Valentine's at the Inn, Part 3
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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 Wigs for Kids.

Wigs for Kids is a non-profit organization that helps children experiencing hair loss work together with a stylist to build the self-esteem and self-image they deserve. Learn more in our show notes. If just hearing me say the words, Bob Wittersheim, causes you to immediately relax, I get it. And we have a t-shirt for that.

Yes, you can wear your heart on your sleeve or your audio engineer on your chest. Other awesome things we've made for you? A tote bag with marmalade, crumb, and birdie on it. A very sweet coloring set with a mini NMH coloring book, colored pencils, and a download of a special exclusive coloring story.

We have autographed books, a weighted pillow to help ease anxiety, a whole box of my favorite sleep-related products, and a lot more at NothingMuchHappens.com. Now, I have a story to tell you, and it's a place to rest your mind. Just by listening will rock your mind to sleep. This is a form of brain training, so if you're new here, welcome.

and please have some patience. Regular use for a few weeks can transform your sleep cycles, so stick with me. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on, and you'll fall right back to sleep. Our story tonight is called Valentine's at the Inn, Part 3.

And it is the finale to the three-week series of the same name, and also the much-awaited sequel to the story called The Secret Stare. For those of you who actually hear the stories, and don't get me wrong, you sleeping is what's most important here. So I never mind if you don't hear a word. But for those who do, I apologize for making you wait so long.

to find out what was up that secret stair at the inn. And then I made it a three-parter and put it right at the end of the last part. Yep, guilty. I think it wants to be a book. Anyway, small disclaimer that some things actually happen in this episode, but I bet I'm still gonna knock you out if I haven't already.

This story is also about the cross-hatched top of peanut butter cookies, the sound of a vacuum cleaner running in the distance, a desk and a straight-back chair by the window, and a plan for something new in the village of nothing much. If we can make the things that are good for us more of a treat and less of a chore, it makes adopting healthy habits a lot easier.

This, as you may have guessed, is a big part of our philosophy. We want to make solid sleep something you look forward to. And it's the same for Beam. Their delicious Dream Powder, vanilla chai is my personal favorite, is tested for high-quality efficacy and formulated to ease your body into rest, supporting all four stages of the sleep cycle.

to help you fall asleep faster and stay asleep longer. Beam Dream Powder makes sleep delicious. Smart thinking. If you want to try Beam's best-selling Dream Powder, get up to 40% off for a limited time when you go to shopbeam.com slash nothingmuch and use code nothingmuch at checkout. We've got this down in our show notes if you forget.

That's shopbeam.com slash nothingmuch and use code nothingmuch for up to 40% off. Now, it's time. Turn off the light, slide down into your sheets, and pull the blanket up over your shoulder. I'll be here reading even after you've fallen asleep. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh out.

Nice. Do it again. Fill it up and let it go. Good. Valentine's at the Inn, Part 3. The busy weekend was winding down. What fun we had had. The inn had bustled with activity for the last three days. Guests, of course. Our small staff. A band of musicians. Floris and Sycamore the Cat.

We'd served fantastic meals, poured many cups of coffee in the breakfast rooms, and kept the fireplaces burning through the days. Now, as guests were checking out, I was behind the tall desk in the office, sliding room keys back into their cubbies and tidying up paperwork. I could hear our maids in the halls above,

vacuum cleaners running along the floorboards, and doors opening and closing as one room was finished and another began. Poor Sycamore was exhausted. He lay in the inbox on the desk, his long black tail slung onto the keyboard, and his nose pressed against the blotter. I stopped to massage his little body,

"'Oh, Sikki,' I crooned. "'Was it hard to have so much fun? "'All those people telling you how handsome you are, "'wanting to pet you and give you treats.' "'He purred thickly, and I lifted one of his legs "'to free the stapler from underneath him. "'He would sleep all day. "'I stepped into the hall "'and saw the last couple of guests coming down the stairs.'

There was a sparkle about them as they smiled at each other, their hands clasped between them. This weekend had obviously done them good, and I took a bit of pride in whatever part we had played in that. As they stopped to hand over their room key and fill to-go cups from the urn in the entryway, they thanked me for the special event.

