Inn on the Edge (15 page)

I went into the Fine Arts Room, following Zenith. It was set
up differently than yesterday, set up for Josh’s mini-recital. The twelve
chairs, plus Mr. Abiba’s, were set up in two rows, an intimate, scaled-down
version of the formal recitals Josh performed twice a year. Zenith went to sit
at the back, near Valerian, but I crossed to the front, forcing myself to cool
down. Her last word—
later, later, later
—ran through my head. I sat down
in the middle of the row and closed my eyes, practicing slow, even breathing.

I had to concentrate. I had to forget her, for the moment
anyway. And I had to ignore the waiting, empty walls where my future murals
would be, which was no easy task. This was Josh’s time to shine.

And he did.

I opened my eyes again and saw my handsome Josh, standing
tall and grave beside a chair in the front of the room, holding a honey-colored
guitar by the neck. He waited, shifting from foot to foot, wearing his wedding
jacket, looking terribly distinguished, like the exceptional musician he was.
He nodded solemnly to me. I smiled back. Gave him a thumbs-up.

He fucked Zenith
, I thought.

The room grew quiet.

Mr. Abiba’s voice rang out from his large chair at the end
of the row. “Let me present Mr. Joshua Taylor!”

Josh bowed. We clapped.

Guitar in hand, he lowered himself into the chair and placed
his left foot on a small stool. He held the strapless instrument lightly
perched on his knees, its headstock raised—classical guitar position. I
frowned. Did the loaner instrument look a bit smaller than Josh’s own guitar?
The neck just a tad shorter, a pinch narrower? An antique such as this might
well be different from a modern instrument. I bit my lip, hoping the smaller size
wouldn’t throw him off. It didn’t take much to throw a classical guitarist off
his or her game—I’d been around musicians enough to know what Josh was doing
was not easy.

I could never do it. I was the sort of person who got
flustered just speaking in front of four people. If it was me up there, I’d
have a heart attack before playing the first note.

Josh cleared his throat. “This piece is a favorite of mine. ‘
Recuerdos
de la Alhambra’
by Francisco Tárrega. I hope you will love it as much as I
do.”

He let his audience wait a long moment—always the
showman—then played the sweet opening notes. His lithe fingers moved across the
strings, playing a soft, trilling
tremolo
,weaving individual
notes into lilting Spanish melodies. I let my breath out in a long sigh. What
beauty, this guitar music, so utterly different from the boisterous
chord-strumming I’d grown up with. It was studied and intelligent. Evocative.
Delicate. Subtle. Tárrega’s masterpiece floated in the Fine Arts Room,
surrounding us, drawing us in with its fragile sound.

It always affected me the same way, Josh’s playing. I’d
heard this piece probably fifty times, and still, it took me by surprise. If
someone asked me if I likedclassical music, I’d answer “not
particularly”, but here, now, listening to
‘Recuerdos’
as performed by
the person I most loved in the world, I knew it to be a lie. Because I couldn’t
think of anything I liked more.

By the absolute silence, the rapt attention of the audience,
I wasn’t the only one.

Josh played passionately, beautifully, each note lovelier
than the last. And the loaned guitar, how sublime! How sweet its tone! I’d
never heard anything like it. What Josh would give to own a precious instrument
like this loaner guitar. Eyes closed, his face completely relaxed, he let the
final mournful strains of the song die away. He sat in silence for an entire
minute, then he stood up, held the guitar at his side, and bowed deeply.

And then we heard it.

A sob.

Heartrending, bereft. Tragic. It was Mr. Abiba, and he was
crying
.

Josh froze, horrified, his mouth hanging open.

Mr. Abiba rose to his feet. Tears flowed down his craggy,
tortured face. “I owe you an apology, Joshua Taylor. Forgive my outburst. Long
ago, someone very dear to me played that very piece on this very guitar,” he
said, his voice breaking, “and I am remembering a long-ago love. A person very
dear to me who went over the edge and is now lost to me. Pay me no attention. I
still mourn, even after all this time…” Hands to his face, back curving in on
itself, he slumped into his seat again.

