Inn on the Edge Read online

  “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 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. “Be careful.”

  But he wasn’t. With a theatrical flourish, he signed the paper. Then he twirled the quill around in his fingers as if it were a drum stick, showing off. “A prop,” he said, “that’s all this is! I don’t believe for a moment it’s real.” He rapped the quill on the edge of the lectern, ignoring the old man’s stifled intake of breath. Winking at me, Josh tapped the feathered part against his cheek. Then he turned it around and examined the tip, looking for the loose end of the splinter, running the pad of his finger over the rough spot. And then…and then, somehow,he managed to jab himself with it.

  I gasped.

  Josh stared at his index finger, at the splinter stuck in the precise same place mine had been. Laughing, incredulous, he showed the finger to me, then waved his hand in front of the old man.

  The old man clutched the edge of the lectern. His knuckles turned white.

  “Holy shit,” said Josh, “I have
no idea how that happened!”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cringe. Surely my husband’s show of idiocy was testing the old man’s patience. I hoped the gourmet chocolates would still make an appearance in the North Tower.

  “Oh dear,” breathed the old man.

  “Watch.” Josh held his finger over the paper he’d just signed. Taking the injured finger in his other hand, he squeezed it, milking it until a drop of blood formed. It wasn’t a nice, fat drop like mine—it trembled and hung for a moment, clinging, before falling onto the paper. He grinned in triumph. “See! Now we have matching signatures, Angie!”

  I saw.

  So did the old man. He took Josh’s hand in his own. Gently, he stroked it. “Thank you, Joshua Taylor. Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.” He lifted my husband’s hand, then brushed it against his papery lips, leaving a thin red smear of blood. Josh tried to pull his hand away but the old man clutched it tightly. “Joshua. Joshua,” he said softly, “Now may we speak of perks?”

  Josh looked at his hand, frowning. “Perks. Uh. Yes. Sure.”

  The old man licked his lips. The blood disappeared. He took a breath so deep it caused him to sway on his feet. Josh, to my dismay, swayed also.

  Wedding dress rustling, I stepped in front of Josh. I put my hand on his arm and pulled it away from the old man’s lips, doing for him what he couldn’t do for himself. Performance art, indeed. This was unlike any performance art I’d ever seen, and I’d seen a lot. What was going on here was not performance art, it was something else entirely. What more proof did I need? The bewildering man in front of us had just licked my husband’s blood off his lips!

  I shuddered. Looked at my stunned husband. Made up my mind. Tomorrow, after my night in the North Tower—I had to have my night in the tower, I just had to, and I had to have my gourmet chocolates too—we’d leave this place. Josh was right. It was too weird. I was starting to get that “off” feeling that Josh described before we’d even left the car. One night. One night, and we’d get the hell out of there. One night, and this place would be a weird memory that one day we’d laugh about.

  “Perks?” said Josh. “You were going to tell us about perks?”

  The old man seemed to come back from wherever he’d been. A vein throbbed in his wrinkled forehead. He looked from me to Josh, then back again. “Oh yes! Perks such as only I can offer. Nowhere in the world will you find such…value. Indeed, what I intend to give you is worth far more than money. I have signed you up for the special package. The Lesson package.”

  “Lessons?” I asked, “What kind of lessons?”

  “The first will be tomorrow. At two o’clock. Be sure to eat plenty at breakfast—you’ll need the sustenance. Now, to the North Tower with you! Gather up your belongings! Gird your loins! My lovelies, you must be simply dying to begin your honeymoon!”

  Gird our loins?

  Josh and I shared a look, trying not to snigger.

  The old man moved from behind his lectern, leaving the cane behind. With a hand on each of our backs, he herded us toward the staircase. Five steps up, wheezing and winded, he pulled us to a halt and arranged us side by side against the railing. He hid our suitcases behind us as best he could, then slipped a camera from his pocket. “Angela. Joshua. It is my greatest pleasure to commemorate my guests on their wedding night. I will now capture you in the first blush of innocence.”

  The first blush of innocence?

  I tried not to laugh aloud. “Innocent” wasn’t the word I’d use to describe Josh and me. There was nothing innocent about us. We were consenting adults. We’d been having sex for years. But then I frowned. Maybe the old man meant something else? It seemed entirely possible, given what we’d seen so far.

  But the old man was talking again. “I will send the pictures to you afterward. At no charge, of course.”

  Josh nodded, interested now. “Okay. If they’re free.”

  The old man smiled, clapped his hands again. “Marvelous! Pose, if you will. Angela, be a dear and spread your dress—the bodice is wrinkled. And bring that luscious skirt around where I can see it. Good. Lift your shoulders and turn your bust toward Joshua. Lift them, my dear! Show us what you’ve got! Yes, that’s much better. Now smile at your man as if you wish to ravish him tonight. Yes, yes! Show me your rampant desire! Show me!”

  The old man’s cheeks had some color in them now.

  I lifted my chest, smiled at Josh, thought about ravishing him. It wasn’t hard to do. My cheeks probably showed more color as well.

