Inn on the Edge (8 page)

I blanched. Oh god! What was wrong with me?

Mr. Adi Abiba clapped his hands. “Sit, please.”

We all sat down, expectant.

“Our week has begun. Isn’t it exciting? Isn’t it fabulous?”

Murmurs of agreement flowed around the table.

He nodded, agreeing with his own words. “It is exciting, it
surely is.” He clapped again, louder, forcefully. The sound made me come to
attention, made us all sit up straighter. “Jonathan Roberts! Stand up, if you
will.”

Jonathan was at the furthest end of the table. I’d barely
spoken to him or to his partner Geoffrey, but they seemed friendly and
engaging, like everyone at the table. Jonathan stood up quickly, eager to
please. “Yes?”

“You are an artist, I believe?”

Jonathan stood even taller. “Yes. A jeweler. I make fine-art
jewelry.”

“Brilliant!” Mr. Abiba said, smiling hugely, showering
Jonathan with his approval. Even I could feel the warmth of the old man’s
enormous happiness from where I sat halfway down the table. I smiled too,
basking in the glow. Mr. Abiba extended his arms toward Jonathan. “I truly
adore handiwork made by my own talented friends! You shall display your work
tonight at dinner.”

Jonathan’s smile faltered. “But—”

Mr. Abiba let his arms fall. “Is there a problem?”

“My work—I don’t have it with me.”

Mr. Abiba turned his gaze on Jonathan’s partner. “Geoffrey.
Is this true?”

Geoffrey looked uneasy. “Not really, sir. No. We do have it
with us. I, uh, packed Jonathan’s travel case with his best work. I brought it
along for our honeymoon. I’m not sure why.” He shrugged. “It seemed like the
thing to do…”

“And so it was!” cried Mr. Abiba. “And so it was!”

Jonathan the jeweler sat down, aghast, staring at his
partner. “Really, Geoffrey? You did that? Without telling me?”

Geoffrey nodded. Swallowed. “I did. Yes.”

Mr. Abiba laughed. “And such a good thing that he did!
Imagine, what we would have missed if he hadn’t. Jonathan Roberts, I do so look
forward to your show!”

“Okay,” said Jonathan, nodding. “Fine. I enjoy showing off
my work. No problem.”

I glanced toward Josh out of the corner of my eye. He’d
packed my painting kit and brought it along on our honeymoon.

Had it “seemed like the thing to do”?

“Vane!”

Vane stood up, wiping crumbs from his lap. “Yes, sir?”

“Grace us with a song, if you will.”

Vane moved around the table, stood beside our host. He put
his hand on the back of the carved chair, took three deep breaths.
Vane—singing? The morning was full of surprises. The room fell into a hush,
quieter even than when Rhonda-Lynne had complained about the games. Zettia came
back into the room and leaned against the doorway. Mr. Abiba closed his eyes.

Vane began to sing.

We all held our breath and listened.

Vane’s voice was full and warm, trained, carefully cultured,
a joy to listen to. He sang opera of some sort, I thought, an aria perhaps, or
a solo maybe. Definitely a solo. His song was in a different language, and I
didn’t understand a word, but who cares? I didn’t need to understand. I’m no
opera buff, I don’t even like opera, but Vane’s song was beautiful.
Transporting. My favorable impression of Vane’s performance was confirmed by
Josh, who knew good music when he heard it. He leaned forward, his elbows on
the table, his eyebrows knitted in concentration. When Vane’s song ended in a
delightful flourish of scale runs, Josh let out a long breath.

Vane bowed from the waist, accepting our applause as if he
was born to it.

A few long seconds passed, as the song faded into the
woodwork, into the carpeting, leaked out of the doorways, lodged itself in our
heads. I sighed.

“Lovely, as always,” said Mr. Abiba, “Thank you, my dear.
And that, my friends, concludes breakfast.” His voice rang with finality.

We stood. Made movements away from the table.

Mr. Abiba raised his hand, stilling us. “Before you leave, a
few announcements. Your wedding attire is being cleaned at my expense. Please
do not be alarmed at the absence of your beautiful dresses, my dear ones! They
shall be returned to you in due time.” He took the time to look at the brides
in the room, smiling at us in turn. We smiled back, even Rhonda-Lynne, all of
us thinking the same thing. What a nice old man! What a generous host! Cleaning
our wedding dresses, indeed! Do you have any idea how much that costs?

