Sylvia checked her watch. The realtor was late. She tapped the toe of her leather pump on the wood-planked porch of the inn, checking her watch a second time as if she might be able to will the realtor to appear. She should have known that dealing with real estate in a small town would be this way. No one knew what it meant to be on a deadline of any kind. It had taken over a week just for the realtor—whose name she thought might have been Bob or John but she couldn’t be sure—to call her back. If she wasn’t so bent on purchasing the inn she would have already climbed back in her car and headed home. Instead she checked her watch a third time.

Glancing around, Sylvia wondered what kind of exorbitant asking price would be attached to the old inn turned Catholic girls’ school. She had done a bit of reading about the property and the fact that it was on the historic register both delighted her and made her nervous. She was over the moon at the idea of revitalizing an historic building, but being on the historic register could present her with a number of redevelopment issues. The inn itself had been built in the 1890’s, a beautiful three-story Adirondack-style getaway. Around the back was a more modern addition that was added in the 1950’s. Sylvia knew exactly what she wanted to do with the property; she just had to hope the interior layout would accommodate her grand plans. And that the asking price wouldn’t bankrupt her.

After another ten minutes of sighing and pacing on Sylvia’s part, an ancient gray Volvo wagon pulled into the circular drive and parked behind Sylvia’s vintage Jag. The car was her pride and joy, white with chocolate brown leather interior, fully restored and boasting one of the first mobile phones ever installed in a car. Of course she never used it but it was quite the conversation piece for anyone who chose to ride with her. Now the short, balding little man she presumed to be the realtor was out of his Volvo, admiring the Jag, his chubby little fingers caressing the paint job. Sylvia shook her head and sighed. Poor guy, she thought. Touching that car was probably the closest he would ever come to being cool. She chuckled to herself and folded her arms across her chest, willing herself to hold on to what was left of her patience even though she was dying to see the inside of the inn. Finally the realtor tore himself away and lumbered up the stairs where Sylvia was trying not to burst.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I came in from Worcester and traffic was a nightmare! This is my most remote listing and I just can never get out here…” He continued to babble as he tried to locate the key to the front door. He tried one after another on a ring that looked to have about a hundred keys on it. “I know it’s got to be one of these…”

Sylvia was about to knock him out of the way and find it herself when mercifully the lock tumbled open.

“So I have no idea what condition this place is in,” the realtor said, now fumbling with the wrought iron door handle. “It’s been more or less vacant since the 1980’s so who knows!” He laughed as if this was the funniest notion he had ever come across. Sylvia frowned at the thought that the exterior of this lovely little inn might possibly be hiding collapsed ceilings and rotting wood. “This damned door gets me every time. There! After you!”

This time Sylvia did indeed push the tiny, sweaty man out of the way, finding herself in an enormous living room that looked like it hadn’t been rearranged since 1956. It was chock full of furniture including a pink, Victorian style couch set in front of a stone fireplace, a red scallop-backed armchair in a corner next to an ancient radiator, and a sitting area with hideous bile green pillows tucked under the staircase that led to the second floor.

“Is it being sold with its contents?”“Yes ma’am. The listing is ‘as-is’ including furnishings.” Bob the Realtor suddenly looked nervous, as if he worried the furniture might offend Sylvia. “But we can always ask the seller to remove the contents if it’s an issue,” he added hurriedly.

Sylvia shook her head, completely enthralled. “Not a problem at all.” She wandered deeper into the living room, running her fingertips over the back of the couch, marveling at the patterned rugs laid out on the floor. To her right was a darling little office with a window that must have been for making reservations when the inn was still open.

“Through there is the dining room which I’ll show you in a moment.” Bob was gesturing toward a set of double doors at the bottom of the main stairs but instead guided her off to the left where an archway led to another large, open space. “Over here is another front room; a parlor of sorts.”

This room was much darker and a shade cooler in temperature. Against one wall, tucked in a corner, was a piano with sheet music still open on the rail. Books and copies of Holiday magazine littered every flat surface. This room also had a large stone fireplace and a sitting area of couches and coffee tables. Next to the piano was another door that led out to a glassed-in porch crowded with rocking chairs of every shape, size, and color.

