Twelve Months of Kristal: 50 Loving States Maine

“I wanted to!” Maeve insists, either not seeing or not caring how angry her son appears to be over her interference in his love life. “Did you have a chance to memorize the poem? I know it’s a tad long, but I think it will sound better if it’s delivered from the heart.”

“It’s all up here,” Kristal assures her, tapping the side of her head. “I did a rotation in the Santa Mail department before I got assigned to Painting, so I’m great at memorizing things. And this was even easier because Gaelic is one of the old fae languages.”

Maeve claps her hands together. “I still can’t believe it. A fairy, a real fairy, reciting a poem to my son’s True Love on his behalf.”

I was having trouble believing it myself. What had started out as a practical offer to convey a message to this Siobhan person in Declan’s stead, had quickly leveled up to ridiculous when Kristal stepped in with an offer to recite a Gaelic love poem on her front step.

I’d merely been attempting to end the standoff between Declan and his mother so that the goal of this trip would be met. My offer had been nothing more than a point of business. Kristal, on the other hand, seemed determined to play into Maeve’s delusions of True Love between Declan and the high school sweetheart he refused to text, much less recite a Gaelic love poem.

“Seriously, it’s no problem,” Kristal says, beaming. “Delivering love poems is so much nicer than what I usually do—speaking of which…”

She winces and pulls out her sketchbook. “Sorry, I won’t be able to eat if I don’t do this first for Hayato…”

As Kristal draws today’s picture of the old man I don’t know, one of the guests seated at the table closest to us turns all the way around in his seat, craning his neck to see what she’s doing.

“The negro’s drawing something now,” he tells the young woman sitting with him. “It looks like a picture of another Oriental. But this one’s much older…”

I grit my teeth when Kristal hands me the quick sketch. If not for being raised to always be polite no matter what was said or done to me, I would have balled up the drawing and tossed it over my shoulder.

Instead, I place it face down on the table as I ask Declan, “Any word on getting to the airport?” Purposefully changing the subject from ex-girlfriends and soon-to-be-dead people.

Declan shakes his head. “The roads are still covered in snow, last I heard. Luckily, Dr. Foss works out of the downstairs of his house, Rodge had to do a special clear and salt just so I could drive us a few blocks over.

“Who is this Rodge?” I ask, even though I can barely hear him over the other guests’ noisy chatter. “Perhaps we could arrange for him to do the same for us, but to the airport?”

“Not a chance!” a voice says behind us.

I turn to see a large, craggy-faced, older man approaching the table. He’s dressed in snow boots, a thick red and black checkered jacket, and one of those hats with flaps. The entire outfit might have been considered a fashion choice in Tokyo. But seeing the snow-flecked all over it, I quickly discern that the old man only had practical reasons in mind when he bought it.

“This is Rodraig Walsh, but all his friends and family call him Rodge,” Maeve says. “The owner of the inn and the third generation of Walshes to run it. He’s the one who used the old snowplow from out back to clear the road for us to both the doctor’s office and Siobhan’s house.”

Maeve gives him a grateful smile, but Rodge glares back at her. “Nor’easter’s done, but the snow’s still coming down. It was a miserable morning getting that patch of road cleared and salted for you. Believe me, I won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”

I open my mouth to offer a dollar amount that might make him reconsider his decision, but before I can, he squints at Kristal and asks, “Speaking of miserable, what’s wrong with you, young woman?”

Kristal visibly jolts at his question. “What’s wrong with me?” she asks, sounding confused.

“Yeah, why are you so glum?”

We all look toward Kristal, who doesn’t look miserable or glum, just perplexed.

“Rodge has a way of reading people, just like his father and his father before him,” Maeve explains. “It’s what makes him such a good innkeeper.”

“Yeah, it means I can spot the over-demanding idiots from the door and tell them, ‘Sorry, Bub, no room left at the inn,” Rodge amends with an annoyed huff.

“The man is a saint, I tell you,” Maeve continues with an insisting tone. “Why I was a single mother with no work history, dragging along a son behind me because I didn’t even have enough friends or money to get him a babysitter for my interview. He took one look at me holding Declan’s hand and said, ‘You’re responsible and loyal. You’re hired.’ And I’ve been working here ever since.”