Free Inn on the Edge by Gail Bridges

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