“Lessons will be conducted in your rooms, at two o’clock,”
he continued. “Please be ready. Dinner will be at seven. That is all.” His
face, so animated only a few moments before, fell into weary old-man wrinkles.
He stifled a massive yawn, then regarded us through tired eyes. “Please. Return
to your rooms at this time. Naps might be in order, no? Why—we’ve eaten enough
just now to feed a battalion! I could certainly use a nap. Enjoy your Lessons.
Make sure to use the goodies in your baskets, and let us meet again at dinner.
Goodbye, my lovelies!” And with that, Mr. Abiba turned and swept from the room.

It seemed darker after he left.

Josh turned to me. “A nap? Really?”

“I think it’s a splendid idea,” I said, yawning. “We didn’t
sleep much last night.”

Splendid?

I was using Mr. Adi Abiba’s fancy words again.

“Well, okay,” said Josh. “I suppose I could use a nap.”

One by one, subdued, we left the dining room, all of us.
Josh and I climbed our eight flights, fighting to keep our eyes open. I didn’t
even notice the stair coverings that had so delighted me earlier.

We let ourselves into our room and fell onto the bed. In
seconds we were asleep.

It was almost one o’clock.

We hadn’t discussed leaving. Not a single word.

And no prizes had been awarded.

I woke up about ten minutes before our Lesson was to start.

Josh and I were on top of the covers, fully dressed,
cuddling. I lay next to my new husband, yawning, enjoying the safe warmth of
his long body and the comfort of his slow deep breaths, basking in the oddly shaped
blocks of light that streamed onto us from the room’s many windows. The room
was so light it appeared rosy-tinted even when I closed my eyes.

I was awake. Foggy-headed, but awake.

I squirmed carefully out of Josh’s sleep-heavy arms and
scooted from the bed. Time to explore our tower room. Wriggling my toes into a
plush area carpet, I stood beside the bed and turned in a slow circle. I’d
thought a room in a tower would be round, or at least perfectly square if it
was a square sort of tower, but it was neither. Our tower room was a space
entirely its own, following no discernible pattern, full of surprising angles
and shapes. Window-seated alcoves spilled outward, making the room appear
larger. Low-ceilinged corners jutted inward, making it appear smaller. The room
expanded into airy spaciousness in some places, but grew narrow and pinched in
others. And on every wall, windows and more windows. What a fantastic,
difficult space.

I wanted to paint it in the worst way.

I padded to the nearest window seat and gazed out, waiting
to fully wake up, waiting for my mind to clear. The ocean was the same ocean as
yesterday, but different today, so different—less Payne’s Gray, more a mixed,
fluid grayness, made of Lamp Black and Flake White with perhaps a touch of
Cobalt Blue. It stretched into the distance until it faded into the sky at the
horizon. If I craned my head to the left I could see, in the distance, the town
Josh and I had driven through last night.

Last night? It seemed as if we’d been at the inn for much
longer.

I trailed my fingers over the flocked fabric of the cushion
in the window seat, glad I’d packed a book. Later on, when I had some free
time, I would curl up in the window seat—all I needed to make the picture
complete was Spot, my cat, nestled on my lap, kneading my legs with his
too-sharp claws, purring, batting at my book.
Rapscallion
. That’s what
Mr. Abiba would call him. Feeling the soft fabric under my fingers, missing my
little orange-and-white rapscallion, I looked around the room.

My glance passed over the door, then came back and lingered
there. The door would be locked. I didn’t even have to check. It was locked,
and we were locked inside. Just as we had been last night, just as we were
locked inside the inn itself. As was correct and right.

No problem there.

