Inn on the Edge (2 page)

“Hello,” said Josh, “we, um, have a reservation.”

The door swung wider.

“Is this the Inn on the Edge?” I asked, my voice sounding
too loud.

The old man gazed at me, at my disheveled state, at my
flapping wedding gown. He lingered on the bodice of my dress. No
way
was
he checking out my chest! But I couldn’t tell. His eyes were dark and
impenetrable. His chin dipped—a nod. “It is indeed,” he said slowly. His voice
was thin and flinty, a voice that could easily be a hundred years old. “Welcome.”

He’s so tall
, I thought.
Or rather he would be if
he weren’t all hunched over
.

“May we come in?” Josh asked.

The ancient eyes turned toward my husband. A long moment
passed. Then the old man looked at me again, assessing, judging. A claw of a finger
reached out and trailed along my arm, sending a shiver down my spine. The old
man’s mouth twitched. The light reflected from his shiny bald scalp. “Yes.
Please do.”

Josh stared at me, broadcasting a silent plea.
We can go,
Angie! Right now! We can turn around and get the hell out of here!
He
gripped my elbow, claiming my arm from the clutches of the old man.

I leaned in to Josh. “It’s okay,” I whispered, “I get it
now. It’s all part of the act!”

He blinked, unsure.

“It’s performance art.”

“It’s pretty damn convincing.”

I nodded, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “It’s supposed
to be! I bet there’s more to come. I bet it doesn’t end here.”

The old man’s head swung back and forth, taking in our every
word.

Josh and I stood at an impasse, motionless on the porch but
for the movement of my wedding dress. As badly as I wanted to see what came
next, I knew that Josh just as badly didn’t.

“Okay,” he said finally, “let’s do this.”

We followed the man into the inn. The door slammed behind
us.

The first thing I noticed was the smell, a pleasant mix of
cinnamon and clove, with undertones of…what? Persian carpet and pine needles?
Coffee? The briny ocean, certainly. The second thing I noticed was the
understated tastefulness of the place, a contrast so striking from the exterior
that I caught myself gaping, open-mouthed. The room was not at all what I had
expected. A fire crackled in a large, stone-faced hearth, casting a cheerful
glow and emitting warm crackling sounds. Leather-covered couches and
overstuffed wing chairs extended an invitation to linger. A wide, curving
staircase led to an upper story. Bookshelves tucked between furniture, full of
beautifully bound volumes waited to be explored. Paintings in strategic
locations, lit from above, pulled my eye. I studied the nearest one, knowing it
was not something one would buy at the local warehouse store.

“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.