Inn on the Edge

by Gail Bridges

  “Josh,” I whispered. “Let’s leave. Right now. I don’t like this.”

  “Neither do I.” He looked over his shoulder. “What about our luggage?”

  “Forget the luggage.”

  “What about my prize?”

  “Josh!”

  “But we’ll lose the deposit!”

  “Screw the deposit.”

  He took my hand. “Yes. Let’s go, then. Follow me.”

  The front door was on the other side of the room. We’d only gone three steps when the old man from the night before stilled our flight. Where had he come from? Somehow, impossibly, with a quick sideways step he was standing directly in our path.

  Josh lurched, trying to keep from treading on the old man’s slippered toes.

  I gasped.

  “Now, now,” the old man crooned, “Angela. Joshua. What seems to be the problem here?”

  “We…uh, want to leave,” I said.

  “We do,” echoed Josh. He cleared his throat.

  The old man’s hand brushed up and down my arm. I frowned and moved out of his reach. “You don’t really want to go, do you? You’ve only just arrived.” He sounded hurt.

  I stared at him, frowning.

  “Come now, join us for breakfast.” The old man tried to take my hand. I brushed it away. “At least stay for breakfast.”

  “Josh,” I said, “let’s go.”

  We skirted around the old man, threaded our way past couches and end tables and Persian carpets and a grand piano. We passed the lectern. We crossed the last few feet of the lobby. We held tight to each other’s hands, our eyes on the door.

  But again the old man stood in front of us, blocking the way.

  Impossible! He’d been behind us!

  I gaped, blinking, clinging to Josh. How had this ancient, decrepit man managed to beat us to the door? How? How had he passed around Josh and me, to stand in front of us, without us noticing?

  Suddenly I was frightened. Very frightened.

  Josh took a deep breath. “Let us pass, old man.”

  “No.”

  Josh moved to the side, to go around, but the old man blocked his path.

  They stared at each other.

  “Move,” said Josh.

  “No.”

  I stepped forward. “Let us out!”

  The old man looked down at me. “Again, no.”

  Josh and I were a united force. We held hands and faced him. “Angie and I are leaving,” Josh said, “and there’s nothing you can do about it. Get out of our way.”

  The old man gestured to the door. “Try. If you insist.”

  Josh rushed forward and tugged on the handle. The door didn’t open. Fuming, he swung around to face the old man. “It’s fucking locked!”

  “Must you use such tasteless language, Joshua Taylor?”

  I pulled at the door, but of course I did no better than Josh had.

  “You locked us in our room last night!” accused Josh, pointing his finger at the old man. “Admit it! That door was not stuck. And now you’ve locked us in the building. I will not be locked in. Let us go. Unlock the door.”

  The old man didn’t unlock the door. Instead, he reached out and laid a cold hand on my arm, and on Josh’s. We flinched, cried out, shuddered, but we just stood there, frozen, and let him trail his long fingers softly up and down our arms, patting, caressing, soothing. He touched us both, but it was me he stared at. It was me his eyes roamed over. Me he licked his lips for. Me who received the extra attention. Me.

  “Better?” the old man asked, leaning close, so close that his robe brushed my leg, so close that I smelled his peculiar cinnamon scent again.

  I blinked.

  I was better. He was right.

  Then I frowned, confused. Why had I been trying so hard to escape? Really, there was no need. It was quite nice here. I loved our room in the North Tower. I’d adored the sex game, was hoping there would be more. So what was the problem? A locked door or two wasn’t anything to worry about. “I’m fine,” I mumbled.

  “Joshua?” asked the old man, taking his eyes from me.

  Josh shifted his weight to the other foot. Cleared his throat. Looked at me, his brows knitted. “Umm. We’d still like to go, if you don’t mind.” He glanced sideways at the old man, a quiver in his voice. “Open the door for us? Please?”

  “You still wish to leave?” said the old man. His hands dropped from our arms. “I am heartbroken to hear it.”

  We nodded. Or at least Josh nodded.