Pay him no attention? Impossible.

In moments, we surrounded our beloved Mr. Abiba. Zenith
kneeled at his feet, crooning. Jonathan hugged his wide shoulders. Rhonda-Lynne
patted his back. Logan claimed the closest chair, pulled it close, and put his
arm around his waist. Vane whispered in his ear. Josh—guitar safely stowed in
its case—blotted Mr. Abiba’s face tenderly with the linen handkerchief swiped
from the borrowed suit jacket. I sat beside Zenith on the floor, holding Mr.
Abiba’s dry hand in mine, rubbing the back of it with my thumb.

Together, we tended to our friend, our leader, our teacher,
as best we knew how.

But it was
me
he looked at when he finally opened his
eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice stronger now. “A moment of
weakness.”

Zettia made her way to Mr. Abiba and held out her hand.
“Adi,” she said.

When had she arrived? Had she been there all along? Did she
know who had broken Mr. Abiba’s heart? She leaned over him, speaking softly in
her honey voice. “Adi dearest. You need rest.”

He sniffed mournfully.

Zettia looked up and regarded us, his acolytes. “You must
understand. My Adi is a man of many passions. A man of many loves. He feels
everything so very powerfully.”

Mr. Abiba straightened up in the chair, regaining a touch of
his former regal posture. He dropped my hand and took Zettia’s. “So true, my
love, so true! Sometimes it catches me quite by surprise. Takes me plummeting
right over the edge.” He took a deep breath, shuddering only slightly—so brave,
so brave, to pull himself up from such despair. He was a man of many loves, but
also a man of sublime self-control. “Passion,” he said somberly, “the symphony
of emotions. Where would we be without it? What use living?”

Zettia held his hand to her cheek. “Indeed, my love.”

“Indeed,” he repeated.

They stared at one another. Things beyond my comprehension
flitted across their faces.

Finally, Mr. Abiba drew in a breath. He broke his connection
with Zettia. After a moment his eyes settled on my husband. “Ah, yes…Joshua Taylor.
Our very own resident classical guitarist. Your playing is simply transcendent.
I salute you.”

“Thank you,” said Josh.

Mr. Abiba stood up. Zenith and I scooted to the side to give
him space.

“I must excuse myself. I shall lie down for a spell, as my
Zettia has recommended.” His face brightened. “But first I will set a game in
motion! Zettia—take your hands from me, I’m fine. I am well on the way to
regaining my equilibrium. Why must you hover over me like a mother hen? Humor
me. Let me speak to my friends.”

Zettia nodded and took a step back.

“Everyone has their calling cards, I presume?” asked Mr.
Abiba, sitting up straight in his seat. He did look better—in fact, his face
was far less wrinkled and blotched than I remembered. Perhaps my mother was right.
She’d always said that a good cry could do wonders for the complexion.

We all nodded, clutching our calling cards, suddenly alert.
My heart skipped a beat.

“Good! I need each of you to take one card out of your
individual packs and give it to me. Vane and Valerian, Zora and Zenith—you
too.”

Give him a card? Why? What was Mr. Abiba planning? With
expectant glances at one another, we got to our feet, our tight circle of
concern and worry dissolving as if it had never existed. Order had been
restored. Our leader was back. It was abundantly clear that we, his guests,
wanted—needed—to be led. How were we to experience Mr. Abiba’s symphony of
emotions if he wasn’t there to help us in the task? Happy now, we rummaged in
pockets and purses, collecting our calling cards, wondering about the precise
nature of Mr. Abiba’s upcoming game. Would I get through it without falling to
the floor in a coma?

I passed my card, and Josh’s, to join the others in Mr.
Abiba’s outstretched hand. He shuffled them. And shuffled them again.

I crowded in closer. We all did. We followed his every move
as he flipped our calling cards to and fro.

