inside of Tilly rumbled. Her fingers tingled and her blood seemed to bubble, but not unpleasantly. Mrs. Ling laid a gentle, thin hand over hers. And then her head was clear.
