“Not my problem. Are you coming or staying?”
Am I coming or staying? If I stay, I have eighteen-dollars to my name and no place to stay. It’s possible that the apple-head lady will put me up for a night, but I don’t think I’d like sleeping among the apple heads, no matter how much taffy she gives me.
Thor sits with his hands on the small steering wheel, his back straight. He’s got a killer body, about negative five percent body fat. I bet he would never eat banana taffy, and that fact helps me beat back the attraction I feel for him. I’m trying hard to deny any attraction for him. Stay on track, Beryl. Remember the false advertising.
Thor’s a hard, disciplined man, and he seems like he’s bound and determined not to give in, but I’ll be a lot closer to getting my way if I go with him. I can’t convince him of anything if I’m on the other side of the island, eating taffy.
“Let’s go,” I say. Without another word, he peels away from the curb. We make a circle around the wishing fountain, and drive through the village.
“Funky place,” I say. “Apple head doll store. Am I right?”
He doesn’t say much. He stares straight ahead, either focused on the road ahead, stuck in his own thoughts, or actively ignoring me.
It dawns on me that he might be as unhappy with the results of the will as I am. But I’m an actual relative, and I’ve no idea what he is.
“Were you surprised by the will?” I ask.
Thor grips the steering wheel tightly until his knuckles turn white. “I’ve been hanging out at the High Tide my whole life. It’s been my second home, and Eleanor was like my mother.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say.
“The High Tide is a magical place,” he continues. “It deserves to be run by someone who loves it, by someone who knows its history.”
“Fine with me. Buy me out, and you can love it forever.”
He grunts and keeps driving. We head away from the village. The island’s landscape is for the most part pretty barren with low scrub and a lot of sand, but the sea air is delicious. It invigorates and relaxes me at the same time. After driving for about ten minutes, Thor turns into a long dirt driveway. Tall eucalyptus trees line both sides of the road. It’s peaceful and lovely, but there’s a small piece of me that wonders if Thor is taking me to the middle of nowhere to kill me in order to keep the inn for himself.
Soon, however, a large sign announces the High Tide Inn, and my worry fades away. One side of the sign has fallen off its hinge and is stuck in the dirt, and half of the letters are rubbed away so that it says, “Hig ide n,” but I get the picture. A second later, I see my half-inheritance.
The inn is a large house. It’s a massive wood structure, which used to be white, but now the paint is chipped and worn to almost nothing. “Oh my God, it’s the Psycho house,” I say.
“It’s not the Psycho house,” Thor growls.
But it is. It’s a large, rundown Victorian, and I’d bet my eighteen dollars that Thor has got a dead woman in a rocking chair somewhere on the property. Maybe I’ll meet my dead aunt after all.
The house is built on a cliff with a lot of land around it. Thor parks the golf cart at the front door, which is massive and made of solid oak. In the center of the door is a large stained glass pane of a dove with an olive branch in its beak. The international symbol of peace.
As nice as the front door is, the place is a total dump. I count three broken windows, a lot of termite damage, and trash everywhere. If it was ever an inn, it stopped being one years ago. Nobody would ever pay to stay here, now. “It’s a dump!” I yell. Even if I sell it, I could never live off the proceeds. In this instant, any glimmer of hope I had is dashed. Who would buy this ramshackle monstrosity?
“It’s not a dump,” Thor says, walking up the steps to the front door with the key in his hand.
“It’s the Psycho house. It’s probably
Am I coming or staying? If I stay, I have eighteen-dollars to my name and no place to stay. It’s possible that the apple-head lady will put me up for a night, but I don’t think I’d like sleeping among the apple heads, no matter how much taffy she gives me.
Thor sits with his hands on the small steering wheel, his back straight. He’s got a killer body, about negative five percent body fat. I bet he would never eat banana taffy, and that fact helps me beat back the attraction I feel for him. I’m trying hard to deny any attraction for him. Stay on track, Beryl. Remember the false advertising.
Thor’s a hard, disciplined man, and he seems like he’s bound and determined not to give in, but I’ll be a lot closer to getting my way if I go with him. I can’t convince him of anything if I’m on the other side of the island, eating taffy.
“Let’s go,” I say. Without another word, he peels away from the curb. We make a circle around the wishing fountain, and drive through the village.
“Funky place,” I say. “Apple head doll store. Am I right?”
He doesn’t say much. He stares straight ahead, either focused on the road ahead, stuck in his own thoughts, or actively ignoring me.
It dawns on me that he might be as unhappy with the results of the will as I am. But I’m an actual relative, and I’ve no idea what he is.
“Were you surprised by the will?” I ask.
Thor grips the steering wheel tightly until his knuckles turn white. “I’ve been hanging out at the High Tide my whole life. It’s been my second home, and Eleanor was like my mother.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say.
“The High Tide is a magical place,” he continues. “It deserves to be run by someone who loves it, by someone who knows its history.”
“Fine with me. Buy me out, and you can love it forever.”
He grunts and keeps driving. We head away from the village. The island’s landscape is for the most part pretty barren with low scrub and a lot of sand, but the sea air is delicious. It invigorates and relaxes me at the same time. After driving for about ten minutes, Thor turns into a long dirt driveway. Tall eucalyptus trees line both sides of the road. It’s peaceful and lovely, but there’s a small piece of me that wonders if Thor is taking me to the middle of nowhere to kill me in order to keep the inn for himself.
Soon, however, a large sign announces the High Tide Inn, and my worry fades away. One side of the sign has fallen off its hinge and is stuck in the dirt, and half of the letters are rubbed away so that it says, “Hig ide n,” but I get the picture. A second later, I see my half-inheritance.
The inn is a large house. It’s a massive wood structure, which used to be white, but now the paint is chipped and worn to almost nothing. “Oh my God, it’s the Psycho house,” I say.
“It’s not the Psycho house,” Thor growls.
But it is. It’s a large, rundown Victorian, and I’d bet my eighteen dollars that Thor has got a dead woman in a rocking chair somewhere on the property. Maybe I’ll meet my dead aunt after all.
The house is built on a cliff with a lot of land around it. Thor parks the golf cart at the front door, which is massive and made of solid oak. In the center of the door is a large stained glass pane of a dove with an olive branch in its beak. The international symbol of peace.
As nice as the front door is, the place is a total dump. I count three broken windows, a lot of termite damage, and trash everywhere. If it was ever an inn, it stopped being one years ago. Nobody would ever pay to stay here, now. “It’s a dump!” I yell. Even if I sell it, I could never live off the proceeds. In this instant, any glimmer of hope I had is dashed. Who would buy this ramshackle monstrosity?
“It’s not a dump,” Thor says, walking up the steps to the front door with the key in his hand.
“It’s the Psycho house. It’s probably
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