Seems that every year we’re serving more and more folks at the inn, and that’s a good thing, of course, though so exhausting at my age to greet everyone and act the hostess. Yes, I know, it’s hard to believe but I’m no spring chicken anymore! Ha! I joke, but the truth is that my advancing age is no laughing matter. By the time we were just getting into our evening seating for dinner, I was done. Fried, as my granddaughter would say—and she did. Thank God for Lucy. She sent me up to my room—I want to go on the record as having protested, but I admit it was merely to save face—and she took over for me. I had a lovely nap that lasted until six this morning. What can I say? I’m old and I was tired! Before I pooped out, I had a chat with Ellie Chapman—that is, Ellie Ryder, as she prefers these days—and I’m afraid I may have said too much. But for heaven’s sake, no one ever told that girl what had gone on in her mother’s life and she was entitled to know. Why Lynley had never told her about Evelyn’s depression and the eventual suicide of both Evelyn and Peter, well, I can only speculate on that.
