Free Inn on the Edge by Gail Bridges Page A

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