For Love of Gloucester

Salem, Massachusetts was the place for witchcraft, but this place, Gloucester, was the place for magic. At least, that’s what her Aunt Wendy always said.

Melinda walked along the seawall road, imagining she could see the foggy tip of Cape Cod to the southeast. Impossible, since the tip of the cape was more than a hundred miles away from this part of Gloucester, and the horizon for someone her height was only a few miles.

But it was a lovely vision to think that she could see the Cape, a magical fantasy that had entranced her since many years ago when she was a little one visiting her aunt and uncle.

Salty spray danced in the light breeze like sun-lit sugar dust. A big wind would come later — the coming nor’easter gathering waves that would pound the pier and shore and Atlantic Road, the street beyond, and shake the roofs and swing the strings of white and red holiday lights like jump ropes.

And beyond the street was the place she loved most in the world: the old Waterfront Inn. The gray paint was faded and cracked, the white window frames cracked even more, but the charm remained, leaving a timeless charm that had drawn thousands of guests and travelers to the little 25-room inn on the beach road in the little working-class town. 

The inn fit there, like it could in no other place in the world, the most honest and genuine hostel one could imagine, on a well-traveled street, from a time that seemed to have existed forever and not for the brief few hundred years of American history.

No other town could hold this little inn, and no other inn or building or structure in this world could hold this place. It fit here like an amazing custom puzzle piece, with no gaps where it touched all the pieces around it. How could any other piece, no matter how beautiful or shapely, fill this place?

And it was about to be sold, and likely torn down in the name of modern Twenty-First Century gentrification.

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket and played a ring-tune — “I Will Survive.”

She clawed the phone out, confirmed the caller, and swiped it to answer.

“Yes, Mother…”

“Are you on your way home yet?” Mother knew she wasn’t leaving for days.

“I’m standing outside in the cold, watching snow fall.”

“Good. Another fine memory for you to take with you when you leave.”

One. Two. Three…

“I’m fine, Mom. Everything’s going well. It’s been great seeing Aunt Wendy.”

“Well don’t let my sister talk you into staying longer—”

“Yes, I know. She’ll try to talk me into buying and running the inn. The last thing I want.”

“I wish I believed you more. Anyway, remember the board of directors here at Forester is having their annual New Year’s party, and that’s where they like to network with candidates for the associates’ positions. I’ve been telling them about you.”

“Thanks. You know I’m not sure about that company. Very old school. Very not me.”

“You’re a lot more old-school than you think, dear, and that’s a good thing. And they’re looking to bring more capable women into the firm, and you’re exactly what they’re looking for.”

But what was Melinda looking for? More corporate structure? More pay — much more? — at the expense of long, long hours? Being all company all the time, 24/7?

Her mother’s voice dragged her back. “Remember my motto, Mel. The Singleton motto: never let yourself rely on anyone else for your bread. Especially a man.”

“How could I forget that?”

Mother’s personal motto — the result of being abandoned by Melinda’s father six months after Melinda’s birth. Abandoned with no job skills and little family support.

It was understandable. Her mother was a survivor, the strongest woman she knew. And through it all, still loving, still caring. Challenging Melinda to be great, to be all she could, but never punishing her daughter’s mistakes. She was always pulling from the positive side, always encouraging. All the things an independent woman would want or need in a single parent.

“Gotta run, Mom. The open house starts soon.”

Her mother would be frowning and nodding her head in that knowing, almost accusatory look, the one tough love thing she did; making sure her daughter knew that she knew when she’d missed a great opportunity by not listening.

“Just remember what I said. Don’t let Wendy talk you into anything. I shudder to think about you staying in that sea-side shanty town another season.”

Melinda pocketed the phone, walked into the inn’s white, galley-style front door, and joined her aunt in the small shop she operated in the inn’s lobby.

It was more a glassed-in booth really, and had originally been a candy shop. Aunt Wendy had converted it into a seasonal shop — year-end holidays then, with small, kitschy gifts, greeting cards, posters, calendars, candles, and candies celebrating every holiday in the season, the major ones, and several Melinda had never heard of.

Contained within, there were a fair amount of witchcraft items, as well, conveniently left on display following the Halloween period. The location was close enough to Salem to enjoy spillover from the enthusiastic witchy marketing from the “Witch Trial City.”

Aunt Wendy looked the part, an apple-faced woman of an age “more than fifty and less than one-fifty,” as she put it. Her flowing hair, like fine strands of pewter and pearl, fell about her light blue knitted shawl, worn over a floor-length dress of folded gray fabric. She liked to chant over pots of soup just to intrigue — or freak out — her guests.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mel,” she said in the sweet voice of a much younger woman.

“You know what I’m thinking. You always could read minds. I’m thinking how much I’m going to miss this old inn, and that I need to get ready for the open house in an hour.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. Time for me to step away, and who is there to run it? And you won’t miss much. This little old town must be pretty dull compared to Albany.”

Melinda shrugged. “Albany has its good points. Great social life without the madness of Manhattan.” But it was also fast moving and intense and impersonal, as Melinda’s friend Connie had pointed out. Move and shake it, baby, but don’t expect to make close friends there, just acquaintances in passing, all on their way to somewhere else, somewhere bigger and brighter.

