Chapter 33

25 Days to the Celebration

It wasn’t an accident. Malcolm told Mr. and Mrs. Van Dam, the soon-to-be-owners of Domus Jefferson, that the first weekend of September was a good time for them to stay the weekend as guests. He knew the Inn was booked and was anxious to have them experience the buzz of a busy night and morning.

Mrs. Van Dam spent the early evening under Rain’s feet as she made preparations for the next morning’s breakfast. She admitted to not being a very good cook and let slip that they were considering going with a more packaged breakfast. Rain didn’t know what that meant, but it scared her all the same.

Mr. Van Dam shadowed Malcolm as he checked in guests and shared the history lesson behind the Inn, the furniture, and the art to those who wanted it. The new owner took notes and captured as much as he could before deciding much of it might not be useful for them.

After the guests were checked in, Malcolm suggested the two couples head out for a late dinner at Joe’s Steakhouse in Woodstock. Malcolm texted his friend Joe from the car to alert him they were coming. He also asked for a quiet table upstairs and mentioned that he hoped Joe might have some time to swing by and introduce himself to the new owners of the Inn.

Joe’s manager, a woman Malcolm had long-referred to as Bubbly Ashley, met them at the door and led them upstairs to a table on the balcony overlooking Main Street. “Joe says he won’t seat anyone else out here. It’s all yours.” Malcolm and Rain’s drinks were already on the table.

“You’re regulars?” Mr. Van Dam said.

“You could say that,” Malcolm answered. “But we try to support all the locals. Frankly there aren’t many options for dinner in town. The Café stays open late on Thursdays for a very nice dinner, which you should certainly try, and there’s the deli and some pizza places in town. Seafood by the freeway, some Chinese, but not much else besides fast-food row. Oh, Edinburg has a tasty Italian place—Sal’s. And there’s a Mexican place in Mount Jackson you’ll want to try.”

Rain broke in. “We’ve always felt as though we should support the local establishments and make sure we feel good about recommending them to our guests. Every weekend couples will ask about nearby restaurants and we do our best to spread the recommendations around.”

“Spread the love,” Malcolm said. “Spread the love.”

“Um, I see.” Mr. Van Dam resumed taking notes on his legal pad.

They discussed the evolving menu, and every now and then another of Joe’s friendly servers came by to introduce themselves to the future of Domus Jefferson.

“Everyone seems to know you,” Mrs. Van Dam said. “Is that normal?”

“Is that normal or am I normal?” Malcolm asked.

“Oh, stop.” Rain saved the confused woman across the table. “Yes, it’s small town America. It’s an exaggeration to say everyone knows everyone, but you hear that saying a lot in a town like this. And to a certain extent, I suppose it’s true. Particularly with the Inn. Many of these people, even though they’re lifelong residents, have stayed with us. They have ladies’ weekends, church retreats, that sort of thing. And remember, Domus Jefferson has been a part of the community for a long time. Even before Malcolm’s parents bought it in ’68.”

“How often does that happen?” Mrs. Van Dam said.

“What?”

“How often do the local people stay?”

“Malcolm?” Rain tossed it to him.

“In actual numbers? I couldn’t say. We book group events like that—multiple room stays—once a month. Maybe every two months, depending on the season.”

Mr. Van Dam scribbled more notes.

His wife spoke up again. “Do you ever feel like you’ve lost, I don’t know, your privacy?”

Rain smiled. “There isn’t much privacy in our world, I’m afraid. It’s part of the lifestyle. We live at the Inn, as you know; we’ve raised our son there. It’s home and every few days or every weekend people come to that home. We like that aspect, don’t we, honey?”

“We’ve learned to like it,” Malcolm corrected. “It takes time, no doubt about it.”

More notes for Mr. Van Dam. Then a question, “We’ve talked a lot about your marketing, but what have you done to attract more of these group events? Receptions? Corporate retreats? High-dollar guests?”

“Well, not much. They come when they come. A lot of our success has been word of mouth, and that’s easy with forty years of history here. We’ve had couples conceive their children in our Inn and then welcomed those children back with their own spouses.”

Rain covered her eyes and Mrs. Van Dam blushed. Her husband did not write down that note.

Bubbly Ashley brought their dinners and paused to refill their drinks for the third time. Malcolm had a New York strip, Rain had barbeque ribs, and the Van Dams had chicken Caesar salads. As they ate, the Coopers continued downloading years of expertise and experiences. They highlighted the highs and were honest about the lows. Mr. Van Dam filled two pages with notes, and his wife tried to count how many people Malcolm waved at and called to on Main Street.

Joe stopped by and introduced himself with several quick jokes. “So, are you two actors?” he said to the Van Dams.

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you act? We have this mystery dinner evening we do a couple times every year. Last few shows have been decent, but some of the cast members are just lousy, right guys?” He punched Malcolm playfully in the arm. “I’ve been trying to get the Coopers here to try a show for years. Malcolm’s sister, Samantha, our honorable sheriff, is a regular star in our shows, and a big-time scene stealer, too, but Malcolm and Rain haven’t signed on yet.”

“And we’re not going to anytime soon, Joe. Don’t you want people to keep their food down?”

Joe made another joke, and Mrs. Van Dam began fiddling with an earring. “Actually,” she said, “truth be told, I did try some theater in college, but that was a long time ago.”

Mr. Van Dam turned abruptly to Joe. “We won’t be acting in a murder mystery show, I’m afraid, but we’ll gladly tell our guests about them, if you’ll drop off some literature.”