“Down that hallway there is a TV room and two bedrooms.” The realtor gestured towards a narrow passageway walled in by ancient brown patterned glass, then headed back out to the main living room, Sylvia trailing behind. Bob walked up to the double doors that led into the dining room, reaching down to undo the floor locks. The moment the doors swung open Sylvia inhaled and caught a whiff of the most delicious scent.

“What on earth is that lovely smell?”

The realtor pointed to the walls and took a sniff as well. “The entire room is lined with cedar shakes.”

“Like a fur closet?” Sylvia asked, gazing around at the dining room that reminded her very much of the cabins she stayed in as a child when she vacationed with her parents in Connecticut at the Sunrise Resort.

“Yes, just like that. Rumor has it the man who built the inn couldn’t get enough of the smell of cedar. He supposedly did the same in his own home.”

Sylvia gazed around at the tiny tables still draped in white lace, fake flowers arranged in crystal bud vases adorning each one. Sunlight slanted through the leaded glass windows and Sylvia watched, fascinated, as dust motes stirred in the morning glow.

“Over here is the cafeteria line that I assume served the school.” The realtor had disappeared around a corner into a room that was almost completely consumed by a cafeteria counter with metal bars, brown plastic trays still stacked and waiting for the dishes that were also still neatly arranged as if ready for their next meal. Bob led Sylvia through a rabbit warren of rooms, one of which was obviously the laundry, the enormous metal machines looking as new as the day they rolled off the show room floor in 1950. Ironing boards sprang from the walls covered in cream colored muslin. Wire hangers still hung from a metal rolling rack tucked into the back of the room.

Bob then opened a small door that led to a cramped, angled staircase. “This is the back staircase up to the second floor but I’ll take you up the main staircase. This one is a little tough to negotiate.”

Sylvia nodded and thought that so far she hadn’t seen anything that would change her mind about buying this property. It was in remarkably good condition for having been left vacant for so long. The realtor chattered inanely the whole way back to the front parlor where the main staircase led up to a grand window with a cushioned bench below it. The stairs turned again and opened onto the slightly darker second floor, which Sylvia realized was because the doors into the rooming wings were closed. Another tiny, skinny staircase climbed to the right in the darkened hallway.

“When this was an inn these were obviously the guest rooms but when this became a school some of the nuns lived on this floor as well as some of the students. I’ll show you a few of the rooms but they all look relatively the same.”

Sylvia reached out and flipped an electrical switch, watching as the overhead lights flickered to life. “So the power is still on I see.”

Bob nodded. “It’s been left on because there is a very large pump running in the basement.”

“So there’s water in the basement?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I have been told it’s an easy fix though.”

“That’s fine.” Sylvia peeked into a few of the rooms, delighted by the petite fireplaces and conjoining bathrooms in each room.

“There are two floors of rooms, ” Bob said, pushing through a set of swinging saloon doors and pointing to a room that looked far more sterile and plain than the others Sylvia had seen. "This one was converted into an infirmary for the students."

Her eyes widened when she peeked into the room. “The bed is still made!”

Bob nodded for perhaps the hundredth time. “You’ll find that in a number of the rooms here.”

Sylvia gazed in wonder as they passed room after room, most still furnished, beds still made. It was as if the previous occupants got up one morning, walked out the door to start their day, and never returned. She followed the realtor back to the main staircase and down to the front room.

“There’s a very interesting room over here.” Off to the side of the reception area there was a small hallway, leading to another room hung with the same fragrant cedar shakes as the dining room. “This was originally the music room of the inn but it was converted into a chapel when the nuns bought it.”

Trailing her fingertips along the smooth wood of the pews, Sylvia gazed at the leaded glass windows and the stone fireplace set into the wall. It was a beautiful room, open and airy, yet warm and cozy at the same time. The altar was still dressed for mass and a book sat open on the podium off to the side. It was a beautiful room and would be perfect restored to its original purpose as a music room.

