Valentine's at the Inn, Part 1
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and use code NOTHINGMUCH for 10% off any order. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I write and read everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week.

And this week, we are giving to Operation Sight, who aim to provide access to life-changing eye surgeries. Through Operation Sight, we strive to restore vision and transform lives. Learn more in our show notes. We'd like to thank a few of our recent premium subscribers, whose support is making this show possible week after week. So, thank you, Meg. Thanks, Rue.

Thank you, Adelaide. And thank you, Nate. For about a dime a day, you can get our whole catalog of this show, as well as our daytime show, stories from the village of Nothing Much, ad-free, with lots of bonuses, like the eight-hour winter favorite app that just dropped. Subscribe at nothingmuchappens.com or through the link in our notes. When your mind has something to focus on,

We can shift you out of default mode and into task positive mode. And the task is just listening. It's why you can fall asleep while reading, but then close the book and you feel wide awake. You need that little task. And why not make that task pleasant and cozy and affirming, right? I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through.

If you wake later in the night and feel your brain begin to gear up, just put on another episode. You'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called Valentine's at the Inn, Part 1, and it's a story about guests arriving on a sunny, cold day to the warmth and charm of the Village Inn.

It's also about breakfast, served on freshly ironed tablecloths in the drawing room, socks with hearts on them, a black cat and a feather duster, and a little mystery that begins to unwind. Okay, time to turn off the lights. Put away anything you are looking at or working on. You are safe, and I will be here, watching over you with my voice.

Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh. Do that again. Fill it up and let it out. Good. Valentine's. At the Inn, Part 1. During the summer, we serve breakfast on our back porch. It is such a lovely spot. The porch wraps around the whole back of the house with tables and chairs.

And at the far end, a swing is suspended from the ceiling. There are screens to keep the mosquitoes out and rolling blinds that we lower in the afternoon when the sun begins to drop. And of course, the open view down to the lake. Like I said, lovely. But in February, breakfast on the porch just doesn't work out. The lake was frozen over.

and several inches of snow lay on the ground. Our summer café tables were neatly stacked against the wall, and a few dun brown leaves tumbled across the porch boards. Luckily, the inn is not short of rooms. So a few weeks ago, when I'd begun readying for our first visitors in months, I'd opened the pocket doors

between the formal dining room and the drawing room. These two spaces, when combined, would be perfect for our breakfast service. I'd spent a few days dusting, ironing the creamy white tablecloths, and putting together vases of roses that had been delivered from the greenhouse outside of town. The fireplaces were laid with seasoned logs,

And when Chef arrived and had gone straight down into the kitchens, the place began to fill with good smells. Sycamore, my cat, and the inn's chief welcoming officer, had been sitting on windowsills and fireplace mantles as I went room to room, batting the feather duster around and swatting at the curtain pull cords. Today I'd dressed...

in my neat corduroy trousers and comfortable shoes, since I'd be going up and down the many stairs countless times, helping guests with their bags and delivering extra towels on request. But I'd added my favorite pale pink sweater and some heart-dotted socks, since it was Valentine's Day, after all.

Around noon, the first cars had made it down the long drive to the inn, and Sycamore had been overcome with excitement. He raced from window to window, watching couples climbing from their vehicles, meeting them as they came through the door into the large entryway. For guests who had already had the pleasure of meeting Sycamore, there was a reunion of purrs,

dare I say, an expectation of treats, and in any case, lots of ear scratches. We weren't quite full up. The vacancy sign still hung on the gate at the road, but only by a room or two. And we found we definitely had our hands full. That first evening, Chef prepared beautiful trays of small bites that we set out to

in the cozy library, where our guests could serve themselves at their leisure. The fire was crackling and popping in the grate, and I walked among the couples with bottles of sparkling juice and champagne. Besides the crudités and dips, the voulevants and fruit, crackers and baguettes, Chef had made a beautiful squash soup with coconut milk and ginger.

And though I thought a few folks might find the pull of the restaurants in the village irresistible, no one had left. Everyone seemed content to sip and snack, to listen to the music playing from the record player and relax by the fire. This morning, we were all up early. Sycamore and I were in the butler's pantry, starting the coffee.

and getting out the sugar bowls and creamers for each table when Chef paused in the doorway on their way down to the kitchens. We smiled at each other as I filled a cup and passed it over. It was good to see them in their apron, a neat bandana tied over their hair, and a pocket full of Sharpies. I love my quiet time here, alone but for Sycamore.

But having an inn full of guests and chef packed by my side made me feel so happy, and like everything was as it should be. First round of coffee cakes will be ready in a half hour, they said, over the brim of the coffee cup. The smell of fresh coffee mixed with the old wood and the not-quite-nameable smell of the inn itself. They gave me a wink.

and turned back to the hall, took a few steps to the kitchen stairs, and stopped. "'By the way,' they said in a low voice from the hall, "'you mentioned something in one of your letters right after I left in November. About something you found the night of the Halloween party? I've been curious about it ever since. Are you going to let me in on it?' I stuck my head out into the hall."

and we eyeballed each other for a moment. There was a secret I was carrying around, but besides sycamore, and apparently a loose-lipped moment of my own in a missive to chef, I hadn't shared it with anyone, and wasn't sure I wanted to yet. I bit my lip and tilted my head. I opened my mouth, though I wasn't sure what I was going to say.

when Chef stopped me. Listen, it's your business, but I just want to suggest that there might be secrets I've stumbled upon in my time down in the kitchens that you might be interested in. So think about it. But swapsies are available. They turned back toward the kitchens, and I looked down to where Sycamore was sitting on my foot.