“Tell me again how long you’ll stay, Mel? When does your holiday break end?”

“School starts about January 12, but the administration people are needed a week earlier. But I can do most of my work from here online for a week or so. I won’t be in a hurry to leave.”

“Good. There are a few precious things I’d like to give you before you go.”

“Okay, Aunt Wendy. The time is going to pass way too quickly, and then…” Melinda’s throat closed off, and she couldn’t go on.

Aunt Wendy gripped her arm in her firm, warm hand. “Who knows, Mel. Magic happens.”

Melinda chuckled and kissed her aunt on the cheek. Her skin was warm and smooth on Mel’s lips, and she smelled of lavender and spice, like the cookies she baked.

Magic happens. Funny, her cousin had always said Wendy was a witch, with her dark clothes and all the decorations at Halloween. To Melinda, she was Wendy the Good Witch.

“I’ll set up the drinks station,” Mel said.

Mrs. Benjamin, the real estate agent, had warned them to expect a crowd of at least fifteen for the two-hour open house, but she’d underestimated. Forty or more people came through the lobby and office and shop, and ventured onto the garden and patio.

There were a few curious town people from Gloucester among them, but most were serious buyers, assessing the location and land mostly since the inn would be bulldozed after the sale. 

There was more value in seaside condos or a larger, upscale hotel, like the new posh ones being built down the shore. The location was ideal for visitors from Boston, north to Kennebunkport, or to the fall foliage driving routes through all of New England.  And the sunrises over the beach and rocks were fantastic, a painter’s dream; inspiration for anyone.

Melinda manned the drink and snack table while Mrs. Benjamin led tours, and Aunt Wendy manned the shop, carrying on lively conversations with everyone within earshot. She had always been a natural salesperson, with charm, folksy New England wisdom, and a dry wit. Melinda envied her for those things.  

A tall fellow about Melinda’s age of thirty, with salt and pepper hair, wearing tie and sweater, like her Boston College lit professor — only younger and more attractive — took one of the first tours with Mrs. Benjamin.

Afterwards, he lingered, stepping in and out of the lobby to venture into the garden and then back outside to take photos from the street. After venturing in and out a couple more times, he approached Melinda’s refreshment table.

“I beg your pardon,” he said with an English accent — possibly from the London area. “Could you possibly help me?”

“Of course. The restrooms are just down that hallway.”

“Oh, no thank you, I just have questions about the inn and town. Are you from around here, or just up from Boston for the event?”

There was something about a nice looking, well-dressed man being vulnerable and asking for help that always teased Melinda’s interest. The bold, over-confident posturing of the men she’d met in Albany was tiresome.

“Actually, I’m the owner’s niece.”

“Oh, my error. What a wonderful place. Stunning, isn’t it?”

“I’ve always loved it.” She looked around for a moment, nostalgia glistening in her eyes. “So this is all sad for me.”

The man looked startled, as if he’d just made a terrible faux pas.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve had many good times visiting Aunt Wendy.”

“And how does she feel about selling?”

“Well, she’s over there in the shop, chatting away. I’m sure she’s sad too, but she can’t run it any longer. I think she’s looking forward to traveling more.”

The man craned his tall form to watch Aunt Wendy demonstrating some witchy device in the shop. He smiled.

“Quite a lady, isn’t she? Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Trevor by the way. Trevor Steele.” He held out his hand, long and surprisingly calloused for someone who was dressed so dapper. She shook it firmly.

“Melinda.”

“Lovely name. You said you visited here often. So you don’t live in Gloucester?”

She gave him a brief bio, growing up on the north side of Boston in Somerville, business and communications degree from Boston College, currently living in Albany, working in administration for the university there… Trevor lived in Boston and had friends in Albany, but they found no mutual connections.

“Albany, sadly far away,” said Trevor, frowning and crinkling his puppy dog brown eyes. “After the inn sells, I take it your visits will be less.”

“I still have family in Boston.”

“That’s marvelous.” He smiled, then looked away self-consciously.

“If you buy this inn, will you tear it down and build something else?”

“It is a charming place, and I’m sure it’s been a welcome fixture here in Gloucester for a long time.”

“About a hundred and fifty years,” she said, then felt regret for being so pointed. But she could feel an edge rising to her attitude, seeing all the people walking around the place, eyeing the old furnishings and faded wooden floors, rolling their eyes at the archaic decorations.

Her face trembled. “I’m sorry, Trevor. This is all heartbreaking for me, watching one of the great adventures of my childhood being auctioned off, as if it held no value.”

“That must be hard. But just being honest, the property and the location are worth much more than the old building. There’s a good chance whoever buys it will want to build something fresh and modern.”

“I’ll come to terms with that. You said you needed help. What can I do for you?”

“Well, ah, I would like to learn more about the history of this town and the inn in particular, details about what this inn and your aunt have meant to this town. But you and your aunt are busy. Would you possibly be available to sup this evening? I’d be more than happy to treat you to dinner in exchange for the chance to — as Americans say — to pick your brain?”

