Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming by Jennifer Chiaverini Page B

would not have chosen him as their postmaster if he was the sort of man to disrupt official business on a whim.
    The wagon topped a low rise and approached an intersection with a broader, more recently paved road. “There it is,” said Lars, gesturing toward a two-story building on the other side of the street, high above them on a foothill of the scrub-covered mountains that rose dramatically behind it. “The Grand Union Hotel.”
    It was the tallest, most stately building they had seen so far in the valley, freshly painted, with a broad wraparound porch, tall windows, and a second-floor balcony with a railing of turned spindles. Tall, leafy oaks lined the cobblestone drive leading up to the hotel, where Mr. Jorgensen brought the horses to a halt. The front walk was neatly kept, and the garden boasted several magnolia trees in full bloom. Around the side of the hotel, Elizabeth spotted a grove of orange and lemon trees with a walking path and a gazebo. Suddenly she felt a sharp, painful longing for home. Somehow this hotel, smaller and so different in appearance from Elm Creek Manor, reminded her of that beloved place.
    Henry jumped down from the wagon and assisted her to the ground. While Lars helped Henry unload their belongings, Elizabeth took in the view from the porch and tried to peek inside the curtained windows. Then Lars tugged on the brim of his hat, wished them well, and turned the horses back down the cobblestone drive.
    Elizabeth’s attention was drawn to the windowsill, which was pockmarked by many small holes. “What creature made these, do you suppose?” she asked Henry when he joined her on the porch. “An insect? A woodpecker, perhaps?”
    Henry studied the holes. “That’s buckshot.”
    “What?” said Elizabeth. “You mean someone shot at our hotel?”
    “A long time ago,” Henry quickly replied. “Those are old scars. This is an old hotel. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe now.”
    “Perhaps, or perhaps some of Peter’s business associates paid a recent call.”
    “It’s safe.” Henry opened the door and gestured for her to precede him inside. “I wouldn’t put us up anywhere that wasn’t safe.”
    “Not knowingly, you wouldn’t.”
    “Elizabeth—” Henry waved her inside impatiently. “It’s safe. Go on in.”
    She obeyed, reluctantly, and only because she did not think they had any other choice. Lars Jorgensen was long gone, and they had nowhere else to stay for the night.
    Inside the lobby, the front desk was unoccupied, but Elizabeth heard voices and the clinking of glassware somewhere beyond. To her right was the doorway to a barroom, with a long bar that seemed to run the entire length of the building. Three or four men sat on tall bar stools, their backs to the lobby. Elizabeth wondered what they were drinking. If alcohol filled their glasses, they were making no effort to conceal it.
    She looked to her left, through a second doorway leading into a Victorian parlor, which appeared to be unoccupied. Between the lobby and the parlor was a polished hardwood staircase spindled even more ornately than the balcony outside. The same small holes that marred the windowsill also riddled the banister. Elizabeth, hearing quick footsteps approach, gestured at the holes and raised her eyebrows at her husband to be sure he had taken note of them. Henry smiled weakly and shrugged just as a woman in her sixties entered through a doorway behind the desk. Her two dark braids threaded heavily with gray were coiled at the nape of her neck, her manner officious but cordial. “Welcome to the Grand Union,” she greeted them. “Do you need lodgings for the night or shall I show you to the dining room? Or perhaps you’d like refreshments in the bar?”
    “We’ll be staying the night.” Henry reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a letter. “I’m Henry Nelson and this is my wife, Elizabeth. I wrote to you last month.”
    “Oh, yes, of course. The newlyweds.” The proprietress