My mouth was hanging open. Could Chef know things about the inn that I didn't? Sycamore's tail twitched with interest, and we both wandered back to the trays of coffee cups and sugar bowls. I took one and made my way to our winter breakfast room, where the fire was already burning bright. As I laid out cups and bowls,

The sun began to rise over the snowy landscape. The weekend had just begun, but it was promising to be an exciting one. Valentine's at the Inn, Part 1. During the summer, we serve breakfast on our back porch. It is such a lovely spot. The porch wraps around the whole back of the house.

with tables and chairs, and at the far end, a swing suspended from the ceiling. There are screens to keep the mosquitoes out, and rolling blinds that we lower in the afternoon when the sun begins to drop. And of course, the open view down to the lake. Like I said, lovely. But in February,

Breakfast on the porch just doesn't work out. The lake was frozen over and several inches of snow lay on the ground. Our summer cafe tables were neatly stacked against the wall and a few dun brown leaves tumbled across the floorboards. Luckily, the inn is not short.

of rooms. So, a few weeks ago, when I'd begun readying for our first visitors in months, I'd opened the pocket doors between the formal dining room and the drawing room. These two spaces, when combined, would be perfect for our breakfast service. I'd spent a few days dusting

ironing the creamy white tablecloths and putting together vases of roses that had been delivered from the greenhouse outside of town. The fireplaces were laid with seasoned logs, and when Chef arrived and had gone straight down into the kitchens, the place began to fill with good smells.

Sycamore, my cat, and the inn's chief welcoming officer, had been sitting on windowsills and fireplace mantles as I went room to room, batting the feather duster around and swatting at the curtain pull cords. Today, I'd dressed in my neat corduroy trousers,

uncomfortable shoes, since I'd be going up and down the many stairs countless times, helping guests with their bags and delivering extra towels on request. But I'd added my favorite pale pink sweater and some heart-dotted socks, since it was Valentine's Day. After all,

Around noon, the first cars had made it down the long drive to the inn, and Sycamore had been overcome with excitement. He raced from window to window, watching couples climbing from their vehicles, meeting them as they came through the door.

into the large entryway. For guests who had already had the pleasure of meeting Sycamore, there was a reunion of purrs, dare I say, an expectation of treats, and in any case, lots of ear scratches. We weren't quite full up the vacancy sign.

still hung on the gate at the road, but only by a room or two. And we found that we definitely had our hands full. That first evening, Chef prepared beautiful trays of small bites that we set out in the cozy library, where our guests could serve themselves at their leisure.

The fire was crackling and popping in the grate, and I walked among the couples with bottles of sparkling juice and champagne. Besides the crudités and dips, the voulevants and fruit, crackers and baguettes, Chef had made a beautiful squash soup with coconut milk and ginger.

And though I'd thought a few folks might find the pull of the restaurants in the village irresistible, no one left. Everyone seemed content to sip and snack, to listen to the music playing from the record player, and to relax by the fire. This morning, we were all up early.

Sycamore and I were in the butler's pantry, starting the coffee and getting out the sugar bowls and creamers for each table when Chef paused in the doorway on their way down to the kitchens. We smiled at each other as I filled a cup and passed it over. It was good to see them in their apron, a neat bandana.

tied over their hair, and a pocket full of sharpies. I love my quiet time here, alone but for Sycamore. But having an inn full of guests and chef back by my side made me feel so happy, and like everything was as it should be. First round of coffee cakes.

We'll be ready in a half hour, they said, over the brim of the coffee cup. The smell of fresh coffee mixed with the old wood and the not-quite-nameable scent of the inn itself. They gave me a wink and turned back to the hall, took a few steps toward the kitchen stairs, and stopped.

By the way, they said in a low voice from the hall, you mentioned something in one of your letters right after I left in November about something you found the night of the Halloween party. I've been curious about it ever since. Are you going to let me in on it? I stuck my head down

out into the hall, and we eyeballed each other for a moment. There was a secret I was carrying around, but besides sycamore and apparently a loose-lipped moment of my own in a missive to chef, I hadn't shared it with anyone and wasn't sure I wanted to yet. I bit my lip and

tilted my head. I opened my mouth, though I wasn't sure what I was going to say when Chef stopped me. Listen, it's your business, but I just want to suggest that there might be secrets I've stumbled upon in my time down in the kitchens that you could be interested in.

So think about it. Swapsies are available. They turned back toward the kitchens, and I looked down to where Sycamore was sitting on my foot. My mouth was hanging open. Could Chef know things about the inn that I didn't? Sycamore's tail twitched with interest.

and we both wandered back to the trays of coffee cups and sugar bowls. I took one and made my way to our winter breakfast room, where the fire was already burning bright. As I laid out cups and bowls, the sun began to rise over the snowy landscape. The weekend had just begun, but...

It was promising to be an exciting one. Sweet dreams.