“Sup? You mean go to dinner?”

“Yes, exactly. Actually, there’s a Friday clambake being held just up the beach this evening, and I’d be honored to treat you to dinner there, if you appreciate such things.”

A clambake? Again, that seemed odd for someone like Trevor. She expected a proper English tea or fish and chips dinner. She was stereotyping him — Rude. He was strange, more complex than she’d imagined, and she’d imagined quite a bit in the first few minutes watching him traipse about the lobby.

“I love a good clambake,” she said. “I love all food, I’ll warn you. I eat like a horse, so I hope that won’t embarrass you.”

He laughed. “Oh, marvelous. You’re staying here at the inn?”

She nodded.

“Then allow me to pick you up here at about five o’clock, say?”

“Perfect.”

His smile seemed to come from deeper than his face. She liked this Trevor, who seemed like a proper English person, but who dug clambakes and had rugged, ungentlemanly hands.

“See you then, and thank you so much for your help.”

After Trevor left, Melinda set out more water and shortbread cookies that Aunt Wendy had made. Suddenly time began to drag — the world wasn’t filled with only the sadness of leaving a big part of her life behind.

There was something to look forward to — an impromptu date with someone who was interesting. It was too easy for her to become callous or disillusioned with dating; she’d met a few potential men in Albany, but there seemed a universal mindset among them that advancement in life and capitalism was the most important thing.

To them, human connection was secondary, something to be enjoyed when it was convenient, or, as her friend Linda had quoted from some psychological journal, “Relationships were obligatory and constructive in having a conventional personal life base from which to grow outward social success.” How emotionally engaging.

Maybe Trevor was different? Not likely, coming from the hardcore real estate business of Boston. It was hard to find a more intense commercial life, except maybe working as a floor trader on the stock exchange.

The open house closed and Mrs. Benjamin beamed of its success. She expected several strong bids by the time the bidding closed the following Tuesday, and there was a chance the top bid would be above the asking price. She fairly skipped to her BMW sedan in the inn’s parking lot located opposite the street side. Melinda felt a sense of foreboding as the woman drove away.

“Cup of tea?” said Aunt Wendy, tugging Melinda inside by her sweater. “I saw you talking to that good looking young man earlier. He seemed to be quite taken with you.”

“He just wants historical information about the inn. Nothing personal.”

“Ahh. Yes, I can see why the history of an old, rundown New England hotel would be more interesting than a beautiful and magical young woman.”

“Ha ha. Thanks, Aunt Wendy. I need to get ready. He’s picking me up in thirty minutes to go to dinner. The Friday clambake at The Longshoremen, I’m guessing, and he’s going to pick my brain.”

“That’s what they call it now…”

“Stop, Aunt Wendy. It’s just dinner and information gathering.”

“Well, mind the weather, dear. The storm blowing in might be a bad one. Don’t get caught out in it.”

“We’ll keep an eye out, Aunt Wendy.”

Trevor was waiting at the curb when Melinda walked out the front door of the inn. She’d dressed casually but warm, in heavy black jeans, sweater and lined faux-leather jacket. Her friend called it her “no-BS killer look.”

Trevor jumped from the off-road, big-tired SUV to open the door for her. First impression — check. The SUV was warm inside, with the radio easing out French jazz music, a woman singing “La Mer,” appropriately. He asked if the temperature and music were okay, and she tossed her hair, smiled and nodded. Second impression — check.

“The receptionist at my hotel told me about this clambake. Have you been before — at the Longshoreman?”

“Yes. A few dozen times.”

“Oh, so you’ll know people there.” He sounded disappointed.

“Yes, but people here don’t smother each other.”

It was only about two miles north on the shore road and Trevor guided his way down the unpaved path to the beach, following Melinda’s directions. Despite the time of year and the impending bad weather, there was a decent crowd of local, hardy souls unperturbed by a little maritime blizzard.

Trevor bought paper plates heavy with steamed seafood, corn, and vegetables, and they found a wooden bench seat near one of the three bonfires built in rock circles. The smell of the food made her stomach growl. But it had a deeper effect, drawing up memories, memories of times with Mother, Aunt Wendy and Uncle Roman, and other cousins and members of the extended family.

Family times at the beach were all they could afford during those tough early years when they didn’t have a pot to pee in, as Aunt Wendy would say, and when they didn’t live hundreds of miles apart, separated even further by uncompromising work schedules.

He was chuckling when they sat by her on the bench, too close to her and yet too far away.

“Something funny?”

“Oh, just language. Of course, Americans think we Brits have the accents. But I get a kick out of how most serving people here ask if you’re ‘all set’ as they leave your table. ‘All set?’ A local thing.”

“I get a kick out of actor Hugh Laurie speaking in what’s supposed to be a Boston accent in the TV show ‘House.’” She sucked clams from their shells, savoring the bay seasoning and musky-salt taste of the ocean. “You’re not from these parts, stranger,” she said, in a Western movie accent. “You have to catch up on information now.”

“Fair enough. Dulwich, south of London. I was a lad there, up until time for university in the city. After that, I struggled with finding work, and a friend had come across the pond and opened a business in Boston. I’ve been here for about three years now.”