  The old man touched my arm, clucking worriedly. “But my dear—your hair is a disaster! Do let me help…” He leaned in close, raised his skinny arms. His cold hands patted and smoothed my hair, stroking my cheek, my neck, my shoulders. Rather too much touching for what he was doing, but I couldn’t seem to move. I just stood there. My nose filled with his peculiar cinnamon-laced old-man smell, making me want to sneeze and shy away.

  But I didn’t.

  Finally, with a lingering touch suspiciously like a caress, his hands left me. “There! That’s much better.” He turned his attention to Josh. “Put your arm around her. No—lower.” He took Josh’s arm and moved it into position. “Like that. Now. Cup her breast in your hand. Play with her nipple.”

  Josh laughed. “You must be kidding!”

  The old man just stared at him.

  Josh hesitated. Then I felt the warm weight of his hand on my breast, causing a shiver to run the entire length of my spine.

  The camera flashed.

  “Now kiss her, Joshua Taylor.”

  Our lips found each other. Familiar. Comforting. A touch of home in this place that had us both so unbalanced. Josh’s hand squeezed my breast, his finger ran lightly over my nipple. I sighed.

  The old man sighed.

  The camera flashed twice more. Then the old man slipped the camera back into his pocket. “Ah. Heroic. A blushing bride! On her wedding night! But this old man’s knees rebel.” He went down a step. “Regrettably, I will not join you on your climb. Eight flights might as well be the heights of Machu Picchu, entirely too much for the likes of me. You will find your room at the top, to the right. You would be hard-pressed to miss it. The key is in the door and your supper is prepared.” The old man turned to me. “Your chocolates await you, my dear. As does your randy husband.” He turned to Josh. “Oh yes, young man, I am well aware of your mighty erection. You will have a fine time tonight, rest assured.” And with that, the old man turned from us, limped down the remaining stairs, shambled across the room and was gone from sight.

  We stared after him, aghast.

  Josh broke into a wide grin. “That horny old geezer is right, you know.” He took my hand and held it over his crotch, pressing my fingers against the aforementioned mighty erection.

  “Goodness! You are randy!”

  Randy. When had I ever heard that word used in real life? For that matter, had I ever said the word “goodness”?

  The place was rubbing off on me.

  Josh threaded his fingers through mine. Gave me a final kiss. Told me what he intended to do to me tonight. Then my randy husband and I took the first step toward our drafty room at the top of the North Tower.

  Chapter Three

  “We still don’t know his name,” I said.

  Josh tugged the suitcases up the last few stairs and stood beside me on the landing, breathing hard. He raised his eyebrows.

  I set my painting case down. “We should make one up for him.”

  “Weirdo,” Josh said. “Weirdo McStrange.”

  “Or is it…Bizarre Q. Oddball?”

  He snorted. “What does the Q stand for?”

  “I don’t know.” I leaned over the railing and peered down. “Jeez, that’s a long way. Someone could get hurt if they fell from here.” I turned around. “Quirkerton. The Q stands for Quirkerton.”

  “Nah. Forget that one. His name is Freaky Freaktown. This is our room? Are there any others up here?”


  The door was straight off the landing, directly in front of us, just as Mr. Freaktown had promised. A key stuck out of the lock. I was mildly disappointed—why wouldn’t a place that made guests sign in with a quill have skeleton keys for their rooms? No matter. I turned the key and pushed on the door. It wouldn’t open.

  “Let me try,” said Josh. But he hadn’t even touched the knob when the door flew open, causing us both to jump backward.

  A woman stood in our room. She was tall, long-limbed, with a narrow face and a cascade of warm reddish-brown hair. I have a talent for remembering precise valuations of color—back in art school my professors told me they’d never seen anything like it—and this woman’s hair was the exact hue of Burnt Sienna paint, straight from the tube. It was beautiful. I hadn’t known hair could be that color.

  “Oh! I’m sorry!” she said, “I was just setting up your dinner. See? I meant to be done with this by the time you arrived.”

  “No worries,” Josh said.

  “Come in!” She pushed the door wider, gesturing. “Angie and Josh Taylor, right? This is your room! The North Tower! Complete with en suite bathroom.” She grabbed one of the suitcases and dragged it over the threshold. “I’m Zenith. I work here—but you probably figured that out, didn’t you? I’m a Guide. Did he tell you about the Lessons? I’ll be teaching some of them. Hey! The three of us will get to know each other pretty well in the next few days!” She swung her long hair over her shoulder.

  That hair.

  I couldn’t stop staring. I wanted to take that hair and run my hands down its shimmering length. I wanted to pat wayward strands back into place. I wanted to tuck it behind her ear. I wanted to brush it, braid it, touch it.

  Touch her.

  Josh cleared his throat. He put his hand on my elbow.

  This place was getting to me. Since when did I want to touch a woman? And what kind of person was I, to even think of touching someone else on my wedding day? But Zenith didn’t seem to notice my bizarre bout of lesbian lust or my excruciating embarrassment. “Let me show you the room!”