We'd hosted the night before. We'd had a fancy dinner in the ballroom with musicians and beautiful decorations. A kind of grown-up prom. I didn't have a great time in high school. One of them confided in me. And I feel like I got a do-over last night. I nodded, smiling brightly. That's the nice thing about

about having some space from those moments, right? We can rewrite them when we're older and own the best version. He slung his arm around his partner and nodded, and I saw them out to their car in the drive. On the way back in, I sighed, realizing that the inn was now empty, besides her caretakers. I'd loved the weekend.

But it was a relief to know no one needed anything from me for a bit. I stopped back into the office to put away the last room key and scooped Sycamore into my arms like the baby he was. He trusted me completely. And if there was a better feeling than being trusted by a small animal who'd had a rough start in life,

I hadn't yet found it. We walked through the hall and into the dining room and drawing room. The sun was bright today, and the rooms were lit with an echoing shine as it bounced off the snow. I would need to put away the sugar bowls to launder the tablecloths and sweep the floors, but there was no rush. I went through to the hall again.

and stuck my head into the stairway down to the kitchen. "'Chef,' I called, "'are you busy? Do you have time for a little adventure?' There was silence for a second, then a low call back of, "'Should I bring cookies?' "'Duh,' I said, and waited till they arrived, still in their apron with a plate of treats. I turned and led them down to the library."

with Sycamore still in my arms. I dropped Sikki on the sofa and went back to the door. I looked up and down the hall. The vacuums were still going upstairs, and probably would be for the foreseeable future. I closed the door and turned toward Chef. The Halloween party. Something was revealed to me. I was well aware that

I was being a little dramatic and mysterious, but I was having fun. Chef nodded and extended the plate of cookies to me. I took one, cross-hatched, on its dark brown top with tine marks. Chocolate peanut butter, Chef said, a little breathlessly. Well played, I replied. So my friend with the gray cat, you know her, right? Cinder's mom? Yes.

She pulled me in here and told me the inn had a secret. It was ready for me to learn. She didn't know exactly what or how, but after a minute or two in this room, she asked me if there were some questions I'd been carrying around about the inn. Chef had taken a large bite of their cookie, but had forgotten to chew, so caught up in the excitement of the story.

I took a deep breath and told them that sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the first innkeeper, that I'd been looking through old pictures and newspaper clippings for her, that I felt a connection to her. Maybe it was just the house and the job that we'd both done. I walked over to the fireplace mantle and took the ring of keys from my pocket.

I held up the small iron key I'd been given that Halloween night and fitted it into a hidden keyhole just under the bracket on the side of the mantle. Chef let out a satisfying gasp and jumped to their feet. Is this really happening? Yep, I said, as I grasped the key with both hands and turned it forcefully.

A panel in the wall beside the bookcase moved back and slid away, revealing the bottom step of the hidden stair. The first time I'd gone up those stairs, I'll admit the hair on the back of my neck had stood up, but I'd quickly learned this wasn't an eerie place, but a protected one. It felt now, as I led the way, chef behind me,

and sycamore at the rear, like showing your childhood bedroom to your best friend for the first time. I was excited. The stairway itself curved as it climbed, not quite a spiral, but definitely hugging along the inner walls of the house in a way that disguised its existence. At the top, it opened into a small room,

about the size of one of our guest's rooms, but instead of a chest of drawers and a bed, there was a large desk and a straight-backed chair. Along the walls, there were shelves lined with books and several large trunks. Chef, who still held half a cookie in their hand, gulped as they looked around and stuck it into the front pocket of their apron. Sycamore...

who, by now, had spent plenty of time in this room, jumped up onto the ledge in front of the single window and looked out. What is all of this? Chef said, with wonder in their voice. Well, it took me a while to understand, but I think the first innkeeper was a kind of archivist. All these books...

I trailed my fingers across their spines. They're full of local people's stories, and the trunks have pictures and family trees, maps and histories. Stories like folk stories? Um, some, but plenty are just the stories of people's lives. Like, look at this. I picked up a book that was open on the desk.

and turned it around to show. This whole book is about people's birthdays, who lived when the innkeeper did, here in the village. How almost everyone celebrated that year. Their cake of choice, what kind of punch was served, the gifts and the decorations. I opened one of the steamer trunks.

and squatted down to gather a handful of artifacts and pictures. This whole case is full of stories about people's pets, sometimes just a date of birth and a name, sometimes stories about their favorite places to dig and play. And there are pictures. We looked through a few sepia-toned shots,