“Very different from your home.”

“But there are places in England very much like Boston and Gloucester. My family would often drive to the beaches of Brighton for holiday. Of course, midsummer there was very much like this time of year here.”

“Really?”

“No. I’m joshing. It was warmer, by a small margin.” His eyes moved far out over the rolling water. The shush-shush of the waves provided a cinematic soundtrack to his profile.

“I think about going back to England sometimes,” he said. “Boston is a city more alive than most. But it’s a very tough place to fit in.”

“How badly do you want to buy the inn?”

“Ah. Right to it then, eh?” He nodded. “We plan to put in a very competitive bid. I’ll be disappointed if we lose.”

“You said ‘We plan.’ Who else is involved?”

“I’m an agent for a proper-sized land development firm. We’ve made these beachside opportunities one of our specialties.”

“And they’ll tear down the inn if they win it.”

“Most likely. I’m sorry.”

“Then why invite me out to ‘pick my brain,’ as you said? What is the inn’s history worth to this corporation?”

His face reddened — or it could have been the fire. He smiled. “Nothing. But it means something to me.”

She fell silent and they ate. When they were done, she took the plates and threw them in receptacles and bought them both another beer, but this time she bought herself an English beer, Old Speckled Hen, and not her usual local micro-brew.

“I apologize,” she said, handing him his second bottle of Sam Adams Boston Lager.

“Why?”

“I was flippant and harsh. I’m angry about Aunt Wendy having to sell the inn, but that’s not your fault. Your company would be helping her by giving her a good price. At least she can move somewhere she likes, and maybe do some traveling. She said she’d like to spend her remaining years on a bus.”

Trevor laughed, a deep rumble that would relieve stress like the hum of a boat motor. “She’s a fine lady. I hope she sees this as our helping her, and doesn’t hold it against us. And we don’t want to upset the local people who know her.”

“She wouldn’t be angry. But the town’s people might. Which reminds me — she throws a little party for them every year just before Christmas. About thirty or forty people usually show up, mostly her old time friends. She wants me to stay and help with it. Says she’s too old to handle it herself. You should come.”

He smiled. Sparks and smoke from the fire swirled around him.

They talked for over an hour about the inn, from the day when Aunt Wendy and Uncle Roman had bought it — which Melinda knew only from stories from her mother and Aunt Wendy — through the many changes and economic times that Wendy and Roman had endured, never thriving, but always making the place a welcome stop for travelers and locals who needed an emergency place to stay.

Trevor postured that he was an agent for his company but Melinda saw through that guise; he owned the company, either alone or with his business partner friend. But he would have the decision-making authority. He would decide if the building would be torn down and replaced, and if Aunt Wendy would have a place to continue working and living if she wanted.

She felt she was consorting with the enemy. Saying his company was helping her aunt and believing it were different things.

The wind picked up and the temperature dropped. The organizers doused fires and loaded equipment. Trevor and Melinda helped with tearing down and storing canvas covers and carrying coolers, and were one of the last vehicles to leave.

By then, the wet spray had formed a black icy sheen on the road. The mist gave way to snow, heavy and wet from the very first swirling flakes. As they reached the hotel, the roads were shiny white and treacherous, and Trevor struggled to keep the four-wheel drive SUV on the road.

They walked into the lobby together, still quiet. It had been a nice fantasy, the woman from Albany coming home to find someone to spend time with, but she would have a hard time not resenting the reason for their connection. The only fair thing would be to end it immediately, cut their losses, not follow the fantasy to its difficult and painful conclusion.

She was about to thank Trevor for the meal and seeing her home safely, when Aunt Wendy sauntered from the office.

“Young man, where are you staying tonight?”

“At the Hilton out on the highway, ma’am.”

“No longer. The roads are closed. You’ll have to stay here. Luckily, we have open rooms.” She laughed.

He looked stunned and began to protest, but Aunt Wendy said, “I have toiletries and packets of men’s underwear and socks, so don’t worry about having to wear today’s clothing tomorrow.”

She walked away, not giving him a chance to protest. Over her shoulder she added, “You’ll need to move your car to the back to keep the road open for the plows in the morning.”

The front door opened only a crack and a grizzled old man stuck his snow-sprinkled head and shoulders through it. Gray hair spilled from beneath an old knitted stocking cap, and he was wearing a well-worn wool coat.

“Hey,Wen!” he said. “You got room for us tonight? It’s a little cold out here and we need a place.”

Aunt Wendy met the man’s weepy eyes. “How many are you there, Biggie?”

“Just the four, but there might be two more comin’ later.”

“Come on in. I’ve got a couple rooms for you.”

“Hot damn!” He came in, bent over, shook snow from his clothes in the entry before coming fully into the lobby. Two other older men and a woman came in, dusted themselves off, and hung their ragged, second-hand coats on a peg rack by the door. It seemed like they knew where things were, as if this was a routine for them when the weather got fierce. Which surely it was.

The first fellow, Biggie, looked Melinda up and down.

“Who’s this pretty young woman, Wen?”

“That’s my niece, Melinda.”

