Anniversary Weekend
Margaret and Harold had been married for twenty-two years. Lately, their relationship had felt more like roommates than lovers—meaningless conversations about grocery lists and soccer schedules, but a little spark that once made them sneak away for a quickie in the laundry room.
“We need to do something,” Margaret said one evening as they sat on opposite ends of the couch, Harold scrolling through his phone while she graded papers.
“Remember when we used to actually talk to each other?”
Harold looked up. “We’re talking now.”
“About the electric bill, Harold. When’s the last time we talked about… us?”
That’s how they found themselves booking a weekend at the Westbrook Inn, a charming bed and breakfast two hours north of their suburban home. The website promised a “romantic getaway in our exquisite luxurious appointed rooms filled with carefully curated antiques and modern amenities.” Margaret had got the Rosewood Suite, complete with a four-poster iron bed that looked like something from out a castle.
The inn was everything the photos promised. Eight rooms in a renovated 1890s mansion, each room decorated with genuine pieces that the owners, Eleanor and James, had collected over the years. Crystal chandeliers caught the afternoon light, Persian rugs covered polished hardwood floors.
“Welcome to Westbrook,” Eleanor greeted them with genuine warmth as they arrived Friday afternoon. She was a woman in her sixties with silver and black hair pulled back in an elegant chignon with the kind of gracious manner that made you feel like you were visiting a favorite aunt.
“We’re so pleased you chose us for your anniversary celebration.”
James appeared with their luggage, equally charming in that distinguished way of men who wear cardigans.
“Twenty-two years,” he said with a smile.
“That’s wonderful. Eleanor and I have been married thirty-eight years, and we still discover new things about each other.”
Their room was breathtaking. The Rosewood Suite faced the garden, where late roses still bloomed despite the October chill.
The centerpiece was the bed—a magnificent iron four-poster with an intricate rose pattern worked into the headboard and footboard. The mattress sat on wooden slats that looked original to the piece, and the whole thing was dressed in crisp white linens with a burgundy velvet throw.
“It’s beautiful,” Margaret breathed, running her hand along the iron roses.
“It’s from 1887,” Eleanor said proudly. “We found it at an estate sale in Newport. The craftsmanship is unique —they don’t make them like this anymore.”
After Eleanor left them to settle in, Margaret and Harold stood in their room feeling suddenly awkward. The romantic setting seemed to highlight how distant they’d become rather than bringing them closer.
“Should we… unpack?” Harold asked.
“I guess so.” She replied.
To be continued…….