“Now for the fun part,” he said. “Everyone draw a card, but
don’t look at it yet. Oh what excitement! I feel so much better. Come now, who
will draw the first card? Geoffrey? Nikki? Tim?”

Tim plucked a card from Mr. Abiba’s hand, then the rest of
us took a turn.

“Very good!” Mr. Abiba said, “Well done. Everyone has a
card. Remember—no trading.” He stood up. “And that’s it. My part is over. The
rest is up to…you!”

Twelve pairs of eyes—guests and Guides alike—stared at him
in alarm.

“Come, come, my dears. Why the consternation? Is this so
difficult? It is but a game! Your game.”

Zora said what we were all thinking. “But…what are the
rules? How do we play?”

Mr. Abiba held up a finger, then drew imaginary circles in
the air. The circles grew larger, including all of us. I watched his hand,
transfixed. “That is the question, isn’t it?” he said mysteriously, “For there
are no rules until you—together, as a group—
invent
them!”

“But…what sorts of rules?” asked Zora.

“Persistent little thing, aren’t you?”

She shrugged, smiling. “I just want to know how to play.”

“Then I shall try harder to explain.” Mr. Abiba sounded like
a teacher again. “The rules shall be whatever you wish them to be. But a rule,
once established, must apply to all. Do you understand?” Mr. Abiba regarded us,
his finger hovering motionless in the air. “Fine. I see further prompting is in
order. Some examples, then.”

We waited, spellbound.

He pointed to Geoffrey. “Do you take your card-mate to bed?
That would be a finerule.” He pointed to Nikki. “Do you use a Tool?
Also good.” He pointed to Rhonda-Lynne. “Do you let your spouse watch? Do you
take pictures? The possibilities, oh, the possibilities!” He pointed to me.
“But, ah! What if you have drawn your own card? What then? Does drawing your
own card give you free choice? Hmmm? Or does it mean you must pleasure yourself
while the others watch? Goodness! You’ll definitely need a rule for that.”

I clutched the card I’d drawn, desperately hoping it didn’t
contain my own name.

He paused, then pointed to Logan. “Who has your card? What
if it’s not the same person you picked? How will your rules deal with that?
Hmmm?” He rubbed his hands together, then pointed to Josh. “It gets rather
complicated, doesn’t it? What if you have no desire—yet—to make love to someone
of the same sex, and yet the card you drew belongs to another man?” He pointed
to Jonathan. “Or the opposite? What if you have no desire for the fair sex?
What then?”

We all stared at Jonathan, wondering.
Yes
,
what
then?

Mr. Abiba pointed to Zora. “Rules, my dear Zora. Rules! A
system to regulate a game. A policy that all who play must follow or risk being
cast out. Now do you understand?”

“Oh,” said Zora, staring at the back of her card. “Yes. I
believe so.”

Our familiar, fun-loving Mr. Abiba was back.

He took a step toward the door, then turned around again.
“These things you must decide. Nothing is set in stone. As soon as the door closes
behind me, you may look at your cards. Not before. Then the game begins! Take
as long as you like. Your Lessons are postponed until after dinner. That is
all.”

Following Zettia, he left.

The rest of us stared at each other.

Then, in unison, as if we’d been cued, we turned our cards
over.

Perhaps we ought to have waited.

Because it was so much harder to come up with rules once we
knew whose card we had drawn. I held my breath, wanting Zenith’s card so hard
my teeth hurt from clenching my jaws. I peeked at the card I’d just turned
over. In my sweaty palm, in fancy embossed writing, looking exactly like mine
but for the words, was someone else’s card. It said,
Geoffrey Phillips,
Novelist
.

Geoffrey!

My eyes immediately shot over to him, but he was turned away
from me, hunched and worried-looking, his thumb rubbing the card he’d drawn.

Josh pulled on my sleeve. “Look,” he whispered, showing me
his card. I should have known by the way he bounced up and down on the balls of
his feet whose card it was. Nikki’s. He’d been eyeing her all through
breakfast. More than eyeing her. Between servings of cinnamon rolls and
strawberry waffles, they had engaged in a bit of friendly find-the-cock and
where’s-the-nipple. Of course, I’d been busy at the time with a flirtation of
my own, with Tim. I don’t want to brag, but I had no trouble at all locating
his cock.