  The old man’s face fell. “Do you not like it here, Joshua? Did you not enjoy my North Tower, Angela? Or my games of welcome? Did you not play them? I conceived those amusements especially for you, my dears.” He sighed, and it was a heavy, hopeless thing. “Oh my. And I tried so hard to make your stay a memorable one.”

  His eyes—so sad! So painfully, wretchedly disappointed.

  It made me sad, just to see them.

  “Surely you will want to stay long enough for breakfast? My breakfasts are truly spectacular! What a shame not to partake.”

  Josh shrugged. He eyed the door.

  “Are you not hungry?”

  I smelled the coffee again. My stomach rumbled. “I am. I’m hungry.”

  “Good girl! Then you shall eat.”

  But Josh was still looking at the door.

  “Come now, young man! Why such a hurry to leave? People these days rush about like so many worker bees.” The old man smiled tenderly at Josh, then took his hand. And Josh let him.

  I peered at the old man, confused…did he look different this morning? Did he seem less ancient than he had last night? A bit less hunched over, perhaps? Was it possible? I narrowed my eyes. Did his skin show fewer ravages of old age? Did he seem more agile? Not to mention his mad dash to the door a moment ago.

  What on Earth?

  I was giving myself a headache. Best not to worry over such things.

  The old man spoke again, still holding tight to Josh’s hand. “Won’t you please stay?”

  Josh took a ragged breath. Nodded in a vague sort of way. “Yes…Angie and I have to…go to breakfast. I think that’s a grand idea. Spectacular.”

  Now Josh was parroting the old man’s language.

  Wonderful.

  The old man took my hand too. Striding between Josh and me, like a stern but doting parent, the old man walked us back through the lobby, back through that elegant parlor, to the dining room.

  He didn’t say another word. He didn’t have to.

  Chapter Seven

  We hesitated at the dining room entrance.

  I pulled my hand away from the old man’s and wiped my palm on my pants, horrified. Why on earth had I been holding hands with him? What was wrong with me?

  I wiped my hand again.

  We heard music wafting from the dining room.

  “Villa-Lobos,” said Josh in a soft, dreamy voice, cocking his head, listening to the sound system. He also wiped the palm of his hands on his pants. “That’s Villa-Lobos Prelude Number One! Classical guitar. I’d know that piece anywhere.”

  The old man clapped his hands. His face lit up. “Quite right! Your preferred instrument, if I’m not mistaken. I assume you yourself have played this very number, numerous times. Yes, I thought so. I chose this morning’s musical selections especially for you, Joshua Taylor.”

  “Really? Um…thanks.”

  “It is also a favorite of mine.”

  Josh glanced at me, his look as clear as if he’d spoken aloud—any place that plays classical guitar music must be a good place.

  I shrugged.

  Right, Angie? A good place?

  Maybe. He had a point. The music sounded like home. Comforting.

  We followed our host into the dining hall. It was a long, narrow room with an equally long, narrow table running down the center of it. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting glinting sparkles on the ten people seated at the table. They stared at us, curious. And I admit it, I was cu
rious about them too.

  I was feeling better. Much better.

  “And now—let me introduce the last of our guests!” said the old man. “Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Taylor!”

  Greetings and scattered applause came from around the table.

  The old man clapped his hands. Four people leaped to their feet, two men and two women. I recognized Zenith. And Zora. Zenith gave a slight wave of her hand and tossed her Burnt Sienna hair, which was even prettier in daylight.

  Now I was enjoying myself.

  “My Guides are the specialty of this establishment!” continued the old man, squeezing my arm, winking at Josh. “To a person they are exquisitely trained. Experts in their field. You shall come to know my Guides quite well. I promise.”

  Really? How well? When?

  “First is the lovely Zenith, my treasure, whom you already know.”

  Zenith waved again.

  “And my darling Zora. I believe you’ve spoken with her through closed doors?” He indicated the short, energetic-looking woman with the halo of blonde curly hair.

  I hid a smile behind my hand.

  She looked exactly as I imagined someone named Zora ought to look, bouncing on the balls of her feet, tossing her hair, fluttering her hands. She batted her eyes at Josh and I didn’t even mind because she was so darned cute.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she trilled happily.

