Inn on the Edge Read Free

door slammed behind
us.
    The first thing I noticed was the smell, a pleasant mix of
cinnamon and clove, with undertones of…what? Persian carpet and pine needles?
Coffee? The briny ocean, certainly. The second thing I noticed was the
understated tastefulness of the place, a contrast so striking from the exterior
that I caught myself gaping, open-mouthed. The room was not at all what I had
expected. A fire crackled in a large, stone-faced hearth, casting a cheerful
glow and emitting warm crackling sounds. Leather-covered couches and
overstuffed wing chairs extended an invitation to linger. A wide, curving
staircase led to an upper story. Bookshelves tucked between furniture, full of
beautifully bound volumes waited to be explored. Paintings in strategic
locations, lit from above, pulled my eye. I studied the nearest one, knowing it
was not something one would buy at the local warehouse store.
    “I curated them myself,” said the old man in a paper-thin
voice. “Collected them. Commissioned a few.”
    He’d been watching me. Closely watching me.
    “Oh?”
    “Originals. Each highlighting a specific concept. Each a
masterwork.”
    “Yes,” I said, reeling. The old man’s sudden change from possible
mass murderer to curator of fine art,not to mention the transformation
of the inn itself, had come too quickly for me to properly process. “I can see
that.”
    “Perspective.” He lifted a thin arm to point to a cityscape
to our left.
    I took a step farther into the room, leaned against a couch
and studied the painting.
    “Value.” He pointed to a charming ocean scene above the
fireplace mantel.
    I admired it.
    “Hue.” A forest glen.
    I sucked in my breath.
    “And my favorite. The human figure.” A nude reclining on a
couch. The couch in the painting was the same piece of furniture my hand was resting
on, I was sure of it. I ran my fingers over the soft fawn fabric.
    The old man watched me. He licked his lips.
    Josh cleared his throat.
    The old man let his arm drop, exhausted. He was even older
than I’d originally thought, thinner and frailer-looking, his hands and face
dotted with age spots, his wrinkled, hairless head seeming too heavy for his
slender neck. He turned to Josh. “Are we boring you, Joshua Taylor?”
    Josh reddened. Shook his head. “Um…no. No.”
    A smile played on the old man’s mouth. “Of course we are. No
need to prevaricate. Your lovely bride Angela and I share an interest in fine
art, an interest we shall explore at a later time.” He gave my husband a long,
probing look. “I imagine my collection of antique musical instruments might be
of considerably more interest to you? Am I correct?”
    “Instruments? Here?”
    “I am a man of many interests, Mr. Taylor. I study the finer
things in life.”
    “Oh,” said Josh, sounding as if he were all of twelve years
old. “That’s nice.”
    How had the old man known our names? From our reservation?
And where were the other guests? Had they already arrived?
    Our host clapped his hands twice, sharply. “But I must
introduce myself! And my staff! How churlish of me.” His fingers curled around
a gnarled cane with a heavy head that looked as if it could do double duty as a
club. “Come. We will get you checked in and sort out your paperwork. And give
you a proper welcome. And discuss certain rules of the inn, such as my
no-cell-phone, no-internet rule. Yes? Have I mentioned that your stay with me
will include certain…perks?”
    That got Josh’s attention. Freebies always got Josh’s
attention, as did giveaways and prizes of all sorts. And raffles and lotteries
and—most definitely— perks . He followed the old man across the room to a
tall lectern made of lovely marbled wood. The check-in desk. “What kind of
perks?” he asked.
    But the old man didn’t answer.
    And he’d forgotten to tell us his name.
    I stood beside Josh. He found my hand and squeezed it, a
promise of what was to come as soon as we found ourselves alone.
    The