Awkward as many photos from that time period seemed, but still the animals and their humans seemed happy and relaxed. Chef pointed to a snapshot of a small gray cat sitting on a velvet poof. That one looks just like Cinder, I agreed. So, I still don't understand. What is it about? What's it for? I scratched my head.

and looked around the small room. I didn't have an exact answer. I think she just collected stories, kept them like other people collect music or paintings. I think they were beautiful to her, and she felt the need to document the lives of the people in her village, even if it was really small, simple stuff, like someone might be an artist and

Just sketch a friend or a house in the neighborhood. She did that, but in a different way. And Chef asked the question that had been nagging at me since I'd found this room on Halloween night. Why is it hidden away? Didn't she ever show it to anyone? I plopped down into the straight-backed chair and rested my hands on the desktop. There were dust motes floating in the air,

sunlight cutting through the small window. Sycamore turned his head and looked at me as if he wanted to hear my answer too. I think that's what I'm meant to do, I said, my voice quiet but sure. She anthologized, and I'm going to share it all. It's all been so perfectly organized. It's just waiting for someone to exhibit these stories.

Sycamore jumped down and came to rub against my ankle. I reached down and lifted him into my lap. I think we'll set up an exhibit. Some of it can be here, some at the library, the museum, other places in town, and we can share the stories of her villagers with ours. I turned to look up at my friend. What do you think? Are there recipes? I laughed.

That was just what I'd hoped they'd say. I reached up to pat their shoulder. My friend, there are even pickle recipes. We would have a busy summer ahead of us. Of curating and cooking. Of sharing and showing. Valentine's at the Inn, Part 3. The busy weekend was winding down. What fun we had had.

The inn had bustled with activity for the last three days. Guests, of course, our small staff, a band of musicians, florists, and Sycamore the Cat. We'd served fantastic meals, poured many, many cups of coffee in the breakfast rooms.

and kept the fireplaces burning through the days. Now, as guests were checking out, I was behind the tall desk in the office, sliding room keys back into their cubbies and tidying up paperwork. I could hear maids in the halls above, vacuum cleaners running along the floorboards,

and doors opening and closing as one room was finished and another began. Poor Sycamore was exhausted. He lay in the inbox on the desk, his long black tail slung across the keyboard, and his nose pressed against the blotter. I stopped to massage his little body. Oh, Sycky, I crooned.

Was it hard to have so much fun? All those people telling you how handsome you are, wanting to pet you and give you treats. He purred thickly, and I lifted one of his legs to free the stapler from underneath him. He would sleep all day. I stepped into the hall and saw the last couple of guests coming down the stairs.

There was a sparkle about them as they smiled at each other, their hands clasped between them. This weekend had obviously done them good, and I took a bit of pride in whatever part we had played in that. As they stopped to hand over their room keys and fill to-go cups from the urn in the entryway, they thanked me.

for the special event we'd hosted the night before. We had a fancy dinner in the ballroom with musicians and beautiful decorations. A kind of grown-up pro- Didn't have a great time in high school. One of them confided in me, and I feel like I got a do-over last night. I nodded, smiling brightly.

That's the nice thing about having some space from those moments, right? I said. We can rewrite them when we're older and own the best version. He slung his arm around his partner and nodded, and I saw them out to their car in the drive. On the way back in, I sighed, realizing that the inn was now empty.

besides her caretakers. I'd loved the weekend too, but it was a relief to know no one needed anything from me for a bit. I stopped back into the office to put away that last room key and scooped Sycamore into my arms like the baby he was. He trusted me completely.

And if there was a better feeling than being trusted by a small animal who'd had a rough start in life, well, I hadn't yet found it. We walked through the hall and into the drawing room and dining room. The sun was bright today, and the rooms were lit with an echoing shine as it bounced off the snow.

I'd need to put away the sugar bowls to launder the tablecloths and sweep the floors. But there was no rush. I went through to the hall again and stuck my head into the stairway down to the kitchen. Chef, I called. Are you busy? Do you have time for a little adventure?

There was silence for a second, then a low call back of, Should I bring cookies? Duh, I said, and waited till they arrived, still in their apron with a plate of treats. I turned and led them down to the library, with Sycamore still in my arms. I dropped Sikki down,

on the sofa and went back to the door. I looked up and down the hall. The vacuums were still going upstairs and probably would be for the foreseeable future. I closed the door and turned toward Chef at the Halloween party. Something was revealed to me. I was well aware that

I was being a little dramatic and mysterious, but I was having fun. Chef nodded and extended the plate of cookies to me. I took one, cross-hatched on its dark brown top with tine marks. A chocolate peanut butter, Chef said, a little breathlessly. Well played, I replied.

