Inn on the Edge Read Free Page A

old man hobbled behind the lectern and drew out a sheaf
of paperwork. He tapped the top sheet with the same finger that he’d touched me
with on the porch. He frowned. He shook his head. “Oh my. Oh dear. I am so very
sorry. You are the last to arrive and it appears the only room available is the
North Tower. There is nothing else.”
    A tower!
    “That’s okay,” I said, grinning.
    “Ah, but are you willing to climb eight sets of stairs? Are
you willing to wake up at first light, surrounded by windows? Are you willing
to suffer drafts that cannot be plugged, no matter how many hours my
maintenance crew puts into them? My dear, have you ever slept in a tower
before?”
    I shook my head. A tower was a tower. “I want to! I’ve
always wanted to!”
    “Joshua?”
    “Fine. If that’s what she wants.”
    Josh, still holding my hand, gave me a special look, the
same look we’d been trading back and forth all day long. So what if we didn’t
get a lot of sleep in the tower? Neither of us meant to sleep much on our first
night as a married couple.
    “Then the North Tower it shall be.” The old man slid at
least ten pieces of paper toward me. “Please. Read these well and sign them.
They are…binding.”
    But thoughts of our very own tower filled my head. I was
tired. I had no intention of reading all those documents. Who ever heard of
signing a stack of papers to check into an inn, anyway? What could they say
that would be any different than any other hotel contract? Each page had the inn’s
letterhead at the top, fancy old-fashioned writing surrounded by tiny yellow
flowers. I shuffled through the pages with the quickest of glances. Words popped
out here and there. Lessons. Sharing of personal resources. Safety measures.
Secured boundaries. Locked premises. Sexual congress.
    Sexual congress?
    I glanced up, but before I could say anything the old man
handed me a pen. It was a quaint thing, one of those old-fashioned pens with a
sharpened point and a feather running along its shaft. What were these pens
called? Quills? Delighted at this relic from the past, I allowed any uneasiness
regarding secured boundaries and sexual congress to wither away.
I held the quill gingerly, feeling its carefully balanced weight, marveling at
this thing that looked more in keeping with the horror-movie exterior of the inn
than with the cozy interior. “You want me to sign with this ?”
    “Please. Only the best will do.” The old man looked at me
with hooded eyes. “Dip it in the ink pot. Then sign.”
    I moved it toward the paper. Then I yelped. “Hey! It poked
me!”
    The man inclined his head.
    “Look!” A sliver of the quill had separated itself from the
main shaft and impaled the tip of my index finger. I pulled it out. “See? It’s
bleeding.”
    The man didn’t move a muscle.
    “Look what it did to me! Why would you give me a damaged
pen?”
    A drop of my blood plopped onto the paper, Alizarin Crimson
on a field of Flake White. Startled, I looked up. Had I ruined his document?
Should I apologize? But no—I was the injured one. Shouldn’t he apologize
to me ?
    He didn’t. Instead he smiled. “The pen is very old. Ancient,
in fact. Regretfully these things happen. I shall have one of my girls—Zora or
Zenith perhaps—deliver a complimentary tray of gourmet chocolates to the North
Tower to show my dismay at your…ah…your pain. Your anguish. Will that suffice?
Will that assuage your hurt? Yes? Quite? Lovely. Now please. Disregard the
spot. Sign the document.”
    I signed the document, embarrassed. I’d overreacted. Worse,
the old man had known. He was well aware that I had felt no more than the
merest prick, that there had been no pain, no anguish. I sneaked an
uncomfortable look at him as he filed my paperwork, wondering how he’d guessed
the perfect gift to offer me. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on those gourmet
chocolates. I wanted them almost as badly as I wanted my new husband.
    I handed the quill to Josh.