Inn on the Edge

by Gail Bridges

  He smiled, nodding, knowing.

  “Watch this, darling girl,” Zettia said, pressing against my shoulder as she leaned in, “sky-high organic honey!To adorn biscuits made from my all-time favorite recipe!” Sheheld the honey wand far above the table and drizzled a golden thread onto my split-open biscuit, not spilling a drop, leaving me breathless in her wake.

  I wasn’t the only one watching.

  Josh took my hand, pulled it onto his lap. Pressed it into his crotch. Then he leaned in close to me and whispered, “There’s something about this meal…”

  “I know!”

  He didn’t say any more. Zettia was at Josh’s side, busily drizzling honey onto his Belgian waffle. He shifted in his seat. His cock grew hard and hot under my hand.

  “See?” he said.

  I did.

  The food kept coming. And from the inn’s four Guides seated at the table, other stuff—sensual stuff—kept coming too. All of it, mixed together. Food and sexual innuendo. Sexual innuendo and food.

  What a heady mix.

  How fun it was!

  After a while I understood. This was just another game. Like last night, only with more people.

  This game, I could play.

  There were fluffy omelets full of cheese and onions being passed from person to person. There were smoldering sidelong glances between guests and Guides. There were light-as-air waffles with crisp edges. There were handsome men flexing their muscles as they lifted heavy jugs of fruit juice. There were tender poached eggs perched on perfectly toasted English muffins…and there was me, squirming on my seat, a delicious throbbing between my legs. And Vane, with a bulge in his crotch so obvious he didn’t have to sit with his legs apart to make sure I saw it.

  Because I did.

  Josh and I shared a look.

  “You okay?” he whispered, his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline. He waited for my answer, nervous, playing with his syrup-tined fork. He flipped it between his agile, guitar-playing fingers. Over and under, over and under. He made the fork walk between his fingers, or tried to anyway. He succeeded only in coming alarmingly close to launching the sticky thing across the table. My Josh. Did he really think I would make him stop his little flirtation with the lovely Zenith? “Because we can leave if you want to, Angie. If all this makes you uncomfortable…”

  “I’m fine. Never better,” I said, taking away the fork before he hurt himself. “You?”

  He pointed his chin at Zenith, who had unbuttoned her blouse and was showing significantly more cleavage. She was leaning over, rubbing her ankle, swinging her breasts in his direction, making sure he got a good long look. Josh grinned. “Yup. Doing fine over here!”

  We laughed. I gave him his fork. We kissed, then went back to the serious business of eating and following the sexual currents flowing around us. I was also quite interested in the Dutch baby pancake on my plate, a novelty for me. The thin pancake was as big as the plate it sat on, its golden edges towering above the rim, reaching toward the ceiling. I squeezed a lemon wedge onto the pancake, sprinkled it with powdered sugar, then tore off a chunk of the edge.

  Heavenly.

  And then the touching started.

  The first time came as a surprise, when I passed a platter of coffee cake across the table to Valerian. “Thank you, Angie,” he said, running his fingers up and down my wrist, my forearm, my elbow.

  I sucked in my breath. “You’re welcome,” I whispered, shivering.

  And it happened again with the quiche. A caressing brush against my breast from Vane as he reached to take the dish from me. “I love quiche,” he whispered.

  I shuddered. “Me too,” I murmured, blushing, feeling as if we’d just had simultaneous orgasms.

  It wasn’t just me.

  Zenith’s hand fell onto Josh’s thigh as she poured juice into his glass. He let it stay. After a while he put his hand over hers, pressed it into his crotch—and I didn’t even mind. It was all a game. Besides, I liked Zenith. For some reason, because I am not a lesbian, her hair made my loins quiver with longing.

  And it was…fun.

  All of it. The food. Crunchy granola, made right there in the inn’s kitchens, roasted in Zettia’s industrial-sized oven.

  And the people. Vane’s knee pressing against mine.

  Those delicious little sausages he piled on my plate and urged me to try.

  Zenith reaching all the way around Josh’s seat to rub the small of my back.

  Zettia’s luscious black hair falling across my shoulders as she took away the almost-empty croissant dish.

  Superb, all of it.

  The food and the other stuff. If I am to be truthful, I ate plates and plates full of rich delicacies. If I am to be exquisitely truthful, I was in an almost constant state of titillation. This game of Mr. Adi Abiba’s aroused the hell out of me. And so I kept going back for more.

  So did Josh. So did we all.