“I remember her,” he said, nodding his head. “Rambunctious and mean as a snake, I remember.”

Trevor snorted and tried to cover his laugh. He seemed completely fascinated by the arrival of Aunt Wendy’s unexpected guests.

“No, you’re thinking of my other niece, Catherine. Melinda’s the nice one.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Biggie. “Yeah, this one was into finding seashells and lost puppies, eh?”

“That would be me,” said Melinda, remembering cotton bags full of curling white shells, lined with mother-of-pearl and smelling of dead snails. And cute black and white four-legged rascals that followed her home. Where had that little girl gone, and why had Melinda let her get away?

“The rooms will have hot water and towels and such,” said Aunt Wendy. “Pull up by the fire and settle in for a chat. We have some tea and snacks left over from earlier. Give me a hand, will you, Mel?”

Snacks from earlier. The open house seemed like weeks prior, not just hours.

When she and Aunt Wendy returned from the kitchen with a tray of hot drinks, cookies, and mini-sandwiches, Trevor had joined the four unhoused souls at the fire, nodding his head as they spoke.

“If these walls could talk, eh, Stan?” Another gentleman, who was warming his gloved hands at the fire, nodded. “This inn has seen lots of action, from the bad old days of the Prohibition gangs to the Sixties beach kids, trying to act like they was fresh drove in from Los Angeles.”

He shook his head, and smiled at Melinda when she gave him a cup of hot tea. “Now it’s just a bunch of leaf peepers and Kennedy curious.”

“Tell me about our host, Miss Wendy,” said Trevor.

Biggie looked back at Melinda’s aunt for permission. She just rolled her eyes and went back to the kitchen with her now empty tray.

“Well, she was always a big thing here, young man…”

“Trevor.” He smiled.

“Trevor.” One of his other new friends spoke up. “See, McClain, I told you the Brits were coming to take back what they lost. So anyway, Miss Wendy…”

What followed was a fire side chat during which Trevor learned about the inn and its wonderful owner from the people who could tell the story from start to current time. Trevor sat among them, listening like one hearing a fairy tale for the first time, stopping them only now and again with brief questions.

Blast the man, this corporate raider, but he’d gotten under Melinda’s skin. She sat outside the circle listening to the tales, some of which she knew and others she didn’t.

Aunt Wendy had always been a mystery and an enigma to her, always the hidden undercurrents of life, just like she imagined her parents were before she’d come along and became the wedge — or at least the excuse that broke them apart.

Could anyone come to terms with their beloved elders and the chaotic and sometimes sordid lives they’d inhabited?

Trevor glanced back at her and smiled, and suddenly she wanted him. She wanted him in her room under pale yellow candle light, his hands touching her, her fingertips learning his skin, enjoying each other, pleasuring each other, lying together in the circles of each other’s arms.

Her feelings — it had been so long since she’d felt anything even close to this yearning and the reality had always disappointed — embarrassed her. Heat bloomed in her face and tumbled down the insides of her body like a glass of hot mulled wine.

She rose on unsteady feet. Noticing, Trevor rose to catch her but she waved him off. “I’m exhausted,” she said. “I’m going to bed. Good night, Trevor. Good night, all.”

He looked suddenly sad, as if seeing a door close that he never realized was open before him. “Good night, Melinda.”

She changed clothes and slipped into bed in a trance, her mind on the English raider, the land grabber and land baron, and she couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed; imagining, imagining, imagining…

She lay awake and remained in bed late the next morning when she heard the sound of a motor starting in the back lot, and a car driving away.

***

The following Tuesday was the day for opening the bids and Mrs. Benjamin was there in a pink power suit, looking like an adult child about to dive into a massive chocolate cake. The three of them gathered at the heavy wooden table in the kitchen with tea and the stove fire warmed the place nicely.

Mrs. Benjamin opened each envelope, signed the bid forms to formalize the review, entered the information from each on a note pad, and handed them to Aunt Wendy for her signature. There were eight bids, most just below or at the asking price. She’d saved two for last, and smiled broadly when she carved the first open with her monogrammed letter opener and saw the bid.

“Yes!”

Aunt Wendy read it without expression and passed it to Melinda. It was from The Nelson-Steele group, and the bid was for twenty percent above the asking price. Reading it, Melinda heard a distant death knell for the inn, and for her dreams of Trevor Steele.

“Well, I guess that does it, doesn’t it?” said Melinda.

Aunt Wendy smiled. “I can feel my bottom in that tour bus seat right now.”

“And the last one…” This one was from a development group calling itself The Great New England Land Company. There were TV ads, large developments from Maine to Rhode Island; high-end condos, over-fifties developments, time shares for the New England seasonal visitors.

“Good god…” Mrs. Benjamin passed the bid sheet to Aunt Wendy, who viewed it without expression and passed it on to Melinda. Ten percent higher than the Nelson-Steele bid. Why were Melinda’s hands trembling?

“Congratulations, Wendy,” said Mrs. Benjamin. “I couldn’t be happier for you.”