“I’ve got Geoffrey,” I said.

Josh’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Good luck with that.”

“He’s the nicest person here. I like him! I just never…” I
cleared my throat. “I don’t know if he… If I… Well, you know.”

Josh looked at me, his head tilted. “Yeah. I suppose you’ll
have to be inventive.” He put his finger to his lips and nodded toward Vane.

“Hey, everyone!” said Vane, clearing his throat. “We ought
to get started—this may take a while. How about we sit down again?” He broke up
the two rows that had been set out for Josh’s performance, pulling the chairs
into a loose circle. He dropped into the nearest one. “There! That’s better.
Take a seat and let’s tell each other who we’ve got!”

I wondered if Vane had drawn my card. Because I wouldn’t
mind at all if he had.

One by one, we read the names on the cards we held.

No one had drawn their own card.

Good.

One less thing to worry about.

I drew Geoffrey. Geoffrey drew Valerian. Valerian drew
Logan. And Logan drew…me. I stole several glances at Logan. There was something
about his quiet, attentive manner that I found attractive, something in the way
he studied people and took the measure of a room that spoke to me. I was
pleased with the way things had turned out. Me. Geoffrey. Valerian. Logan.

Three men and me. A closed circle. A smaller group within
the larger. It hadn’t occurred to me that such a thing could happen, but why
not? The four of us stared at one another, knowing we were about to know one
another a lot better. We switched seats with other people so we could sit
together, like a little family.

“It’s a round robin,” whispered Logan, putting his hand on
my leg and giving my thigh a nice long squeeze. Something warm and urgent rose
inside me. Zettia’s tea? Free-floating erotic gamma rays? I squirmed on my
seat. Logan. Valerian. Geoffrey. I felt the excitement rising in me, the
excitement that Zenith had started working on right before Josh’s concert. This
could work.

Josh was in a closed circle too, with Nikki and Vane. He sat
between them, looking quite pleased with himself.

Jonathan and Tim were a tiny group all unto themselves.
Somehow they’d managed to draw each other’s names.

And that left Rhonda-Lynne, Zora, and Zenith. A girl party.
The three women sat in a huddle, heads together, shoulders shaking with
laughter. Or with something. For a moment I wished I were with them, part of
their group, then I shook off the thought. No, I was pleased to be right where
I was.

It took several chaotic minutes to figure all this out and
to rearrange the seating to reflect our new groupings. What fun to be on our
own, away from Mr. Abiba and Zettia’s knowing eyes, like schoolchildren let out
to recess. Finally, when everyone was settled, Vane went to the center of the
circle. We all quieted. Apparently Vane had appointed himself our temporary
leader. Which was fine. As had already been established, we very much needed a
leader. Vane stood in the middle, turning around once, twice, smiling at
everyone in turn. “You all look so eager!”

“We are!” said Tim.

“And so am I,” said Vane. “Trust Mr. Abiba to come up with
another fantastic game! It’s quite exciting, isn’t it? But we have no idea what
to do with ourselves, do we?”

“You may not, Vane, but we sure do!” said Zenith, leaning
over and kissing Rhonda-Lynne straight on the lips, then leaning across her and
repeating the kiss for Zora. “Yep. No problems over here.”

Of course not. Any group with Zenith in it would be charmed.

“We need to make up some rules,” said Valerian.

I looked at Valerian, sitting on the other side of Geoffrey.
He grinned at me. I bit my lip. He was in my group, but he hadn’t drawn my
name—would I get to make love to him? Suddenly, I very much wanted to. Was
there a rule for that? Could we create one?

“Well,” said Geoffrey. “I think I have a rule. We already
know we can’t switch cards. Let’s make a rule that we can’t switch out of a
group, or split up a group.”