So my friend with the gray cat, you know her, right? Uh, Cinder's mom? Yes. She pulled me in here and told me the inn had a secret that it was ready for me to learn. She didn't know exactly what or how, but after a minute or two in this room, she asked me if there was...

some question I'd been carrying around about the inn. Chef had taken a large bite of their cookie, but had forgotten to chew, so caught up in the excitement of the story. I took a deep breath and told them that sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of

of the first innkeeper, that I'd been looking through old pictures and newspaper clippings for her, that I felt a connection to her. Maybe it was just the house and the job we'd both done. I walked over to the fireplace mantle and took the ring of keys from my pocket. I held up the small iron key

I'd been given that Halloween night and fitted it into a hidden keyhole just under the bracket on the side of the mantle. Chef let out a satisfying gasp and jumped to their feet. Is this really happening? Yep, I said as I grasped the key with both hands and turned it forcefully.

A panel in the wall beside the bookcase moved back and slid away, revealing the bottom step of the hidden stair. The first time I'd gone up those stairs, I'll admit the hair on the back of my neck had stood up, but I'd quickly learned that this wasn't an eerie place, but a protected one. It felt now, as I led the way,

Chef behind me and Sycamore at the rear, like showing your childhood bedroom to your best friend for the first time. I was excited. The stairway itself curved as it climbed, not quite a spiral, but definitely hugging along the inner walls of the house in a way that disguised its existence. At the top,

It opened into a small room about the size of one of our guest rooms, but instead of a chest of drawers and a bed, there was a large desk and a straight-backed chair. Along the walls, there were shelves lined with books and several large trunks. Chef, who still held his

half of a cookie in their hand, gulped as they looked around and stuck it into the front pocket of their apron. Sycamore, by now, had spent plenty of time in this room, jumped up onto the ledge in front of the single window and looked out. What is all of this? Chef asked with wonder in their voice.

Well, it took me a while to understand, but I think the first innkeeper was a kind of archivist. All these books, I trailed my fingers across their spines. They're full of local people's stories, and the trunks have pictures and family trees, maps and histories. We stared at each other for a second.

Stories. Like, folk stories? Um, some, but plenty are just the stories of people's lives. Like, look at this. I picked up a book that was open on the desk and turned it around to show. This whole book is about people's birthdays. How everyone celebrated their cake of choice.

What kind of punch was served? The gifts and decorations? I opened one of the steamer trunks and squatted down to gather a handful of artifacts and pictures. This whole case is full of stories about people's pets, sometimes just a date of birth and a name.

sometimes stories about their favorite places to dig and play. And there are pictures. We looked through a few sepia-toned shots, awkward as many photos from the time period seemed. But still, the animals and their humans looked happy and relaxed. Chef pointed to a snapshot of

of a small gray cat sitting on a velvet poof. That one looks just like Cinder, I agreed. So I still don't understand. What is it about? What's it for? I scratched my head and looked around the room. I didn't have an exact answer. I think she just collected stories, kept them

like other people collect music or paintings. I think they were beautiful to her, and she felt the need to document the lives of the people in her village, even if it was really small, simple stuff, like someone who's an artist might sketch a friend or a house in their neighborhood. She did that, but in a different way.

and Chef asked the question that had been nagging at me since I'd found this room on Halloween night. Why is it hidden away? Didn't she ever show it to anyone? I plopped down into the straight-backed chair and rested my hands on the desktop. There were dust motes floating in the air, sunlight cutting through the small window. Sycamore turned his head.

and looked at me as if he wanted to hear my answer too. I think that's what I'm meant to do, I said, my voice quiet but sure. She anthologized, and I'm going to share it all. It's all been so perfectly organized. It's just waiting for someone to exhibit these stories. Sycamore jumped down

and came to rub against my ankle. I reached down and lifted him to my lap. I think we'll set up an exhibit. Some of it can be here, some at the library, the museum, other places in town. We can share the stories of her villagers with ours. I turned to look up at my friend. What do you think? Are there recipes? I laughed.

That was just what I'd hoped they'd say. I reached up to pat their shoulder. My friend, there are even pickle recipes. We would have a busy summer ahead of us. Of curating and cooking. Of sharing and showing. Sweet dreams.