I studied the furniture. The bed was huge. Probably one of
those extra-wide king-sized mattresses. On either side of the bed was a small
table, each with a bouquet of the same yellow flowers that had been on the
table. They were obviously the inn’s signature flower. An old-fashioned
wardrobe stood next to the bathroom door, tall and imposing. Perhaps I ought to
hang our clothes in there, later, when I was in the mood. There was an old
scroll-style desk on the other side of the bed. Would it have Inn on the Edge
stationery? A pen? Postcards? Curious now, wanting in the worst way to roll up
the top and see what was hidden inside, I went to the desk and ran my fingers
over its bumpy top. It made a very soft wooden-instrument sound that wasn’t
unlike the marimba-noise we’d made yesterday. I did it again, careful not to
scratch the old wood with my fingernails. How charming! I’d have to show this
to Josh. He’d love it.

On second thought, maybe I wouldn’t.

I could see it, almost. He would attack this wonderful old
desk with misplaced enthusiasm. He’d probably bang on the retractable top. He’d
probably run a shoe up and down its ridges to hear the interesting sounds it
made. He’d probably whack it with the flat of his hand just to make a hollow
echo, then drum on the poor old thing to make different echoes. He’d probably
do all of the above, and more. He’d probably drive me insane.

I rolled open the top—slowly, quietly—and found a leather
desk pad, two pens, several sheets of notepaper, a bookmark with a sketch of the
inn on it, but no stationery or postcards. At the back, behind the pad, there
was a row of tiny drawers. I slid them open, one after the other. The long,
narrow drawers were empty, all of them, but I imagined them filled with
paperclips and pens and stamps and stationery, as they must once have been. I
imagined the elegant middle-aged woman who’d first sat at this desk—I called
her Elizabeth—as she wrote long, wistful letters to her grown children off in
India, in Egypt, in the Amazon. Elizabeth would have loved this desk. It would
have been her pride and joy. She would have been mortified to have it battered
just for the sounds it made.

I pulled the roll-top cover down again.

The framed painting hanging over the far side of the desk
caught my eye. I stepped toward it to take a closer look, then stopped short,
surprised. What was this?

A
feeling
.

A feeling of…absence.

Slowly, I put my foot back down. The feeling came back. I
hugged myself. How odd! This patch of floor beside the old desk raised goose bumps
on my arms. Was it chillier than the rest of the room? How could that be? When
I moved my foot, there was a feeling of stepping
into
something, or of
stepping
out
of something. Holding my breath, I experimented, moving
into and out of the small area, trying to figure it out. It was different from
the rest of the room, even though it didn’t appear that way.

It wasn’t a bad feeling, exactly. Just startling.

I went back to the bed. I sat on the edge, looking down on
Josh’s sleeping face, trailing my finger up and down his arm. Our first full
day as a married couple! I felt a moment’s pleasure, remembering the morning.
Breakfast…oh! It had been so much more than breakfast! It had been the food we
ate. The games we played. The touching. The heady erotic undercurrents. And
most of all, the forbidden nature of it all, which made the flirtations all the
more arousing.

I held my breath. Just thinking about it made me tingle.

Josh shifted at my caress, opened his eyes, smiled sleepily
up at me. I leaned over and kissed him, lay down beside him, put my hand on his
butt.

“Honey,” I whispered. “It’s almost time for our Lesson.”

One of Josh’s eyes opened.

“Umm,” I said, not sure exactly how to broach the subject, “the
Lesson. I think it might involve, ah, you know…”

“Sex?”

I nodded. “What do you think?”

Josh sat up. “What do
you
think?”

We stared at each other. Then he smiled. I smiled back. “I
think it might be fun.”

“Me too.”

“Then…we’ll take the Lesson?”

I squeezed his butt. “We can always back out. I’m sure
nothing will be forced on us.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.” I kissed him. A moment later we heard a rapping.

“Come in,” Josh said.

Someone unlocked the door. It swung open. Vane entered.

“Hi,” I said, rolling onto my side, propping my head on my
hand. Vane! My heart skipped a beat.

“Hi yourself,” Vane said, winking at me. Was he remembering
his hand on my breast? Cleaning the blueberry from my lip? My hand in his lap?
Because that’s what I was remembering. Muscles straining, he lugged a chest
into the room, a lovely, old-fashioned, leather-covered thing with brass
corners and rows of rivets and a huge rusted lock—but what at this inn wasn’t
old-fashioned? He dragged it to the foot of our bed. He patted the top of it,
his eyes glinting. “Wait until you see what I have in store for you two!” He
looked so happy, so excited. As if it was his favorite thing in the world, to
teach these Lessons.