Back in the main room, Sylvia stopped Bob on his whirlwind tour and finally got the little man to turn and make eye contact with her. “Listen, I’ve seen what I need to see. I’m very interested in this property and I’m ready to make an offer, however Bob, you have yet to tell me the most important piece of information.”

Bob looked puzzled.

“The asking price?” Sylvia tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice but she couldn’t help being just moderately sarcastic with the man who was supposedly the professional.

“Oh! That! Ok. Well that’s a good news, bad news situation.”

Sylvia waited for him to continue talking but it seemed he needed a bit of prompting to spit it out. “Ok suspense effectively built Bob. I’m a businesswoman. Give me numbers.”

“Well the list price is currently $275,000…”

Sylvia was certain she swallowed her tongue.

“…but there’s a catch.”

“Of course there is,” she said, throwing her hands in the air.

“It’s a small town which means small town politics.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Sylvia leaned back and tipped her chin up so she was looking down at Bob, watching him as he started to sweat. Again.

“You have to attend a town meeting and get approval from the town for any redevelopment you have planned.” Sylvia was almost certain that Bob cringed as he said it.

“That’s it? How is that bad news?”

Bob sighed as if he had been dreading explaining this particular point to Sylvia. “The town has already voted down five other development proposals."

"You've got to be kidding me. Why?"

Sighing again, Bob looked dejected. "I honestly don't know. If you want there's an attorney who lives across the street who might be able to give you a bit more information."

Sylvia felt a bit of the air go out of her sails until she reminded herself that she would not accept losing this property. "I want to draw up the paperwork. Let's get this moving Bob."

If Bob had a tail, it would have been wagging.

There were no actual hotels available in the small town of Petersham. Thankfully Sylvia had done some research before leaving her Northampton apartment and she found a monastery (of all places) that offered rooms, generally to artists and writers which was just fine as far as she was concerned. Leaving the quaintness of the town green, Sylvia hung a left onto North Main Street and headed away from town. Her turn-by-turn directions yelled at her to stay on that road for 2 1/2 miles and the monastery would be on her left. As she drove she took closer note of the other buildings that occupied the town.

The homes in Petersham were old and stately and Sylvia paused for a moment to admire the house closest to the inn, a monstrous white Georgian Colonial complete with pillars. She was surprised to see that a number of the other homes looked like smaller versions of the inn with clapboard siding and oversized front doors. The yards were immaculately kept and the houses pristine. There was no doubt there was a great deal of money in this town.

A short distance from the center was a large, cream colored building with religious statues dotting the manicured lawns. Thanks to Google Sylvia knew this wasn't the Monastery but she was certainly curious about the seeming multitude of religious property in the area. Perhaps this building had something to do with the inn turned Catholic School? She noted the name, Sisters of the Assumption, and kept driving. A few minutes later her GPS told her she had arrived at her destination and she pulled into a small winding driveway that led to the main building of St. Mary's Monastery. Behind the monastery was another religious community, St. Scholastica Priory where the nuns lived separately from the monks, and behind that the guest house where Sylvia would be staying. She had been told when she called that her room would be ready and unlocked, the keys on the nightstand. You weren't required to pay for rooms but the monastery encouraged donations. Sylvia would be leaving quite a large one.

The room was small and quaint, moderately furnished with a full sized bed, a rocking chair, a small desk, and one lamp. Sylvia wheeled her suitcase behind her into the room and pushed it in the corner next to what she assumed was a closet. Unpacking her clothing could wait. Slinging her overnight bag off her shoulder onto the bed, she unzipped it and began gently emptying the contents. She pulled out a sketch pad, laying it out on the desk's freshly polished surface, then added a tin of pencils and white art erasers. Her colored pencils followed and she lined them up carefully next to the sketch pad. Also in the bag was a well worn black softcover journal, the corners peeling from age and use.

Sylvia dragged the rocking chair as close to the desk as she could and dropped onto its cushioned seat, sighing as she sank into the curve of the chair back. It had been a long, stressful day and she was happy to finally be alone without Bob the realtor's voice buzzing in her ear. Unfortunately she couldn't shake the actual words of their conversation. They've voted down five other development proposals. She wondered what could have possibly led the town to torpedo that many proposals. Had the developers planned to drastically alter the building in some way? Had they planned to level it? From a business standpoint she could certainly see why most property professionals might immediately jump to demolition but given that the inn was on the register Sylvia would have thought common sense would prevail and the developer would have known in advance that the town would reject a demolition proposal.

