Page 6 of Once Upon a Fall

“You’ve arrived,” my GPS tells me as I pull up in front of a painted green two-story house, a sign on the door that says Once Upon an Inn.

It feels good to stretch my legs when I get out of the car, and to breathe in the faint scent of woodsmoke and remnants of rain in the air. The leaves on the large maple outside the inn are barely starting to change, with a small bit of pink at the tips.

I’ve never been here this time of year. I always wanted to see the leaves change; it was my grandma’s favorite time. She’d tell me all about the bright oranges, reds, and yellows of the season and how the town would get so many visitors who wanted to see them. I would tell her I’d come back someday and see them with her. I never did. I could never get the timing to work with the weekend trips I could manage when I was at college, and then when I started my career, I hardly had a weekend to spare. Then, when we moved my grandma to Maple Grove Care Center, I didn’t have a reason to come back to Autumn Ridge. Until now.

I grab my suitcase out of the trunk and walk up the pathway to the painted white door. Do I knock? I’ve never stayed at a bed-and-breakfast before.

“Hello?” I say as I walk inside.

It looks like a nice enough place. Dark wood floors in the entryway that lead to a large staircase.

I hear a thud from somewhere up above me, and then someone—a woman—lets out a yelp.

Leaving my suitcase by the check-in desk, I walk over to the base of the stairs. “Hello?” I say again, but louder this time.

“Coming!” I hear, and then frantic-sounding footsteps follow.

I go back to the desk and wait patiently. What kind of establishment has no one running the front desk? Of course, that’s all fitting for a town like Autumn Ridge. Everything is casual here. As a kid, I loved it. As an adult whose job is to whip companies into shape so they can scale, I’m not sure I’ll appreciate it as much.

“Sorry!” says a woman as she comes down the stairs.

She’s wearing dark pink overalls over a white T-shirt, and her hair is pulled up sloppily on top of her head, a smudge of something white on her cheek. Paint, maybe? There’s a long, fairly fresh-looking cut down one forearm.

“Hi,” she says, smiling and walking toward me. “You must be Dean?”

“Yes,” I say, feeling slightly irritated. What kind of place is this? I stay in four- and five-star hotels mostly. I don’t think this place would even rank.

“Welcome to Once Upon an Inn,” she says. Then she sighs. “Oh, wow, it feels so weird to say that.”

I furrow my brow.

“Oh, sorry,” she shakes her head, the bun-thing bouncing back and forth. “It’s just that you’re my first guest.”

“I thought this place had been around for years,” I say, remembering the wording on the website.

“It has, but it’s new to me. I bought the place five months ago.”

I nod, understanding. “Well, can I check in?”

“Right,” she says, looking around the space. “So, um, let me get your key.”

She goes behind the desk and starts opening drawers, looking in each one and muttering to herself. “Is it? No . . . wait . . . what did I do with that? Hmmm.” She stops her search, looking to the side before looking back at me. “I remember! Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

She comes out from behind the desk and walks across the entryway, opening a door I hadn’t noticed when I walked in and quickly shutting it behind her.

I drum my fingers on the desk while I wait, wondering if maybe I should cancel and find a place in Burlington, a larger town than this with a lot more options for lodging. It’s probably thirty minutes away, which would be a pain to drive every day. But it might be worth it.

The door swings open. “Found it!” she says, holding out her hand, two keys on a chain with a small pink tag in the shape of a castle. “Isn’t it so cute?” She holds the keys by the tag, jingling them. “I ordered them from Etsy.”

“Uh . . . yeah,” I say, not wanting to be rude, but also wanting to get settled in my room before going out to find dinner. I’m starving.

She hands them over to me. “For you,” she says.

I grab hold of them before stuffing them in the pocket of my jeans. “Is there . . . anything I need to sign?”

Her head tilts to the side. “Um, I think I can just charge the card you put on file to hold the room.”

Well, that’s at least somewhat efficient. Although, I’m not feeling all that confident that this woman has my credit card information.