Some kids can’t wait for the lazy, quiet days of summer.
Lazy? Quiet? No way, not at my house...and that’s just how I like it.
Pans and dishes clang in the big kitchen. Voices chatter and silverware clinks in the dining room. Upstairs, the vacuum cleaner hums. Outside, a tractor sputters its way across a field.
Then there’s the sound of the bell at the front desk, ringing one clear, musical note. Ding.
I turned away from the bulletin board, where I’d been pinning up a flyer for the big Ulster County Fair in August, and smiled at the man standing at the desk.
“Welcome to Pleasant View Farm,” I said. “Can I help you?”
“Um,” he hesitated, looking around for a grown up. He was obviously surprised to be greeted by a ten-year-old girl.
I get that a lot.
“I’m Mark Reilly and I have a reservation for tonight. I know I can’t check in until later, but I’m hoping I can leave a bag here while I go for a hike.”
“No problem,” I replied. “We can even bring it upstairs when your room is ready.”
“That sounds perfect.” He bent down and picked something up, then placed it delicately on the desk in front of me. “There you go.”
I looked at the bag.
And the bag looked right back at me.
Or I should say, two round eyes looked back at me, through a mesh panel on the side of the bag. Whatever was in there had two huge ears and a grey nose with whiskers.
“My chinchilla, Honeybun,” explained Mr. Reilly. “He’s quite the traveler.”
Okie dokie, I thought. I wasn’t planning on babysitting a chinchilla today, but when your family’s farm includes a bed-and-breakfast (especially one that advertises itself as “pet-friendly”), you pretty much expect the unexpected.
I watched Honeybun’s little nose twitch. “Your buddy seems a bit nervous,” I said to Mr. Reilly. “I’ll bet he needs a moment to relax.”
“He would like that,” Mr. Reilly said, his face softening with relief. “Somewhere dark and quiet.”
I smiled back. “I know just the place.”
“Thank you.” Then he said good-bye to us both and left.
I picked up Honeybun’s carrier bag and walked past the restaurant dining room and the door to the restaurant kitchen, then down a hallway. At the back of our house was a second, smaller kitchen––the one our family used––and my grandfather’s bedroom.
“You’ll be comfy in here for a while,” I said to Honeybun as I put him on Grandpa’s desk in the corner. “I’ll come back for you a little later.”
I turned to leave the room, only to be stopped short by my dress catching on the bag’s zipper and pulling it open.
Uh oh.
Before I knew it, there was a flash of grey fur and a puffy tail moving past me. I squealed as the grey blob raced around my grandfather’s room, almost faster than I could keep track of him. Under the bed! Under the desk! Under the chair! And then . . .
Stillness. Where had he gone?! I could already see Mr. Reilly’s review on the travel sites: ZERO stars!!! Pleasant View Bed & Breakfast LOST my chinchilla!!!!!
Don’t panic, I told myself. This is your house, not Honeybun’s, and you know every nook and cranny.
I got down on my hands and knees, peeking under Grandpa’s bed. I saw two small eyes and two long ears. “Honeybun! Thank goodness,” I said, reaching for the chinchilla. “It’s okay, little guy. Let’s get you back in your bag where you’ll be safe.” I pulled him out slowly and started petting . . . Grandpa’s bunny slipper. Great. I’d been talking to a shoe.
Still on my hands and I knees, I checked under the dresser. Nothing. I looked behind Grandpa’s hamper. No chinchilla, just one dirty sock that hadn’t made it into the basket. Eww.
As I crawled slowly toward the door, I scanned the room, checking the corners. I poked my head into the hallway, calling a soft, “here, chilla, chilla, chilla,” hoping Honeybun would come running like a cat.
Nope. Instead I saw Grandpa, standing at the other end of the hall, looking at me with a confused expression. He was with a young couple, and the woman was holding a squirming toddler by the hand.
“Blaire?” asked Grandpa, peering at me over the top of his glasses. “What on earth are you doing down there?”
I jumped up and brushed myself off. “I . . . was . . . uh . . . trying to see which floorboard is the one that always creaks when you step on it,” I stammered, walking back to the front desk. “Doesn’t that bug you? It really bugs me!”
Grandpa raised an eyebrow. “It’s been one of the biggest mysteries of my life.” He knew something was up. “In the meantime,” he continued, “Blaire, these are the Springers. They came here on their honeymoon a few years ago, and now they’re back with their son, Aidan.”
“Oh, I remember you guys!” I said, turning in a a slow circle and looking for any signs of Honeybun. The little boy let go of his mom’s hand and started spinning in a circle, too. I caught his eye and he giggled.
“We remember you, too,” Mr. Springer said. “We’ve been following the cooking posts you do with your mom on the farm’s website.”
I stopped spinning. “Thanks!” Mom and I have fun posting recipes and cooking videos. It’s always cool to be reminded that people actually read them.
“And it looks like you all have a big project going on with your old barn,” added Mrs. Springer. “I saw your father out there installing windows.”
“Yep,” I replied, peeking behind the long curtains that covered the front windows. “We’re converting it into an event space for parties and weddings.”
At the word “weddings,” Grandpa cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Springer, hurrying after Aiden, who had stopped spinning and was now headed for the front door. “Something tells me it won’t be quite as restful this time.”
I was just about to look for Honeybun behind the pillows on the window seat when Aiden started crying. His mom had picked him up, and he was not happy. Okay, the chinchilla would have to wait. I cannot let little kids cry at Pleasant View Farm.
“Aiden,” I said brightly. “Come with me.”
Mrs. Springer and Aiden followed me to the wall under the big staircase. Hidden in the patterned wallpaper was a tiny doorknob, easy to miss if you didn’t know to look for it. I opened the little door and as soon as he saw what was inside, Aidan stopped crying and squirmed out of this mom’s arms.
I’d spent months turning a storage space under the stairs into a play kitchen for kids and families who visited the B&B and the restaurant. It was an idea I’d gotten from one of my favorite design personalities online about doing creative things with unused spaces. Dad and I had a blast buidling a miniature pretend stove and fridge, and I’d filled it with toy pots, pans, dishes, and food. We even made a kid-sized table and two chairs, and I painted windows with curtains on the walls.
Mrs. Springer and I crawled in after Aiden. “Oh, Blaire,” she said, “this is absolutely delightfaaaahhhh!”
A puffy grey blob darted into the room and did a figure-eight around Mrs. Springer’s ankles.
“What was that?” she shreaked as Grandpa and Mr. Springer came running.
“Honeybun!” I shouted.
“Honey who?” Grandpa shouted back.
I didn’t stop to answer. Honeybun scrambled out of the play kitchen, dashed across the hall, and raced toward the dining room. I ran after him and—BAM.
I collided with my seven-year-old brother Beckett.
“I just saw a giant mouse!” he exclaimed.
“It’s a chinchilla, and he’s one of our guests,” I replied. “Help me catch him!”