Reaching into her purse, Sylvia pulled out the business card of the lawyer Bob had mentioned. She turned the card over in her hand and read it aloud to herself.

"Jed Coggins, Esquire. Attorney at Law. North Main Street, Petersham. Well, I see there's no need for him to include a house number." She sighed yet again. Just another small town practice she would never understand, knowing where everyone lived, when they would be home, what time they ate dinner. How did people live like that? That meant she would have to ask for him in town if she decided she did indeed want to talk with him. She hated to give away any of her game plan but if Jed Coggins could possibly give her some insight on how to sway the town it might become a necessary evil.

Sylvia turned to the desk and pulled the sketchbook into her lap, tossing the business card down in its place. Pencil in hand, she began to sketch the inn quickly and carefully, first the exterior, then the interior rooms, but rather than sketch them as they looked now, she tried to envision them as they once were. At some point she would take the time to search for archival photographs of the building as part of the final development plan but she preferred to let her imagination run when she did initial sketches. It allowed her to be creative with the drawings and not be influenced by the actual images. It soothed her and generally helped shape her development plans.

For years Sylvia had slaved away at a corporate brokerage firm, watching her company chew up properties and spit them out. To keep from thinking about the part she played in the decimation of hundreds of historic properties she took to drawing them. After hours slaving in the board room she would retreat to her desk and pull out her sketch pad and pencils, drawing the buildings as her company destroyed them. A mere two years later Sylvia struck out on her own, determined to work against her former employer and perhaps save a building or two before the vultures descended.

She had managed quite well in the past six months, helping to turn an aging theater over to a city fine arts guild for restoration, then saving an historic library from ruin. Those two deals had netted her enough commission to consider taking on something bigger, a bit more personal. That was when she found the listing for the inn. It struck her immediately and she knew it would make a perfect artists' retreat. The grand part of her plan was that she would be giving up her apartment to live at the inn- through the renovations at the very least, perhaps even through the first few months of operation, just to be sure. Sylvia knew it was a leap of faith, but she also knew she wasn't getting any younger and it was time.

Sitting back in the rocking chair she stretched her arms and wriggled life into her tired, aching fingers. Night had descended and Sylvia felt exhaustion creep into her bones. The excitement of seeing the inn for the first time had given her a gut shot of adrenaline throughout the day and now she was crashing. She stripped off her suit and dug her pajamas out of her suitcase, dressed, then slipped into bed. Her head had barely hit the pillow before her eyes were closed and her mind turned off.

Jed Coggins sat up reading a real estate contract while some inane late show played softly on the television in the living room to his right. He had forgotten to close the door to his office; his wife had forgotten to turn off the TV, as usual. The sounds of canned laughter drifted through the house and carried over to the leather wing back chair where Jed was now staring out the window instead of making certain his client wasn't getting screwed. His front window looked out onto the town green and consequently right at the old Nichewaug Inn which happened to have a street lamp burning right over it, lighting it up just enough for Jed to be reminded what an eyesore it had become.

Jed was too young to remember the Inn when it was open as the girls' school but he did remember the early 1980's when the nuns were using it for religious retreats. He had gone inside with his grandmother a few times, but being just a kid he didn't really notice much about the building except that they had grape juice in the kitchen. He had loved grape juice.

When Jed headed off to college the inn was still in fairly good shape. By the time he was ready to head to law school he heard that a local woman had purchased the building and was planning to turn it into a restaurant. A few months later he read in the Petersham town news letter (which he had subscribed to when he left home) that the woman had declared bankruptcy because the town had, for some unknown reason, blocked every permit application she had entered.

After graduating from law school Jed returned to Petersham and bought the house across the street from the inn. By then it was starting to look ragged around the edges and kids had started breaking in and stealing the furniture, daring each other to spend the night inside. Now the inn was just sitting there, a complete eyesore, waiting to be leveled.

