The woman arrives on the last Sunday in September with an expensive suitcase and a reservation in the Lavender room.
“Mrs. Patterson,” she says, hesitating before the name.
There are several reasons a person might hesitate. I have learned to leave room for more than one.
Agnes shows her upstairs. Clover watches from the bottom step, then follows me into the kitchen when I take the scones from the oven.
“She asked whether we lock the front door at night,” Agnes says when she comes back.
“What did you tell her?”
“That we do. And that she can call us if she needs anything.”
I put a plate beside the kettle. Then I take out another.
“We have soup left,” I say.
“Enough for one.”
Upstairs, a door closes. The new guest has not told us what brought her here, and I don’t know whether she ever will. Tonight she has asked for a room. We have given her one.
I set a third place at the kitchen table in case she comes down hungry. Then I sit beside Agnes while the scones are warm.