"Just because-"Eloise rolled her eyes this time, cutting her off. "Just because you're young doesn't mean you're not intelligent, blah blah blah. But girl? There's a big difference between intelligence and wisdom, and the latter is learned often later in life- if at all- so take the compliment without your teenage angst for the love of all things holy or you're not getting a cookie tonight."
Bess's face took on a moment of shock, then back was the flat teenage look. "Withholding cookies is mean."
Tilly smiled at their back and forth and waved as she hopped down from the stool. "See you witches later!"
A woman frowned at Tilly and made a wide berth for her, nearly jumping over a cafe table as she exited. Still they found it not to be uncommon to be stared at, whispered about, or treated with outright disdain. They had gotten into the habit of looking away and ignoring it all, which is exactly what she did now.
But since their dark visitors, perhaps throwing around the wordwitchwas not the wisest.
8. A New Start in an Old Place
The Crescent Inn was the kind of historical place that anyone who had lived in Salem for any amount of time knew of and could speak of as if it were an old friend. Its nickname, The Blueberry House, had been given before any current local's time. Some years back, Mrs. Ling and her husband had planted forty-eight blueberry bushes in the back of the property and two years later they had their first ever blueberry harvest.
Anyone who wanted was invited to come to The Crescent Inn, grab a pail, and pick blueberries to their heart's content.
Over the years, it had become a tradition in July. Fliers were made and posted around the shops only locals went to, and many marked their calendars for the event. It had become something women bought dresses for, the town's shops scheduled around, and both newspapers promoted and then covered it.
Mrs. Ling showed Tilly around the grounds first and she leaned in to run her finger over a waxy green leaf, seeing the pink berries that would soon turn their famous purple-blue color.
The property was awash in sunshine with the sprinkling of old, creaky willows. The back porch was screened in and ran along the entirety of the back of the house. There was outdated furniture that would need replacing. A few rips in the screens needing repaired. Paint was badly needed. But still, it was serene, and the kind of place that felt slow and like it had taken its time spreading out.
"Now, everything is old-fashioned. We keep records on paper. A new ledger for each quarter. I'll show you the records room and office last."
After an in-depth tour with too much information that Tilly feared she would only capture a small percentage of, they landed in the office, a little room under the stairs.
There was a small desk with a small seashell lamp that looked like it would have settled well at a vacation condo at Myrtle Beach. A brass lamp was also mounted to one of the stairs overhead and there was where she found yellowed papers taped with the room rates dating back to 1984. They had changed the rates over the years, but nowhere near matching the rising rate of inflation. Today's rates were astonishingly low.
There was also a paper, just as old and yellowed, with handwritten names of handy people with their phone numbers next to what they could fix. A couple had been whited out and written over with someone new, but it looked like a comprehensive list that would serve her well.
After she located the red ledgers, she ducked out of the small office and stopped in front of the grandmother clock. There were three hands, and none of them were moving. Odd. She was taking in the symbols and the gold markings on the face when Mrs. Ling interrupted her. "Well, that should do it!"
She turned to where Mrs. Ling was putting the strap of a navy patent leather purse with a thin gold buckle that looked like a similar one her mom had in the '90s over her shoulder.
"What, you mean, you're leaving?"
"Yes. You've got this."
"I," she stopped short, shocked at the suddenness. "I still don't know, well, anything."Mrs. Ling laughed and wrapped her arms around Tilly. Tilly wasn't tall herself, but this woman came up to her eyes, and the comfort of the embrace was honest and felt like when you took that first bite of birthday cake. She felt, for a brief moment, settled and maybe a little relieved.
That shouldn't be what she felt as this woman was leaving an entire historical inn in her incapable hands.
When Mrs. Ling dropped her arms and stepped back, she smiled so kindly, so sure, that Tilly pulled in the deepest, slow breath, trying to capture the air around them to maybe pull in what this woman was feeling on the inside.
"My number is on the front desk. Don't change the rates. They change on their own when they need to."
Tilly frowned and opened her mouth to argue or ask many honest questions, but before she could, Mrs. Ling gently beat her to it. "I know. It's odd. But you," she pointed with a knowing look in her dark eyes, "are someone quite used to oddities. This old place has many. You'll get used to them. Joey comes to clean Monday through Friday, and then his dad cleans on the weekends. I always make sure I have lunch for them in the fridge. Judy Lucy does all the fixing around here. She's looking for a girlfriend, so you be on the lookout," she added like it was one of the last job duties. "Now. I am off. And you will be just fine."
Tilly tried to find another important question to ask her, but then Mrs. Ling exclaimed, "Oh dear, looks like troublesome visitors are coming to Salem again. Well," she shook her head asTilly followed her line of sight and frowned at the Grandmother clock. "Guess Salem is used to its share of trouble. Bye now!"
And then she was off. Just like she said. Somehow, Tilly hadn't quite believed she would leave her alone in this large inn to run it.
"What in the world am I doing?" she whispered to no one. She looked around, befuddled. "I'm nuts."
And what in the world had the unusual clock told her? She looked at the three hands again, the symbols familiar but unclear to her.
But, she was not one to sit around and give in to wonderings too often. She found that if she did that, a level of anxiety she had learned to tame in the last decade of her life would come walking through the many doors of her mind.
She imagined that people who struggled greatly with anxiety had never mastered the art of closing doors.