Shaking his head, Jed returned his attention to the paperwork he was supposed to be going over. Earlier that morning, someone had told him that a well dressed woman in a vintage Jag had come to look at the inn. She sounded like a high powered corporate real estate shark and she didn't have a chance in hell in his town.

The next morning dawned bleak and cold with a coating of snow on the ground. Winter was a terrible time to view real estate, but Sylvia was certain a change of season would change nothing in her plan. Dressing in a slightly more casual outfit of designer jeans and a cashmere sweater, she pulled on her winter coat and knee high boots. It was time for a cup of coffee and the clearing of the cobwebs crowding her brain.

As she drove slowly into the center of town, she was already starting a mental pro and con list in her head. She was torn about pulling this Jed Coggins into her brain. A development plan like this was as much personal as it was professional and she was reluctant to share it with anyone. Obviously she had known permits would be necessary but it aggravated her that she first had to allow an entire town to weigh in on her dream.

Pulling into a parking space on the town green, Sylvia looked off to her right at the inn blanketed in fresh snow. It was one of the most beautiful buildings she had ever seen and every time she thought about it or looked at it she could feel her determination growing. However at the moment, she could also feel a headache growing.

Diagonally across from the inn on the other side of the green was a small country store that advertised coffee and light breakfast. Sylvia headed towards it like a drug addict, her mouth watering and brain pounding at the thought of that first jolt of caffeine. She didn't used to drink coffee but when she struck out on her own she discovered that the caffeine took the edge off her stress and dampened her anxiety. Now Sylvia found herself drinking far more coffee each day than she knew she should. But hey, at least she wasn't smoking.

Inside the country store, heads turned on a swivel the moment Sylvia crossed the threshold. The chill in the air was palpable and Sylvia was certain it wasn't because of the snow she had tracked in on her boots. She smiled broadly at the eyes boring into her skull and stepped up to order her coffee. In spite of the locals' obvious curiosity, Sylvia decided to take a stroll around the store while she sipped her first cup of liquid gold. The place was cute, one of the oldest buildings in town, and definitely a watering hole for the townies. She picked up a book about Petersham's founding and history, flipping through to see if the inn was in there but it seemed to be conspicuously absent. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed an older man in a freshly pressed dress shirt and fleece North Face vest pretending to read the newspaper while he watched Sylvia's every move as if he suspected she might be a shoplifter.

Replacing the book on the shelf Sylvia turned, coffee cup in hand, and wandered over to the gentleman's table. "May I?" She asked, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

He folded the paper down and regarded her for a minute before putting his hand out as if to say, Have at it lady. She sat and crossed one leg over the other, setting her cup down on the tiny wooden table.

"I'm Sylvia Wesson."

"Jed Coggins."

Ah. So this was the man she was looking for. How fortuitous. "Good. I was looking to speak with you."

"Let me guess," he said, grimacing. "About the inn."

Sylvia stared at him for a beat, trying to interpret his chilly manner. She took it as a territorial issue, the stranger infringing on home turf. "Yes I'm a..."

"Developer I assume." Putting the paper down completely, he took a sip of his own coffee and sat back in his chair, crossing his leg to mirror her own posture. "Let me save you some time and aggravation. We don't need an upscale spa in this town. Nor do we need a five star restaurant. We also don't need a parking lot, a CVS, or a Home Depot. Even if you manage to force a sale, your permits will never be approved and the town will never allow you to start construction on that site. If I was you, I would take your potential sales agreement and tear it up."

Sylvia stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Yankee go home, eh? Well I have no intention of opening up a Starbucks or any other blasphemous pile of bricks. There aren't enough people in this town to warrant an entire parking lot, and there hasn't been a tourist trade worthy of a spa hotel in this area since the early 1900's." She stood up and took a final swig of her coffee. "But thanks for the input."

Pushing in her chair, Sylvia felt his eyes on her back as she took her cup to the counter and walked out the door. What an ass. That arrogant man, assuming he knew what she had planned for their precious inn. And who was he to tell her she couldn't do it? Surely he couldn't be the last word in this town. Sylvia shook it off and headed back to her car, grabbing her sketch book out of the backseat. The snow wasn't going to keep her from wandering the grounds, drawing the landscape.