***

The following day, they added more holiday decorations for what would be the final holiday appreciation party at the inn, which Aunt Wendy held two days before Christmas to celebrate all the season’s holidays. Aunt Wendy celebrated diversity well before it was trendy.

The last holiday party at Wendy’s and Roman’s Waterfront Inn, a fixture on the Gloucester shoreline for more than fifty years, but less than one hundred-fifty. 

Many locals came for the event, business owners and long-time residents, and the street people who’d come during the nor’easter. This community seemed suddenly tighter and more convivial than they had any right to be as they mourned the loss of a place and a woman who’d swept them all together in this little inn that was like a warm bosom, if only for one final night.

Melinda helped Aunt Wendy serve the gathering of forty or so. Her eyes found the door each time she entered the room from the kitchen. The party was well along when Melinda was returning from the hot kitchen with another batch of rolls in time to see Trevor Steele walk in. He caught her eye and smiled, a look that held worry as much as pleasure.

She was suddenly boiling hot and her blouse and sweater felt tight around her. Melinda’s heart was betraying her, the damn thing. No, she couldn’t do this, even if he wasn’t the villain who was going to buy and raze the place.

The four unhoused folks Trevor had talked to during the storm called and waved him over, and he joined them as if they were all old friends.

Aunt Wendy was at her elbow. “I’ll take that tray, dear. Looks like someone came to see you.”

“He came to see you, I think. Hoping you’ll choose his bid. He still has dreams to build condos or offices.”

“His company will do that, sure. But that’s not why he’s here, sweetie. Magic happens.”

Trevor and Melinda circled each other for a few minutes before coming together near the Christmas tree, like two dumplings floating in a pot of soup, moved by the heat simmering beneath. At least she felt the heat, if he didn’t.

His brown eyes were like sweet, hot coffee to her brain as she looked up at him. Neither one spoke. She feared her inner heat and the flush in his cheeks, and the sadness in his eyes… 

And how could this end well? How could this time not end in heartache and heartbreak like all the others?

“I hear that we lost the bid,” he said.

“I was pulling for you. Even though you were going to tear it down, you at least appreciated it.” She said, her voice a tight croak. She coughed miserably.

“All that wasn’t exactly decided yet.”

A shout came across the room from near the back door, drawing attention from the chattering crowd. The shouter, Biggie, looked like a different person — washed and wearing new, clean clothes. His friends wore new jeans and sweaters and boots. The money Melinda had given them had been well spent. 

“Hey, Wen! That Asian guy’s here. He wants to set up his barbeque-er.”

Aunt Wendy looked up from near the door to the kitchen. An elderly Asian man stuck his head in the door and waved, all smiles. Aunt Wendy shook her head as she passed Melinda and Trevor. “It’s Mr. Matsuko, I’ll bet he brought his hibachi.”

“I don’t care,” yelled Biggie. “I just want some of his steak.”

The crowd laughed and went back to their drinks and chats. Several more people came in the front door, and the cold wind blew through the lobby and slammed it back shut. The bells hanging from the ceiling and tree tinkled, and some of the revelers, already tipsy, began an off-key but energetic version of “White Christmas.”

Some joined hands and danced on the aging wooden floor. There were scrapes and nicks there that were probably from Melinda and her cousins running through the lobby, whooping, kicking, heading for Aunt Wendy’s cookie jar. Was that the laughter of children she heard?

Trevor shook his head. His laugh was musical, and the gleam in his eye — Santa Claus-ian. She could imagine him around children, just as he’d delighted in the childish, innocent joy of Biggie and his friends.

Aunt Wendy came back after speaking with Mr. Matsuko. “Well, we got the hibachi going and Mr. Petuzzi just parked his rolling pizza oven into the lot. We’re going to need more help.” She eyed Trevor.

He caught her eye immediately. “Glad to, ma’am. Just tell me where you need me.”

“Follow me, handsome.” She winked at Melinda as she led Trevor to the kitchen door.

Things went downhill from there.

A squeal came from the darts game in the far corner of the lobby where a petite woman in a gray business suit and whose name tag read “Alice — Hot Lawyer” allegedly struck another one named “Lloyd — Big News” in the buttocks with a dart.

As accusations flew good-heartedly, someone came through the door in a Paul Revere costume and declared the British were coming, and Trevor, who’d just come out with a tray of sandwiches, turned tailcoat and headed back to the kitchen, returning with a red, white and blue bandana he’d gotten from who knew where.

Another group started a drinking contest — peppermint Schnapps —  betting on who would either throw up or keel over first, and also which young woman the married mayor would hit on first.

Meanwhile, the four unhoused people had donned witch aprons from the gift shop and joined Melinda making rounds of the lobby picking up empty glasses and plates, since they were running low

The mayor was bending Melinda’s ear near the tree when Trevor stepped up behind.

“Your aunt says we’re running out of cold cuts.”

From across the room, Biggie yelled, “Wendy! We need more Spukies!”

“Spukies?” asked Trevor.

“Kinda like sub sandwiches,” said Melinda.

A broad, ruddy-faced elder fellow and a younger doppelganger pushed through the front door pushing large steel kegs, followed by a smiling, blond-and-silver haired woman with a large pan of fried patties — schnitzel. The dart-playing lawyers cheered.

