Inn on the Edge (7 page)

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.

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 curious
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
?

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.

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 relaxed 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.