“Consider it done,” Joe said and insisted the meal was on the house.

“You don’t have to do that,” Mr. Van Dam said.

“I know I don’t,” Joe said, slapping his back. “I wouldn’t offer if I thought I had to.”

They thanked him and began to leave the restaurant, a process slowed by half a dozen introductions to other diners the Coopers knew. Mr. Van Dam tried to capture as many names as he could, but Malcolm spoke so quickly and moved from handshakes to the latest gossip in such rapid fire it was difficult to keep up.

Rain suggested dessert at Katie’s Custard on the way home, and the couples sat at a plastic picnic table at the edge of Route 11 enjoying a custard that melted faster than they could eat it. There were more questions and more answers longer than they needed to be. Then came more concerns about profit and loss and even more assurances the Inn was on solid ground.

“You should be mayor,” Mrs. Van Dam said to Malcolm when a passing car honked at them for the second time and a hand appeared out the window.

“Nah, not for me. I prefer to stay under the radar.”

“Yeah, right.” Rain tapped the end of his nose with her drippy chocolate and vanilla twist. Another car passed and honked.

Mr. Van Dam wiped custard from his chin and looked at his wife. “Do you think something like this would ever work in the city?”

“Ice cream?” she said.

“No, a stand like this—an old-fashioned, walk-up style. Not a strip mall shop.” The discussion evolved into Mr. Van Dam’s vision for Woodstock. “It’s fine here, very welcoming. But how do you take a community like this and infuse it with city conveniences, better restaurants, more variety, without losing the small town . . . what is it . . .”

“Charm,” Rain offered.

“Sure. How do you do that? How do you make it more of a bedroom community for northern Virginia? How do we attract more money from the city—maybe even more commercial development—but without upsetting the locals?”

Rain squeezed Malcolm’s leg under the table. “Honey?”

Malcolm shoved the rest of his cone in his mouth and wiped his hands on what was left of the napkin. “Good luck with that.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Van Dam said.

“He means it’s a balancing act,” Rain said.

“I do?” Malcolm said.

“Yes,” Rain answered. “We walk a fine line between maintaining what makes the valley unique and emphasizing what tourists want. But I think you’ll find the most important thing is the people. It’s the people who make the valley special, not the restaurants or the businesses or even the changing of the leaves.”

Malcolm furrowed his brow like a cartoon character. “Is that straight from our website?”

“Yes, but I wrote it, so I can use it whenever I want.”

The night ended in the living room with Rain making plans with Mrs. Van Dam for the good-bye celebration. Their husbands sat in Malcolm’s office discussing building permits, county politics, and revisiting the list of furniture the Coopers had chosen to take with them to their new home.

After a breakfast the next morning that Mrs. Van Dam called both chaotic and delicious, her husband checked his watch and excused himself to the yard where he met a Fairfax-based general contractor.

Malcolm watched from the porch as the other men walked the property and Mr. Van Dam added another page of notes to his legal pad. Malcolm overheard talk of a paved driveway, a new building with meeting rooms, Wi-Fi, and a pool. When they walked around to the back of the house, Malcolm didn’t follow. Instead he returned inside and reread a letter from his parents’ collection. Then he debated whether to let the Van Dams read it, too.

• • •

July 10, 1968
Laurel,

I’m not even going to try describing how this place looks. You’ll have to admire it with your own eyes. It’s heaven.

I am spending the night in one of the guest rooms at the Inn at the absolute insistence of Mr. and Mrs. Condie. They thought I should experience the Inn at night. I’m afraid it might have closed the deal for me. It is so calm here, Laurel, a reverent feeling I don’t want to lose. I expect when I open the shade in the morning I’ll see fog rising in the field below the house and ghost-soldiers marching silently through it. I feel like I’m sleeping in a history book tonight.

I spent the afternoon and evening downtown at a diner on what I suppose is called Main Street. There is really only one street in the town and it runs through the center of everything. It’s also called Route 11 or Old Valley Pike, and it goes for miles and miles north and south connecting a whole string of other small towns to Woodstock. I believe Woodstock is the county seat.

This place has some fascinating history. I learned from a woman at the diner named Tiffanee (sp?) about a man named John Peter Muhlenberg (sp?) but who everyone called “The Fighting Parson.” Now that’s a nickname.

He came to Woodstock in the late 1700s to be the pastor. In 1776, which is just about my favorite year as you know, he delivered a sermon calling for volunteers to join the militia to the Continental Army. At the end of his sermon, he ripped off his church robe and revealed an officer’s uniform underneath. He shouted, “There’s a time to pray and a time to fight!” What a man he must have been!

The town hosted generals and soldiers from both sides of the war. And one guess who designed the town’s courthouse? Jefferson. It’s the most beautiful limestone I’ve seen.

Hon, this place already feels like home to me. The Inn needs some work in a few spots, but nothing your man cannot do alone or with help from Matthew and Malcolm. I see new art for the walls, some new furniture in the rooms, and new mattresses for the cottage. They look like one too many kids have jumped and peed on them, probably in that order.

And it’s silly, I know, but I can’t wait for you to see the mailbox. It was the first thing I noticed. It’s sort of rusty-red with a white dove carrying an envelope in its mouth. It’s the kind of mailbox that knows secrets. It’s the kind of mailbox that will hold our Wednesday Letters proudly and then beg you to read them aloud. See? I told you it was silly.

We probably don’t need to decide for another week, but we can’t wait long. The Condies would like to close the sale and be in Boulder within a month, tops.

I could die in this house. It’s got to be close to God.

See you in a few days,
Jack