“Looks like the Germans have brought reinforcements,” said Melinda.

Aunt Wendy stuck her head out of the kitchen door. “What’s all the ruckus? And where did those fools find that goat?”

She pointed at three young women in short, sparkly party dresses who’d just come through the back door leading a huge white and black billy. The poor beast was adorned with tinsel and green and red streamers, which went well with his short, tight coat. He looked not at all pleased about the whole thing and quickly sought a target for his frustrations.

“Wendy, more Spukies!” yelled Biggie from the far side of the lobby.

“I’ll Spukie you!” She shook her head and retreated back to the kitchen.

Melinda was returning from the kitchen with a tray of schnitzel bites to find one of Gloucester’s finest standing inside the door, with one of the city aldermen right behind.

“Can I help you officer?”

“Yeah, where’s Wendy?”

“In the kitchen, baking more rolls.”

“Well, it seems we got some of your party-goers buildin’ lewd snow sculptures in the front of the hotel.”

“They’re not lewd,” said the alderman. “Tryin’ to tell ya, Sid. They’re snow dragons. We’re having a contest.”

“Holiday snow dragons,” said Sid, the policeman. “Right.”

“Yeah. And we’re going to use the fire extinguishers for their breath.”

“This I gotta see.” Sid waved at the door. “Okay, fellers, bring the stuff in.” Three policemen came in, each carrying two large holiday shopping bags stuffed to overfull. “Over there, by the tree.” Inside the bags were wrapped and ribboned boxes and packages of all sizes and shapes, some obviously stuffed animals inexpertly papered.

Sid nodded in satisfaction. “Presents for Wendy’s annual toy drive. We been taking collections all month.”

“Amazing,” said Trevor, suddenly behind her with a tray of full beer mugs. “Can you take a beer, officer?”

“Only if no one tells the chief.”

“I think he’s over there playing darts,” said Melinda. “You’re safe.”

Officer Sid took a beer, tipped it in salute, and took a drink, foam lining his upper lip. “The wife’s coming with some friends later. They got a few quilts for Wendy’s auction.”

Trevor said, “I’d like to talk to you and your aunt. If you have a moment.”

She had all the moments and couldn’t stop herself giving them to him.

“Sure. In the kitchen.”

They found Aunt Wendy sitting at the kitchen table sharing tea with another older woman, a friend Melinda recognized, but couldn’t name. Seeing them enter, Aunt Wendy said, “Can you excuse us for a few minutes, Kate?” The friend smiled at the two as if she knew things they didn’t, and left them alone.

“Sit,” said Aunt Wendy.

“Thanks,” said Trevor. “I’m exhausted. But I can’t remember ever having as much fun.”

Biggie stuck his head in the door. “Hey, Wen. The goat ate some wrapping paper.”

“It’ll all come out in full color then. Leave us a minute, will yuh?” Biggie eyed them all, then winked at Aunt Wendy and left. His loud voice gave orders over the loud holiday music and laughter coming through the closed door.

“What is it you need, Trevor?”

“I need your help,” said Trevor, taking a seat opposite Melinda’s aunt, leaving the last open space next to him and his tall body.

Aunt Wendy waited.

He cleared his throat, realizing she was making things difficult for him. “I have to buy the place. I’ll raise my bid if I have to. But on one condition. I need you to stay here and run it for me.”

Oh no, oh no…he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be doing this. Not for her. He would resent her for it in time. This would just make the falling out pain worse when it came.

“Why?” asked Aunt Wendy.

“This place is too important to this town, and I think it should be preserved. I want to file paperwork with the county historical agency to have it declared a protected site. It will have to be upgraded, of course, paint it, and replace some of the fixtures.”

“Why?”

Trevor sat back, suddenly flustered by Aunt Wendy’s reception. “I … thought you would be pleased that my company isn’t going to tear it down.”

“Maybe. But I can’t stay here and run it. I’ve been doing that for decades. It’s my turn to hit the road and see places. New Hampshire and Vermont and Maine, Nova Scotia. Maybe I’ll jump over the pond and visit your home, Trevor Steele.”

She looked about the kitchen, steam rising from chowder boiling in the pot, fogging the stained windows. “I’ve done my part, I think.” She turned to Melinda. “I guess you’ll have to do it, dear.”

“Me? It’s amazing you want to preserve the place, Trevor, but I have a job in Albany, the school. That’s where my life is now.”

“Hmm,” said Aunt Wendy. “And you were just telling me last week you could do most of your work from here, and you only go in person now and again. I could come home every now and then to give you a break.” 

“What about your development plans, Trevor? You told me you had clients looking for office space in Gloucester, to get away from Boston.”

He nodded. “I’ve been working with your realtor, Mrs. Benjamin, to find additional properties. There are some up the beach in disrepair, no longer occupied. But I think Gloucester deserves a good corporate citizen. We need the residents of the town not to fear that we’re going to take over and change everything, and keeping this inn as a landmark of the town will help.

“I’ll need to spend more time in Gloucester. I was thinking I might keep an office here at the inn as a headquarters.”