Vane nodded. “That’s good. No switching. No splitting. That
sounds like the first two rules to me. I’ll write them down.” He went to the
far wall and dragged over a lightweight easel with a pad of blank newsprint
paper perched on it. Funny, I hadn’t noticed the easel when Josh was playing
the guitar. Vane turned to the first page, smoothed it with the palm of his
hand, then took the cap off a fat green marker. I narrowed my eyes, remembering
a certain invisible lover I’d once had, remembering how tender he’d been, how delicious.
Did he remember me as fondly as I remembered him?

I hoped so.

Zettia’s magical tea made itself known again as I watched
Vane’s arm flex in most delightful ways as he held up the pen and wrote
“Calling Card Game”at the top of the paper, his lettering small and
clear and neat. This meticulous man, this very conscientious lover—he would
have beautiful handwriting, wouldn’t he? I sighed. It was too bad Vane wasn’t
in my group. I’d have to console myself with Valerian and Logan. I looked at
Logan, then Valerian, thinking,
It won’t be hard, not at all
.

Below the heading, Vane added the words, “Rule Number One—
No
switching out of a group.”

“Nice,” said Zora, nodding.

“Rule Number Two—
No splitting up a group
.” Vane put
the lid on the pen, then stood back. “Look good? What’s the next one?”

Voices rose in discussion. I watched the animated faces
around me, then it dawned on me that this part of the process was meant to be
part of the game. It must be. It had to be—look how much fun we were having, and
we weren’t even having sex yet. Mr. Abiba was more of a game master than I’d
realized.

Geoffrey found my hand and held it in his. “Just practicing
for later,” he whispered, “touching a girl. Finding out if you have cooties.”
He winked. “Don’t get too excited. It probably won’t take.”

I squeezed his hand, laughing. “We’ll figure something out.
Don’t worry.”

Rhonda-Lynne cleared her throat and everyone turned to look
at her. “How about we each do something new?” she suggested. “Even if it isn’t
straight-out sex? Something we’ve never done before.” She was holding Zora’s
hand on her lap but staring at Zenith.

“Yes, Lynnie,” said Zenith, staring back, “yes!”

I ought to have felt a twinge of jealousy but I didn’t.
Well, maybe a little.

An excited ripple of murmurs flowed around the circle. I
glanced at Geoffrey. A veritable boatload of enticing possibilities opened up
for us with Rhonda-Lynne’s suggestion and we both knew it. I squeezed his large
hand, excited. I’d told Josh the truth earlier—I did like Geoffrey. I just wasn’t
sure how to show it.

“Rule Number Three—
Everyone tries something new
,”
Vane wrote. Then he looked around the circle. “Any more?”

My hand shot up.

“Angie?” said Vane, raising the pen. “Do you have
something?”

I put my hand down, embarrassed. This wasn’t elementary
school. Why must I act like a perpetual student? “Um. How about we meet back
here in two hours and share with the entire group what the new thing we tried
was?”

“Good idea, honey,” said Josh from across the circle.

“Mr. Abiba would like that,” said Tim.

Vane started writing again. “Rule Number Four—
Come back
in two hours and spill the beans
.”

We fell silent, pondering.

Maybe this making-our-own-rules-thing wasn’t so hard after
all. I glanced around the circle of my new friends, noticing something for the
first time. All four couples were separated. How had thathappened? How
was it that every one of us was with different people? What were the chances of
that? I wished I could ask my father—he’d know. He’d figure out the variables,
the statistics, or whatever the hell they were called. Then he’d probably grab
a scrap of paper and write a diagram or an equation for me, illustrating a
concept I’d most likely not understand no matter how patiently he tried to
teach it to me. Dad taught college-level mathematics. He pretty much knew
everything there was to know about numbers. Unfortunately, he hadn’t managed to
pass much of it on to me, his artist daughter.

Whatever the equation was, I was separated from Josh.

And it was okay.

I looked at the four small groups within the larger circle,
imagining what the next few hours would hold, and shivered. Where else could
sexually timid people like us—it looked as if all of us had started out at
pretty much the same point—have an experience such as this?