  I liked her better now that she wasn’t chirping at us to wake up, wake up, wake up!

  The old man turned his gaze on the man across from Zora. “And this is Vane. My own sweet Vane.”

  I almost laughed aloud. Who describes a man as sweet?

  “I’m sure you and Vane will become bosom buddies!” said the old man, rubbing his hands together, peering at me. “Oh yes. Bosom buddies.”

  “Um…okay,” I said.

  “And this,” said the old man, pointing to the last of his Guides, “is my dashing Valerian.”

  Valerian grinned and inclined his head. He was broad and muscular, all chiseled arms and wide chest. He had very short, blondish hair, worn in what I thought of as army style—a buzz cut. Or a crew cut, maybe. Not that I could tell one from the other. And not that I was noticing his looks. My mind was still stuck on Vane. In particular, I was thinking about the way the veins ran along his ropy arms, just the way I liked. Valerian cleared his throat, bringing my attention back to where it belonged. “Valerian, at your service,” he said, looking at me.

  I blushed. “Nice to meet you.”

  Valerian was cute in his own military sort of way. Not my usual type, but the more I looked at him, the more I imagined his type might not be so bad after all.

  I blinked.

  My type? My type?

  I had to stop this right now.

  The old man clapped again. The four Guides sat down as a woman emerged from a back room, wearing the same flowing, ornate robes that our host did. She was younger than him. Was she his wife? His daughter? I thought they must be related in some fashion. She came right up to us. She took my hands in her own and pecked my cheek, a quick kiss of greeting, a very foreign gesture, charming to my American sensibilities. She did the same for Josh. She was tall and willowy, with pale skin and a sweep of long black hair, with—again—a very foreign look about her. Sweet smells of cinnamon and almond drifted in her wake. Then she stood back, regarding us, a slow smile breaking over her face. “I am Zettia,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  It sounded like a promise.

  “Zettia is the genius behind my kitchen,” the old man said.

  She dipped her chin, accepting her due, a woman who knew her worth. “Thank you, Adi dearest.” She stood next to our host, with her hand draped casually around his waist. Comfortable. Regal. If I were the type of person who made up stories about people, I would cast Zettia as a princess in an Arabian fable.

  And that begged the question—who would the old man be?

  But he was talking again. I tore my attention away from Zettia.

  “And now let me present your fellow guests.” In turn, the old man introduced the other three couples. There were Logan and Nikki, from San Francisco. And a gay couple, Geoffrey and Jonathan, from New York City. And finally Tim and Rhonda-Lynne, from Chicago. Everyone waved and smiled and looked oh so happy to be at the inn. Was that how Josh and I seemed, to them?

  Probably. Especially after the night we’d spent.

  So. That was all of us. Including Josh and me, from Seattle, that made four couples—four newlywed couples.

  Newlyweds.

  Why did it seem somehow…sinister?

  Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself, this is just a stupid hotel.

  “And now,” said the old man, turning to face Josh and me, “let me introduce myself. I am Mr. Adi Abiba, proprietor of this humble establishment. Welcome! Welcome to my inn!”

  “Thank you,” said Josh.

  “Um, thanks,” I said.

  Mr. Adi Abiba motioned us to the two vacant chairs in the middle of the table. Obviously, the ornately carved armchair at the head of the table was for our host.

  We sat.

  Adi Abiba.

  What kind of name was that? It sounded vaguely…Ethiopian, perhaps? Or Moroccan, maybe? Or Arabic? I studied Mr. Abiba from under lowered eyelids, wondering about him, trying to figure him out, thinking that he would be a fascinating subject for a portrait painting, what with his deeply lined face and all. Why was he here on the Washington coast, in the middle of nowhere? Was he fleeing from something in his past? Was there a reason he was all alone but for Zettia and his loyal employees? I shivered. Of course not. Here I was, making up stories again.

  I looked around the table, at Mr. Abiba, at Zettia, at the so-called Guides, at my fellow guests, at Josh. Something nagged at me, itched at my subconscious, pulled at my better judgment.

  Why newlyweds?