The driveway to the right of the inn had been plowed and as Sylvia walked down it she saw why. There was a small brown-shingled cottage at the very end of a narrow lane that branched off from the inn's driveway. Smoke billowed from a squat brick chimney and what looked to be an oil lamp burned in one of the windows. Sylvia stopped where she was and opened her sketch book to a blank page. It took only moments for her to sketch the bones of the cottage, but she left the details for later when she could let her imagination play with what her eyes had seen.

Closing her book and tucking it back under her arm, Sylvia headed down the lane towards the cottage, wondering if the owners would be nearly as welcoming as Jed Coggins had been. She approached the door and reached out to knock, but before she could, the door swung open to reveal the tiniest, most wrinkled face Sylvia had ever seen. Bright, wise blue eyes regarded her carefully, the face surrounded by a halo of white hair.

"I'm not buying and I already found Jesus."

Sylvia felt her mouth fall open as she tried her best not to laugh at the old woman. "I'm not selling anything. And I didn't realize Jesus was lost."

For a moment Sylvia wasn't certain what was going to happen, if the woman was going to slam the door in her face or laugh, but instead she stepped back. "Well come on in then."

Inside, the cottage looked as if it had been frozen in time, around about 1950. The furnishings were spare, upholstered in navy, maroon, and gold. A rabbit-eared television was perched on top of a rolling tea tray and the whole living room was littered with books.

"Tea?" The woman's voice snapped Sylvia out of her reverie where she had just been telling herself that the inside of the cottage was exactly as she imagined it would be.

"Tea would be lovely." Not being a tea drinker, Sylvia knew she was telling an untruth but she did it to be polite. After all, the woman had just allowed a stranger into her home. Accepting a cup of tea seemed to be the least she could do.

As the old woman bustled around the kitchen Sylvia wandered through the living room, eyeing book titles and perusing dusty, yellowed photographs. One, sitting atop the mantle in an ornately carved wooden frame, was a picture of a young, very happy looking couple.

"My wedding." Sylvia jumped a mile as a flowered china teacup appeared in front of her. "1955. Just after I finished high school."

Holding the steaming cup with both hands, Sylvia nodded and smiled at the photo. "You were a beautiful bride."

The woman nodded, clearing books off of a couple of wing back chairs that were angled towards the fireplace. Sylvia sat and took a sip of tea, surprised to find that she quite liked the flavor. It was a much lighter, smoother taste than coffee and she wondered what the ratio of caffeine might be.

"So young lady. State your purpose."

Right to the point. Sylvia liked that in a body. "I'm a developer, and before you say anything, I'm not the kind of developer that likes to knock things down and pave over them."

The old woman had narrowed her eyes, her mouth set in a hard line. "You're interested in the inn then."

"I am. But I want to keep it the way it is."

"That's quite the noble goal. And you have the funds to do that?"

Sylvia nodded. "I do. I did very well on my last few projects so I have enough to revitalize the inn."

The woman stood and disappeared from the room. Sylvia sat and drank her tea, wondering if the woman was going to find something to club her with. Instead she returned with a dusty white book in her hands. She sat back down and thumbed through the pages until she found what she was apparently looking for, then handed the book to Sylvia.

"That's me. The first class to graduate from the inn."

Margaret "Meg" Tucker, class of 1954. The caption below her photo was in French but Sylvia had no problem reading it. Meg had been captain of the dance squad and excelled in art.

"I lived in the art rooms," she said, pulling Sylvia away from the yearbook. "In fact I do believe there's still a painting of mine stashed away somewhere in the attic."

Sylvia continued to page through the yearbook, marveling at the photos of the inn- the dining room packed with smiling girls and angelic-looking nuns.

"In the beginning we had classes on the first floor. I had French in the alcove under the stairs. Some of our classes were even in the dining room." Meg pointed to a photo of a group of girls sitting on a swing set out in the yard. "Those were some of my favorite times, out on the swings, sitting in the sun. I loved those girls."

