1995
I let myself in by the side door as instructed by Hilde and find myself stopping in the door frame, transfixed by change. The hinged door swings shut behind me with a slap that nudges me inside. Still I stand, bath towel cradled to my chest, looking at what has happened to our home.
"Well, look at you," I say aloud. The blank, empty rooms echo my voice back to me: "Yoo-oo-oo."
A hallway with a section cornered off by a tall mahogany desk where guests will check in to the new B&B. A row of open doorways, like empty picture frames, stretches away down the corridor.
It seems vast, this premises, as I walk through room after empty room, across floor after bare wooden floor. The square-footage of the house has been doubled, but it feels four times as big: the old strangely-angled walls