  Irish oatmeal with fresh blueberries and clotted cream—how had I missed that?

  Vane wiping a smear of blueberry from my lip, gently opening my mouth to make sure he got all of it. Running his finger softly along my teeth, his face so close to mine, his eyes almost closed. I sucked the blueberry from his finger.

  Zenith feeding me and Josh bits of tender, flaky palm leaves, one after another, first him, then me, then him again.

  Oh my.

  Oh my! Maybe I had just a little tiny bit of lesbian in me after all.

  I thought I couldn’t hold another bite, but who can resist being fed palm leaves?

  I ask you, who could resist?

  How much longer until one of us erupted in quiet moans?

  I was contemplating asking Valerian to walk the dish of cinnamon sugar around the table to me, hoping he might kiss my neck, or adjust my bra straps, or help me get a spot of almond paste off my shirt—something, anything, as long as he touched me—when there was a commotion.

  My fantasies dissolved in an instant.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” shrieked a woman farther down the table, one of the newlyweds. She lurched to her feet, wild-eyed. “I can’t take this anymore! Make it stop!”

  Everyone froze.

  “Tell them to stop!”

  “Rhonda-Lynne?” said her husband. He looked up at her. With an embarrassed jerk, he removed his hand from Zora’s lap. “What’s the matter, honey? Stop what? Why?”

  “That woman!” Rhonda-Lynne pointed an accusing, trembling finger at Zenith. “She’s touching me! She’s…playing footsie with me under the table! And I want it to stop!”

  Mr. Adi Abiba pushed back his chair. He stood also. “Rhonda-Lynne.”

  She stared at her plate, refusing to look at him, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She didn’t say anything.

  “My dear. Are you so very unhappy?”

  She still didn’t say anything. She shifted her weight to her other foot.

  “Do you not like my little inn?” The old man leaned over, placing his palms flat on the table, his steady gaze never leaving the poor woman.

  The rest of us watched in a quiet so heavy I could hear someone’s watch tick. The guitar music had stopped.

  Rhonda-Lynne swallowed. “It’s…okay.”

  “Is this meal not to your liking?”

  She glanced at the table, still laden with all manner of delicacies. “Um. It was…really good, actually.”

  “And my Guides? Are they mistreating you?”

  Rhonda-Lynne’s eyes shifted to the man at my side. “Well…I suppose Vane has been really nice.”

  “How so?”

  “He spent time with me and Tim this morning, showing us around.” She glanced at Mr. Abiba for the first time.

  “And?”

  “And Zora.” She nodded her head toward the other side of her husband. “Zora is nice.”

  “Indeed she is.”

  “We’ve been discussing needlework. She knits! Did you know that?”

  “I did.” The old man’s mouth r
elaxed into a benevolent smile. “Then everything is fine, isn’t that right?”

  “I guess so,” said Rhonda-Lynne slowly. She frowned, peering about as if she had no idea why she was on her feet, why she’d been picked out for questioning.

  “My dear Rhonda-Lynne,” said Mr. Abiba, shaking his head mournfully. “Why are you standing? We’re still at breakfast. Do sit. Please. My dear Zettia has just poured a cup of coffee for you. She roasts it herself, from organic beans gathered on the dripping tropical hillsides of Kona. Try it, won’t you?”

  Rhonda-Lynne dropped into her seat, her face a picture of confusion. She placed a hand on her cup. Zettia patted her on the shoulder, then moved off.

  Mr. Abiba raised his head, clapped once. “Zettia,” he called in a clear, loud voice, “come here, my dear.”

  “What is it, Adi darling?” Every head at the table turned to watch Zettia as she joined the old man. Tall as she was, he was much taller. Especially now that he was standing straight. He put a proprietary arm around her shoulder. “I do believe my Zettia has earned a round of applause, don’t you agree?”

  The room erupted in wild cheers. A man across the table stood and the rest of us hurried to our feet too. A standing ovation, to be sure. Zettia, a pretty flush rising on her cheeks, bent from the waist in a demure little bow, a curtsy almost, accepting our adoration of her magnificent meal. Then she kissed Mr. Abiba softly on the cheek and slipped out of the old man’s embrace. She moved away—so graceful, so graceful!—and then she was gone, back to her kitchen, her domain. I watched the door close behind her and wished I could follow. Maybe she would let me watch her make a batch of her famous biscuits. Maybe she would let me touch her hair. Or her breasts.

  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.

  Chapter Nine

  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 appeare
d 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.