The Inn at Lenore’s
Anna O’Brien
The Inn at Lenore’s
When the next cyclists push their bikes up the hill, Lenore knows. She stands on the wraparound porch, smiles her small, flat smile, and points them to the railing.
“Chain them here,” she says. “You don’t want them walking off.”
Then she watches as they take off their helmets, unclip their saddle bags. The thud of bike shoes on the wood makes a hollow, lonely sound. Her white hair is cut in playful heavy bangs, which creates a girlish image incongruent with her age. Her blue eyes hold them. Lenore stands close.
“I’m so happy to have you here. Would you like some lemon water?”
The cyclists smile politely, take a step back, say, “Yes, thank you, that would be great.” Sometimes they say other things.
“You’re the only place for miles on this trail.”
“You have a beautiful home.”
“This porch is huge.”
And Lenore steps closer still, smiles her flat smile, and says, “Thank you so much for staying here. Dinner is at six.”
The cyclists sit on wicker chairs on the porch and sip lemon water. Unasked, Lenore brings out cookies and clementines and settles next to them. The cyclists ooh and ahh, appreciating her hospitality. They want to talk about their trip, what awaits them the next day, the weather.
Lenore smiles her flat smile. “Guess what happened to me?”
The cyclists reply like always: “What?”
And Lenore tells her story of a kitten she found behind the pharmacy when she was picking up her husband’s medications, how she laid on the pavement and reached into the filthy grate, how the scared kitten cried but didn’t run.
“Aw,” the cyclists say. “What color was the kitten? Did you keep it?”
“Angel,” Lenore says. “That’s her name. Because she’s my angel.” She pauses and looks behind her. “She’s here.”
They turn. In the windowsill, a black, gaunt, elderly cat soaks up the late afternoon sun.
The cyclists titter self-consciously, correcting their timelines, thinking the anecdote occurred the other day, sometime this year. The cat looks at least 15. When they turn back, Lenore is standing in front of them. Wasn’t she just sitting down? She reaches for their clementine peels and napkins and places them in the trashcan only a foot away.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” she says. “Would you like to check in now?”
The cyclists realize they’re still in their sweaty bike clothes and sunglasses, sitting in nice chairs, enjoying a cool drink, and they get a little embarrassed for making themselves at home so quickly. “Yes, yes, of course. Let’s check in.”
The cyclists get their room keys and lug their saddlebags up the wide staircase, which is the centerpiece in the foyer. A voice projects from somewhere and musicals play on background speakers. They guess: Phantom of the Opera? No, Cats. Of course it’s Cats.
Lenore is at the front desk; she smiles as they walk up the stairs. Someone forgets something on the porch and when she opens her room door, Lenore is there, in the hall. The cyclist startles, just barely, then recovers.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Lenore says.
The cyclist hobbles down the stairs, fatigue setting in from the long day. She finds the misplaced item on the porch, then turns around and Lenore is standing there.
“Would you like another clementine?”
This time the cyclist frowns a bit, says, “No, thank you,” and returns up the stairs to tell her partner—what? The cyclist shakes her head, listens to the voices on the speaker, decides it must be Cats.
The cyclists skip dinner, decide pizza out would be better. Less suffocating, someone suggests. They hear clanks and movement in the dining room and something savory wafts into the foyer. They feel a little guilty but they are tired and sore. When they return to the guest house, Lenore opens the door for them as they reach for the knob.
“Where did you go?” she asks.
“Pizza, quick bite.” They feel they need to justify. Someone fakes a yawn. “Early bedtime tonight.”
Lenore offers her flat smile. “Do you like our town?”
They nod, say they were charmed by the vacant theater in the square. “Lots of history here,” someone says.
Lenore produces a pamphlet. “The town history. I wrote it down.”
Sure enough, the pages are filled with typewriter print, decent pen and ink illustrations, and a hand-drawn map. There’s the theater, there’s the pharmacy. There’s the Inn at Lenore’s.
“Did you grow up here?” they ask, finding it difficult to imagine Lenore as a child.
“Guess what happened to me?” she says and steps closer.
The cyclists step back. One clears her throat. “What?” they whisper.
“I bought this inn, added rooms.”
Her blue eyes hold them.
“Do you like the historical guide?”
The cyclists blink. Then nod.
Lenore smiles her flat smile. “I made it last night.”
There, that stumble of time. The pages are yellow and dog-eared. The pamphlet feels gritty and there’s a coffee stain on the back. They nod again, not knowing what else to do, and ease up the stairs, whispering, “Last night?”
The rooms are comfortable, quiet. The cyclists sleep well. The next morning, they refill water bottles, settle the saddlebags back on the bikes, stretch.
A man sits on a wicker chair on the porch.
“Mr. Lenore?” someone speculates, and they glance around. There is a pot of coffee on a fold-out table, fresh fruit in a bowl. Someone in the party overslept, rushing out with wet hair. She grabs a banana and says Lenore gave her shampoo in a tiny bottle.
They gather next to the coffee pot and there she is, handing out delicate cups and saucers. The wet-haired cyclist pauses and adjusts her mental clock. “She was just—”
“White or wheat?” Lenore asks, toast on a platter. They pick their favorites and decide the jam. Amid the chatter of the day’s planned mileage and expected weather, someone, below the din, hypothesizes, “Maybe she has a twin?”
The cyclists glance at the man in the chair, who has remained silent and immobile. Lenore has poured him an untouched cup of coffee. Someone else shrugs and they debate this morning’s musical.
In the afternoon, 50 miles away, the cyclists pause for a snack on the trail, the grit of crushed gravel between their teeth, smiles all around. Someone pulls out a clementine from her saddlebag but doesn’t remember putting it there. They look at each other, then behind them, then continue on.
—
Anna O’Brien is a writer and veterinarian living in Maryland. She is a contributing editor for Horse Illustrated. Her fiction has most recently appeared in Cheap Pop, X-R-A-Y Literary, and Mojave River Review. She loves bicycles and dogs and bicycling dogs.