The kitchen door swung open and the one person Melinda least expected to see walked in.

Mother.

“Hello, Constance,” said Aunt Wendy. “I expected you hours ago.”

Aunt Wendy expected her?

“I knew it,” Mother said. “I knew you couldn’t help yourself trying to convince Melinda to take this place over. There must be — what, three hundred people out there?” 

As she said this, another cheer echoed through the kitchen door, followed by an impressively on-key version of “Deck the Halls.”

“Wrong, sister. I had nothing to do with this. I didn’t invite all these people.”

“Why do I not believe you?” Her eyes fell on Melinda and then lifted to Trevor, who stood quietly. She walked to him, eyeing him up and down. “So it must be your doing, young man. What do you call yourself?”

“Trevor, ma’am.”

“Oh, great, an Englishman to boot. Do us all a favor and turn this place into condos when you buy it, will you, Trevor the Englishman. My daughter has other things to do besides cooling her heels in this burg.”

Melinda rose to confront her. “Mother, leave Trevor alone. He lost the bid. He’s just here helping us out for the night.”

Mother took Melinda’s hand, meeting her eyes head on, unblinking. “I asked you to remember the family motto, Mel. Your life’s in Albany now. You know that. Gloucester’s changing and you can’t go back to the good times. And those times weren’t so good, anyway.”

“They were good for me. And that was because of you, Mom. You and Aunt Wendy.”

Biggie stuck his head in the kitchen door. “We need more of them schnitzels and beers, Wen. The fire boys have shown up, and they’re going to try to light fire out of the snow-dragon’s mouths. Oh, and Trevor, we got some people here who want you to sing in that goofy accent.”

Mother looked up at Trevor’s face. She sighed. 

“God help you, daughter.” She let Melinda’s hand drop. “Wendy, get me a flipping apron. Unfair inviting all these people to the party!”

“I told you I didn’t invite them, Con.”

Mother snatched a tray of fresh cookies and left the kitchen, shaking her head.

Aunt Wendy’s dark eyes burned into Melinda’s and she mouthed the words “Magic happens.”

She pushed herself from her seat and hobbled to the stove, appearing frailer than she’d acted since Melinda arrived.

“I reckon you’ll need to up that bid just a little, Mr. Steele, if you want the place. Yes, it’s more than I can take care of now. I’m going to take some of this chowder out to the guests. You two just enjoy the little quiet place as long as you’d like. It’s a little wild out there. Biggie and his friends have had too much of the punch.”

When they were alone, Trevor slumped into a chair. She sat next to him. 

“What’s the family motto?”

She told him. He nodded. “I plan to beef up the Internet and Wi-Fi. To make it easier to work remotely from here. Just in case you want to do that.”

“It’s warm in here. Are you warm?” Her fingers walked across the table to stroke the back of his slender yet rugged hand.

“I was thinking of converting the last room at the north end into an office,” he said. “Are you good at office decorating? I was thinking of a nautical theme.”

“There’s a little cove at the end of the point, down past the rock pier, where you can sip coffee in the morning and count the different colors of the sunrise. The most I ever counted was eighty-seven.”

“Do you think your aunt would put together a book of her favorite recipes? We could sell it and give the money to the local homeless shelter.”

“Whew. It’s warm in here. Uncle Roman put a lot of insulation in after they bought the place. Mostly to keep voices and private sounds from traveling between the rooms.”

“The beach is such a magical place when you’re a child.”

“No more magical place in all the world.”

“Did you invite all these people, Melinda?”

“Be quiet and kiss me, Trevor.”

They came together, body to body, lips to lips, sharing their heat. She felt as if the top of her head might blow off, and feared their lips parting and the sadness of the cool that would remain.

Much later, after most of the party goers had staggered out satisfied and delirious, Melinda and Trevor crossed the road and sat together on a wooden bench overlooking the ocean. They held each other in the frosty cold and decided they shouldn’t sleep together that night even though the full holiday moon seemed magical in the starlit night sky. 

But after all, it was really only their second date, and tomorrow was another night.

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Need more great holiday reading and romance? Delight in these Christmas, New Year’s, Hanukkah, and other romance and heartwarming tales.

• Octet – Hanukkah Romance Fiction
• In the Mediterranean at Midnight – New Year’s Eve Romance Fiction
• The Jewfish – A Holiday Tale
• Almost Christmas Morning – Christmas Eve Essay
• Chorus of the Waiting – Christmas Eve Speculative Fiction
• Man in the Shadows – Christmas Eve Fiction
• Vacation to the Dragons of Io Part 1, Part 2 & Part 3 – Christmas Fiction
• Fireplace for Your Home – Christmas Essay
• A Gift for Sandy – Creative Christmas Nonfiction
• A Simple Gift – Creative Christmas Nonfiction
• Reindeer – Christmas Flash Fiction
• Weaving Lace – Christmas Poem
• Consider Mrs. Claus – Christmas Poem
• Mum’s Christmas Pudding – Christmas Poetry
• A Christmas Love – Poetry
• North Pole Romance – A Christmas Tale
• This Christmas Dream – A Holiday Poetry Reading