Frowning, Sylvia looked up and sighed. "Meg, why is the town so against the inn being revitalized?"

Meg sighed too, shaking her head and laughing ruefully. "This town has some crazy notions about what will happen if a new business moves in to that property."

"What do they think will happen?" Sylvia barked, her hackles up and her aggravation spilling over. "Do they think it will be turned into a Satanic cult? Or worse, a Walmart?"

Laughing, Meg shrugged her shoulders. "To be honest, I don't have a clue what they're thinking. Except to say that they have an issue with strangers coming to their town."

Strangers? "But at one time, this town thrived on strangers visiting. That inn brought in the tourist trade that helped build this town."

"I know," Meg said. "I know. You're preaching to the choir. I have always thought that inn should be repurposed but the town has fought it tooth and nail."

There was no logic in the town's stance on the inn. How could a simple plan to bring the inn back to its former glory be anything but a boon for Petersham? It would bring revenue, jobs, tourism dollars. There was no way in hell that little country store was staying above water with only the townies to support it. For that matter, there were no jobs in town. Everyone who lived in Petersham was either retired or traveled in order to find work. Sylvia couldn't wrap her head around the continued resistance.

"I met Jed Coggins this morning," she said, peering at Meg as she took another sip of her tea.

"Oh Lord that man. Did he try to send you packing?"

Sylvia nodded, smiling. "That he did. Without even letting me get a word out about my plans."

"Jed Coggins is the town's self-appointed emissary and savior. He's of the opinion that everyone else in town shares that exact opinion. In all likelihood there are plenty of residents who would love to object to his rhetoric but they never get the chance."

That about summed up Sylvia's impression of Mr. Coggins, Esquire. He was a self-righteous blowhard who had made up his mind about one of the most historically important buildings in town and expected everyone else to fall in line.

"I can't believe no one has put him in his place."

Meg shrugged. "Those who would likely object to Jed don't because they can't back it up with a viable solution. Early on in the debate there was one woman who tried. Leslie I think her name was. She wanted to turn the inn into a boutique hotel, complete with tea room and wine tastings. The woman had even begun collecting vintage books to fill the library with."

"What happened?" Sylvia asked, silently wondering if she should add a tea room and wine tastings to her own plan. She already had the book angle covered. There were crates of them in storage, given to her as a gift for saving a library from the chopping block.

"Well, it all started out quite friendly. Leslie met with all the neighbors, introduced herself and laid out her plans. She asked them what they wanted to see at the inn and they hammered out parking arrangements and noise curfews." Meg paused to take a sip of her tea. With a sigh, she continued. "Then one day I saw her standing in front of the inn with the mail in her hand. She was shaking her head and looked on the verge of tears. She had applied for her first town permit so she could start renovations."

"Let me guess-- the permit was denied." Sylvia couldn't believe it. "Coggins threatened me with the same thing. He essentially told me the town would block my permits until I went bankrupt."

"And that's exactly what they did to poor Leslie. By the time she was done fighting the town over permits she was flat broke. Left town with her tail between her legs, never to be heard from again."

Somehow, Sylvia did not find that hard to believe. She had also begun to think that perhaps her best course of action would be to find and befriend those few dissenters in town. It would bolster her case immensely to have townspeople on her side.

"Meg, this information has been invaluable." Sylvia stood and carried her teacup into the kitchen, placing it gently into the sink. Meg stood as well, her yearbook in her hands.

They both headed to the front door where Meg handed Sylvia the yearbook. "You keep this. Let these girls inspire you in your fight. In fact, you might even find some allies among the alums. If you can track them down."

"Thank you Meg. I'll be back, I'm sure."

"Any time. I'll be here!"

The door closed behind Sylvia and she found herself back out in the cold, damp air. The day had faded to that late afternoon, winter haze that fell each day from November to February. The icy fog was so thick that she could barely see the school wing of the inn even though she was mere feet from it. Only the attic tower, high above the fog, was visible. If Sylvia thought hard enough, she could easily liken the physical fog shrouding the building to the metaphorical fog the town had imposed on it. As it was, though, Sylvia was thinking only of the battle she was about to initiate.