The Road to Grace (The Walk) Read Free Page A

the home’s living room. The room had dark red shag carpet and forest green walls, covered with framed prints of Christmas-themed watercolors.
    “What’s your name?” she asked.
    “Alan.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Alan. We have five rooms available and a cabin out back. I’ll show you around and you can tell me which room you’d like.”
    “Are your rooms haunted?” I asked.
    She looked at me with a strange expression. “Not that I know of. Did you need a haunted room?”
    I grinned. “No. Unhaunted is fine.”
    Dawna led me through all five of the rooms, beginning with the Western Room, which featured a replica of Wyatt Earp’s revolver, the USA Room, the Bridal Suite, the Harley Room (undoubtedly patronizing the annual motorcycle event in Sturgis), and the Victorian Room, which was decorated with Dawna’s mother-in-law’s christening dress and a working, antique Victrola.
    The rooms all looked nice and I didn’t care much about which room I stayed in, so I selected the Western Room for the pragmatic reason that it was closest to the front door. That and I liked its tub, which was just about large enough for a cowboy and his horse.
    “Fine choice,” Dawna said. “For breakfast tomorrow I’ll be serving my festive breakfast casserole. What time do you think you’ll be wanting to eat?”
    “I usually get an early start,” I said, pleased at the offer of something festive for breakfast. “Maybe seven. Possibly earlier.”
    “I’ll have breakfast waiting for you. Have a good night.”
    I went to my room and turned on the television while I let the jetted tub fill. The television was tuned to a reality show about people bidding on the contents of abandoned storage units. They should do a show about a guy walking across America , I thought. Just not me .
    I turned off the television, undressed, then soaked in water hot enough to turn my skin red until I was ready to go to sleep.

C H A P T E R
     
    Four
     
    To say that one doesn’t know when to
    quit is either an insult or a compliment,
    depending on the outcome.
    Alan Christoffersen’s diary
     

The next morning I woke to the sound of dishes clanking in the dining room. I checked the clock. It was nearly eight o’clock. I showered, shaved, and dressed, then packed up and went outside my room for breakfast. Dawna walked into the dining room about the same time I did.
    “Good morning, sleepyhead. Glad I got up at five-thirty to get breakfast on.”
    “I’m sorry. I …”
    She waved her hand. “I’m just joshin’ you. I had another guest I had to get breakfast for. What would you like to drink? I’ve got coffee, orange juice, apple juice, milk, all of the above if you like.”
    “Coffee and orange juice,” I said.
    She walked back to the kitchen while I sat down at the table, which was set with a poinsettia print tablecloth and Christmas place settings trimmed in red and gold with holly leaf decorations. The centerpiece was a glass chimney and candle set in a holly wreath.
    A few minutes later Dawna returned to the dining room holding a casserole dish and a silver serving spoon. “My festive breakfast casserole is one of our guests’ favorites,” she said. “It has pork sausage, cheddar, picante sauce, bread, and eggs. It’s delicious.”
    “It looks good,” I said.
    “It is.” She spooned a large serving of casserole onto my plate, then said, “Oh, I forgot your beverages.”
    She went back to the kitchen, returning a minute later with my juice and coffee. She set the drinks down and sat down across the table from me, presumably to watch me eat.
    I took a couple of bites, expecting her to say something, but she didn’t. She just sat there watching me,which, frankly, was a little uncomfortable. Finally I asked, “How’s business?”
    She sighed. “A little slow but it’s picking up. It’s not tourist season yet. During Sturgis we just rent the whole place out. You know what Sturgis is?”
    I nodded. “I had employees who went