My life revolves around the handful of times we visit Nantucket each year. The humid, preppy little island is my happy place. This past weekend we went for the Daffodil Festival and stayed in a distractingly fabulous bed and breakfast run cottage.
The two-room wooden shingled cottage’s decor was confusing. It was as if someone had said, “let’s throw everything at the wall and see what sticks,” and everything fucking stuck.
Blue china plates against a line of oily taupe paint created an upper wall border, while the bottom 80% of the walls was a sad grey-blue. Random prints, amateur paintings, and framed tchotchkes harassed this depressed blue. Recessed lighting mapped the ceiling as though the Mad Hatter whispered into the electrician’s dreams. The small space harbored five lamps. Five. This overabundance of light sources made me a bit paranoid, as though I were in a Wes Craven movie.
There was a creative-type in the B & B’s midst, and they had access to sticks, wooden blocks and a wood burning tool. A compulsive cross-stitcher existed on the premises too. The floors were a patch work of three-foot by five-foot rugs. There was no theme. For every koi fish there were two rainbows and a cat.
The (Arizona orange) bathroom’s light and fan were controlled by the same switch so, unless one wanted to get ready in the dark, one was forced to brush one’s teeth to the sound of pennies shaking in a can.
Beneath all of this sensory overload was a subtle yet persistent scent of dryer sheet masked mold. If it were a Yankee Candle scent it would be “sheets that have been left in the washing machine through a humid summer weekend then thrown in the dryer.”
The cottage shared a wall with one of the most popular bars in town so we simply didn’t sleep. But I live for mediocre coffee on a chilly Nantucket morning. This is my long winding excuse for why I didn’t post a ghost story last week. I will post it this Friday. It is about brothers and a bunk bed and the importance of avoiding impulse buying while on vacation…