The Stranger You Can Trust

My grandmother, who lived on a tiny island 30 miles off the coast of Massachusetts, always had an extra bed available. If the house was full, she opened the foldout cots in the back of her rambling workshop. “There’s always room for one more,” she would say, pulling out sheets and blankets within seconds of getting a phone call from her church or the chamber of commerce, alerting her to stranded tourists who had missed the last boat or some other lost souls. In the morning, the accidental guests would sit at her tiny kitchen table for coffee, Jiffy baked muffins, and a whole lot of stories.