  Had our host planned it this way? Had he assembled this group?

  I shivered.

  Had Josh chosen the Inn on the Edge…or had it chosen us?

  Chapter Eight

  And then we ate.

  I forgot my questions in the face of so much food, at the prospect of my own heaping plate. How can I describe that first breakfast? A marvel! As bountiful as our late-night dinner had been, this was even more sumptuous. How quickly Josh and I forgot our valiant yet doomed fight against locked doors! All it took was the touch of the old man, the diversion of meeting new people, and food—lots and lots of food.

  How quickly we forgot.

  We sat between Vane, who speared dainty little sausages with a three-pronged fork one after another until his plate was empty, and Zenith, who in this roomful of strangers felt almost like an old friend. Vane tore his attention away from his plate for long enough to vigorously shake my hand, wrapping it in his long fingers. He smiled, the edges of his wide blue eyes crinkled, and was even more handsome. “Vane. Spelled V. A. N. E. Not Vain, as in I comb my hair every five minutes.”

  I laughed. I didn’t catch exactly what sort of work he did at the inn—teaching something or other—before he snagged a sausage from myplate and tossed it into his mouth. But the thought crossed my mind that I wouldn’t mind if Vane taught me, gave me special attention, took me on as a student. I was willing to learn whatever he taught. Maybe I’d ask him about it after we ate.

  I caught myself staring at him.

  Then I stiffened and turned away, blushing. Had he seen? Had Josh seen? This was my honeymoon—what was wrong with me? Why was I imagining myself with a stranger? I jabbed a piece of bacon with my fork, shredding it. Josh and I had only been at the table for five minutes, after making love all night, and now I had the hots for someone I’d just met. That was so, so, so screwed up.

  What was happening to me?

  I ignored Vane—tried to, anyway—and concentrated on my meal.

  The other people at the long, crowded table were friendly, nodding and smiling and mumbling greetings…but eating. Always eating. Oddly
, there was almost no conversation. Breakfast—at least so far—seemed to be all about the food. And about watching each other. And about the odd undercurrents swirling around the room. Did everyone else feel them too? Did Josh? I would ask him later, but I was pretty sure he did. Surreptitiously, I glanced at Mr. Abiba at the head of the table. He seemed to be in his element, presiding over the meal as if it were an elaborate performance and he was the director.

  Maybe it was. And maybe he was.

  It made me uneasy. Just one more thing about this place that made me feel that way. But I was hungry. I would do justice to this magnificent meal. Then Josh and I would talk about leaving. Hadn’t something greatly disturbed me only a short time ago? I wished I remembered what it was.

  At least the food was good.

  I ate and felt better.

  Zenith leaned over Josh and smiled at me. She held an almond croissant dusted with powdered sugar, waving it my direction. “See? I told you it was great!”

  “Nice,” said Josh, adding a Belgian waffle to his already-overflowing plate. He tipped a ladle of fresh strawberries onto it, then a fat dollop of whipped cream.

  I took a sip of my orange-pineapple juice.

  She took a bite of her croissant. Almond paste oozed from the edges of the pastry. Carefully, she licked it off, then licked her fingers.

  I put an almond croissant on my plate too.

  Zenith was right about breakfast. I’d never seen anything like it. The table was crammed so full there was barely room for the three vases of tiny yellow flowers in the center, the same flowers that were on the inn’s letterhead. There were muffins, donuts, buttermilk biscuits and more—all made by willowy, long-necked Zettia the baker, who hovered over the table, filling our plates if it appeared we were slowing down.

  What a lovely, graceful woman, I thought. She’s beautiful. In an old-fashioned sort of way.

  Lovely Zettia of the chestnut-colored eyes, bearer of yet another “Z” name. I wanted to touch her long, silky black hair. Forgetting my promise to myself to look only at my plate, I studied her. Where was she from? Like our host, Zettia had a look of faraway places. Words tripped off her tongue like the honey she now carried, lilting and slow. Without my noticing how she got there, she was suddenly standing over me, smelling of almonds and cinnamon. I breathed in deeply and caught the old man’s eyes on me.