Nowhere, that was where.

What an amazing place Josh had found for us, even though
even he hadn’t known the full extent of it when he’d chosen this place for our
honeymoon. The inn was safe. It was fun. It was a whole new world!

I looked at Josh, wondering.

Would he have as much fun with this calling card game as I
would? I watched him whisper in Nikki’s ear, then I watched Nikki nod and
whisper something back. Josh laughed and reached for her breast. How
extraordinary! In what other world would I get to see my own husband making
moves on another woman? In what other world would Iget to do something
erotic—but as yet undetermined—with the nicest gay man in the world, with my husband’s
approval?

Same answer as before. Nowhere.

I leaned over and kissed Geoffrey lightly on the mouth.
“Practice,” I said.

Valerian leaned over, puckering up. “Hey! What about me? I
want to practice too!”

So I kissed him as well.

“Um, Vane!” said Valerian, licking his lips, coming up for
air, sitting up straight and speaking in a loud voice. “I have an idea for a
rule—Angie made me think of it. How about we can fuck anyone in our group? Even
if we didn’t actually draw each another’s card?” Valerian smiled at me, and
added in a whisper, “Because I really want to do it with you, Angie. For days
now.”

I drew in my breath. “Me too, me too. Well, since yesterday,
maybe.”

“Fine,” said Vane, and began to write. “Rule Number Five—
Anyone
in your group is fair game
.”

The circle grew louder. People moved and touched and
squirmed—Zettia’s tea was having an effect on everyone, not just on me. We’d
each had a cup or two before Josh’s performance while waiting in the hallway,
and it was showing.

Josh cleared his throat. “Listen, everybody! I have one
more. Perhaps the last one. Perhaps the most important rule of all.”

The Fine Arts Room fell absolutely quiet. Our various
gropings and kissings and flirtations came to an abrupt halt at the sober
listen-to-me quality of Josh’s voice.

“Yes?” said Zenith, “What is it?”

Josh waited a moment before answering. “Well. We all adore
Mr. Abiba.”

The rest of us nodded. We did adore him. Yes.

“And we all feel so bad about what happened earlier, when I
was playing my guitar.”

Josh caught my eye. I could see the lingering worry in his
face, and it was mirrored in every other face around the circle. Josh was
right. To a person we felt wretched about Mr. Abiba’s breakdown. Perhaps my
poor husband felt worst of all, for he’d been the catalyst. Maybe that was why
his words were so poignant.

“Go on,” said Tim quietly, “we’re listening.”

Josh sat up straighter. “Well. I was thinking. What makes
him happiest? We do. He’s happiest when we’re happiest.”

“That’s because he’s such a great guy,” said Geoffrey,
nodding.

“Right!” Josh continued “And we’re happiest when we’re
having sex. Right?”

We all stared at Josh, holding our collective breath. Where
was he going with this?

“I’m happiest when I’m having sex!” cried Nikki. “You’re
right about that. And since I’m about to have sex with you, I couldn’t be any
happier just now.”

Josh smiled at her. “Right. Me neither. And my dick agrees
with you.” He looked from her to me then to the group as a whole. Then he began
to speak slowly, carefully, enunciating each word. “We all agree. We like sex.
We like Mr. Abiba. So…we invite Mr. Abiba to watch us have sex.”

Silence.

Absolute, shocked silence.

Then Zenith gasped and threw her hand over her mouth. She
leaped to her feet and crossed the circle to throw her arms around Josh. “It’s
perfect! Oh Josh—you’re brilliant!”

Zora stood up. She spread her arms. “It is perfect. It is!
He’ll love it.”

The rest of us started talking, all at once, and Josh’s
voice rang out loud and true, silencing the room again. “Here’s how it works.
We invite Mr. Abiba to our rooms to watch us, to enjoy everything we do—and I
mean everything. Then he moves to the next room and witnesses their happiness.
He goes from room to room until the two hours are up. What do you say?”