The long check-in counter looms to one side, while the mahogany bar stretches along the right wall, its brass foot rails gleaming faintly even in the low light. The shelves behind it are lined with silent bottles of liquor, glinting like forgotten treasure. Some kind of wedding garlands, still strung from the summer season, drape across the mantelpieces, their ribbon tails stirring in the draft.
On the far wall, the trophy case gleams with polished victories—golf cups, tennis plates, and shiny sailing prizes. Old photographs line the walls, black-tie galas, proud tournament winners, glowing brides and grooms on manicured lawns.
“This is where your mom wants you to get married, huh?” Penn’s voice is casual, almost too casual. He lifts a shoulder. “Seems like a nice place.”
“It is,” I say softly. For a moment, memories rush back—my brothers’ weddings, the laughter, the dancing, the champagne corks popping. My smile fades almost as quickly as it came. Dylan and I had once talked about standing in this very place as husband and wife. Now the thought feels like a bruise I’d rather not poke.
Penn must sense the shift, because instead of pressing, he rubs his bare hands together, blowing on them dramatically. “It’s freezing in here. If I get frostbite, you’re carrying me out.”
I let out a laugh, the sound bouncing in the vaulted space. My gaze flicks to the leather chairs positioned before the massive stone fireplace, a cozy tableau begging for a fire. For a split second, I imagine curling up there, the storm raging beyond the windows, the world shut out. But we’re on a mission, and the storm outside is only getting worse.
“Where’s the star?” he asks.
“From what I was told, it was packed away with last year’s parade decorations. Which means…” I shrug, unknowingly. “Storage room?”
“Which is where?”
I turn in a slow circle, lips pursed. The grandeur of the club suddenly feels like a labyrinth. “Uh…let’s start with the basement storage?”
He cocks a brow, amused. “You don’t actually know where the basement is, do you?”
“Not…exactly.”
His hand finds mine again, warm and sure. “Then let’s go find ourselves a door.”
We head down a long corridor lined with portraits of stern-looking board members. Penn pushes open a door at random, and we peek inside. The room is smaller, more intimate, cloaked in heavy curtains that smell faintly of cigar smoke. An antique chessboard waits in the corner, and faded leather chairs are gathered around a low table.
“I think the board of directors use this one,” I murmur.
Penn points to the polished game table, his mouth quirking. “Poker night. Guaranteed.”
“Probably. Let’s keep looking.” Penn nods, and we continue down the long, quiet hall. My heels click on the polished floor, echoing in the emptiness. “Why does it feel like we’re doing something illegal?” I murmur, glancing over my shoulder.
“I don’t know… but it does.” His hand tightens around mine, warm and reassuring as we check a few more doors.
At the end of the hallway, we come to glass doors. Before Penn can push them open, I whisper, “The ballroom.”
“Maybe they store stuff in here,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
He opens the doors and we step inside. The space stretches endlessly before us—a parquet dance floor that gleams under the soft chandeliers, the walls lined with sconces that throw gentle pools of light. He spots a door near the small stage. “Let’s look there.”
Our shoes click across the floor as we approach the stage, usually home to bands and speeches and sometimes summer camp productions. Penn tries the closet door. Locked.
I point to his coat pocket. “Check the keys.”
He digs through the ring, testing several before one finally clicks. Inside, we find boxes of old costumes, tattered dress clothes from summer plays, and stray pieces of décor.
“No star.” I sigh, shoulders slumping. I pace the room, eyes scanning the elegant archway that leads to the formal dining room. Sunlight—or in this case, snow light—would usually pour through its tall windows onto polished tables and gleaming silverware. It’s odd seeing it so empty, so silent, when I’ve only ever known it alive with chatter, music, and laughter.
“Are you okay?” Penn asks softly.
“Yes… I was just thinking about all the parties I’ve attended here, the dinners, the celebrations…”
“You sound like you miss it,” he says.
“You know,” I murmur, turning to face him, “I do. But this…” I wave a hand around the silent grandeur. “With no one here, without the usual chatter and clinking glasses…it’s like the whole place has been put on mute. And I…don’t hate it.”
“I’m here,” he says quietly, the warmth in his voice wrapping around me.