Maybe it was.

Josh swung his feet over the edge of the bed. “Dude. What’s
that?”

“Equipment. For your Lesson.”

Equipment? Ah. Okay. That explained everything. Actually it
made me curious. I scooted across the bed and perched cross-legged next to
Josh. We watched Vane’s every move from front-row seats as he struggled with
the lock.

Josh frowned. “I hate locks. I feel you, man.”

“There,” said Vane, sitting back, grinning up at us. “It’s
all good. I got it open. Ready for your Lesson? I promise you’ll like it.”

Josh and I looked at each other. Werewe ready for
Vane’s Lesson? Obviously we had an idea what sorts of lessons might be taught
here—we’d just talked about it. We were ready. I was equal parts excited and
nervous.

Well, not equal. Mostly excited.

I shifted on the bed. Leaned closer to the trunk, and to
Vane. Smelled his delicious piney man-scent, so different from Josh’s. I felt light-headed.
I turned to Josh. “What’s in there, do you think?” I asked, stalling, not
looking at Vane in case I said or did something stupid. I ran my hand over the
smooth rounded surface of the now-unlocked trunk, so different from the top of
the desk.

“Hell if I know,” said Josh. He leaned in closer too. He
jiggled the bed with the drumming of his fingers, the bouncing of his knee. His
breaths came in shallow puffs. His skin had turned pale, so pale.

He looked like I felt.

Vane reached for the opening catch. “I’m going to show you,
just wait a sec—”

“No!” I said, waving Vane into silence. “Don’t show us yet!”

Vane frowned, confused. His hands hovered over the trunk.
Even frowning, this man was handsome. I had a feeling I’d like what he was
planning to teach us. Very much indeed.

“It’ll only take a minute,” I explained. “It’s this…thing Josh
and I do. We like to make up stories.”

Josh laughed. “She likes to make up stories! I like her, so
I play along.”

I made a face at him.

“A game?” said Vane, “I’ll play along too.”

“You can’t,” I said, “It’s a guessing game and you already
know what’s in there.”

Josh nodded. “She’s right. You’ll just have to listen.”

“So I’ll sit out,” said Vane. “Maybe I’ll play next time?”

I nodded. “Next time. Sure.”

“Okay,” said Josh, watching me, watching Vane, still
drumming his pant leg. What a bundle of nervous energy! I knew my husband. He
was turned-on by our promised Lesson, just as I was. Maybe more so. He rested
his lovely Ultramarine Blue eyes on me, and they were just beginning to show
gold flecks. “You’ll play next time, then, Vane,” he said, his voice husky.
“Angie, show him how we play. Show him how we do it. You start.”

I tilted my head and squinted my eyes. “Mmm. There are
costumes in there. Old costumes. Capes. Veils. Dresses. With feathers and
sequins and masks. You know.”

Vane laughed. “Costumes? You’re kidding, right?”

“Don’t say anything!” I squealed. “You’ll ruin it!”

“Costumes. No way. That’s ridiculous,” said Josh. “What a
pathetic guess.”

I swatted at him.

He caught my hand, kissed it. “It’s still ridiculous.” He
glanced at me, then at Vane. Took a deep breath. “I’d say the case was full of
whips. Whips and handcuffs. Stuff like that.”

I’d never even
seen
whips and handcuffs. Jeez.

Vane was trying not to laugh. He wasn’t doing a very good
job.

“Sex toys!” I said.

“Giant dildoes! A blow-up doll!” yelled Josh.

Vane erupted in laughter.

I slapped my knee. “That old man’s porn collection!”

“A miniature sex slave who will fulfill our every need!”

“Oh my god, you two!” snorted Vane, swiping his hand across
his nose. “You guys are something else.” He blinked rapidly, clearing tears
from his eyes. “You do know that, right?”

Josh and I looked at each other. “Maybe,” he said.

“Could be,” I said.

Ignoring our guest, we kissed long and deep.

I finally came up for air. “We’re ready. You can show us
now.”