Page 95 of Once Upon a Fall
“Oh.” She smiled. “Her name was Sally.”
This was after I watched her welcome all her new guests and helped bring up the suitcases. I even earned myself a tip from one of them. I think the husband thought I was the bellhop.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from the festival guests, but as they arrived and Rosie walked each couple upstairs, all of them gushing over their rooms, I started to notice a pattern. Autumn Ridge’s Fall Festival apparently draws an older crowd.
Rosie is in her element, though. Now that the rooms are done and that part is off her shoulders, she’s smiling and talking to the people staying here like they are friends she’s known her entire life.
They are totally eating it up, and Rosie has no idea she’s doing it.
“Hello,” the man who gave me a tip says when he comes downstairs. “I was looking for some recommendations for dinner.”
He looks at me, eyebrows raised.
I played the part of bellhop; I guess I can now be the concierge.
“There are two restaurants on Main Street,” I tell him. “The Beet and Barrel Café and the Maple Bar and Grill. If you go to the grill, I suggest trying the maple burger.”
“Thanks for the info, young man,” he says, tucking a few dollars into my hand.
“Thank you,” I say, wondering if I’m going to have to keep this up for the rest of the week.
Monday morning is a blur of Rosie running around, trying to get all the last-minute things for the festival done before the kickoff event, a community breakfast with the mayor.
Sometime halfway through her rush, she comes racing into the kitchen and starts tearing through the freezer, looking for bacon.
“We ran out,” she says, digging under pot pies and other frozen entrées she hasn’t touched since I’ve been here.
Her phone buzzes. She looks at the screen, yells, “Juliet took care of it!” and disappears again.
By midmorning, I decide to check out the festival for myself.
Main Street is closed to traffic, all the cars removed. I moved mine a street over a few days ago. Rosie parked hers in the garage the second the tables were gone, and she was far too pleased with herself about it.
I barely recognize the street. Rows of booths with hand-painted signs line both sides, hay bales are stacked at every corner, and pumpkins sit on nearly every step. People smile and laugh as they wander between booths. There’s a ring toss made out of witch hats and a trough where kids are hooking plastic ducks with sticks.
I’m impressed. I know what was happening behind the scenes. I basically got a play-by-play from Rosie, and somehow, despite all of that, this actually looks like a well-organized community event.
I buy a maple bar from Keller’s Bakehouse, which Rosie catches me doing. She gives me a smile and a quick shake of her head before waving at someone and taking off again.
Later that afternoon, while I’m at the farm waiting for someone to show up for the well test, I get a text.
Rosie: Do you know how to fix an apple cider press?
Me: I know what one is. That’s about it.
Rosie: Never mind, Dom can do it.
At some point there’s also an issue with a missing scale that I’m not sure ever gets resolved.
In between all of this, Rosie somehow finds time to be back at the inn, answering guest questions and giving Willa some direction. Willa, for the most part, doesn’t seem to have much to do and spends most of her time sitting at the check-in desk looking at her phone.
Word has apparently gotten around the inn that I’m the concierge now. I’ve been asked everything from where to find the wagon rides to what time festival events start, most of which I have absolutely no idea how to answer.
I do know where the candle-making class is happening, but only because the flyer has been sitting on the side table for the past month after Rosie never got around to hanging it up.
Still, I get a two-dollar tip for that answer.
“I’m so tired, I want to die,” Rosie says later that night, sitting next to me at the kitchen island. She’s got her head resting on one hand and pushes the last bite of spaghetti I made for dinner around her plate with the other.
