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unmoving car. It gathered itself and trotted shakily back into the woods.
Feeling pretty shaky myself, I leaned my arms and head on the steering wheel. I was almost crying in relief. Cindy was half-out the passenger door, looking for casualties. Fargo was barking loudly and irritably for
having been dumped off the backseat and on to various coolers and grocery bags.
Hush, Fargo! Cindy ordered. Alex, are you all right? Are the rabbit and that big dog all right? Should we follow them and make sure?
I m okay, or I will be in a minute. The rabbit is out of breath but grateful to be off the luncheon menu. The big dog is a coyote who is, like me, simply recovering from his considerable scare. We d never catch up with
him, anyway.
A coyote? I ll be darned.
Yeah. I put the car in gear and pulled back onto the highway. The Appalachians were not all pink blossoms and stately green trees.
Finally, finally! We saw the sign. Welcome to Tennessee. I had begun to think we were a four-wheeled flying Dutchman, doomed forever to traverse an endless Virginia. Already I felt less tired. Cindy took the wheel,
however, in the hopes she might have retained some teenage recollection of the local roads.
We left Interstate 81 for a state road, left that for a county road, left that for an unmarked asphalt road that could have used a little TLC. We passed through a small two-street town, marked by a slanting sign informing
us we had entered Beulaland, Population 1237. I could not believe it was real.
Cindy slowed the car to a crawling twenty miles an hour. After the speeds we had previously been going, I felt I could get out and push the vehicle faster. My feelings must have showed.
Cindy laughed and said, Can t help it. Speed trap. Always has been for any pesky furriners and a furriner is anybody from farther away than Elizabethton. Look subtly to your right, a sheriff s car should be waiting
behind the gas station. Or it used to be.
It still was.
Even at our snail s pace we had passed through the town. About a half mile farther I saw a bunch of big mailboxes lined up along the road next to a turnoff onto a gravel road.
Hey, look! Cindy pointed. There s Ken s mailbox, and I reckon that there is his road. Yup! Now all we have to do is go on down this road to the Bromfield Inn and get the keys. Darling girl, we have made it!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We turned and went through a large ornate gate with the words Bromfield Inn, 1884 forming the top of the wrought iron span. Just inside was a neatly painted sign reading Welcome to the Bromfield Inn and Country
Club. Please drive slowly. So we did& past what looked like a three-hole chip and putt golf course, then a double terrace with tables and umbrellas, ending beside a sizeable lake.
A couple of tables were occupied. From behind the hotel itself I heard the thonk of tennis balls. Two small kids played in some sand that bordered the water to form a small man-made beach. A girl of maybe fourteen
lay propped on her elbow in the sand, watching the kids. Three sailboats cruised the lake, along with several small boats that had to be motor-powered, although I could not hear them. It made a nice postcard scene.
We pulled up in front of the prestigious three-story shingled building, complete with veranda and comfortable chairs. Immediately a young man stood beside Cindy s window.
Good afternoon and welcome to Bromfield. My name is Jerry. May I park your car for you?
Cindy hesitated. I don t know that you need to bother, Jerry. I just have to run in and pick up something.
Jerry cocked his head, surveying the rather messy interior, the car-weary dog and the two of us who were a bit messy also.
Are you two ladies by any chance headed for Mr. Willingham s cabin? At our nods, he continued. I know our owner, Mr. Bromfield, wants to welcome you. Maybe I could just pull the car over there where it s handy, and
maybe this nice doggy would like a little stroll by the water.
They sure loved the word welcome here at Bromfield s, but his offer to walk Fargo sold me. Fine, I said. We ll do it your way.
We walked into the elegant lobby with its marble floor and impressive chandelier, and I assume Cindy felt as scruffy as I did. A young lady at the registration desk greeted us with a professional smile. Welcome to
Bromfield. May I help you?
I m Cindy Hart, Ken Willingham s cousin. I believe he left an envelope for me.
Indeed he did. The receptionist turned to a bank of cubby holes behind her and extricated a manila envelope with Cindy s name on it.
As she took it, she thanked the clerk and turned to me. We re in. One more mile to the cabin and we are out of that car for at least twenty-four hours.
Oh, please, the clerk sounded distressed. Don t leave quite yet. Mr. Bromfield wants to meet you both. He s coming right down and asked that you wait in the bar.
Oh, of course. We d be delighted. Cindy had on her social voice. I don t know where she found it. I could feel fatigue suddenly settling on my neck and shoulders like a giant pouting toad.
We followed the clerk s pointing finger into the large room with a beautiful curving mahogany bar and comfortably sized red leather barstools with black backs and arms, and a dozen matching tables. We looked at
each other and headed for the bar. A table looked more like you were going to set and stay a spell and I hoped we uns would be movin shawtly. I was getting into my mountaineer mode. I also might just have been
overtired.
Good afternoon, Ms. Hart, Ms. Peres. The bartender smiled as he placed napkins in front of us. Welcome to Bromfield, my name is Joe. And what is your pleasure?
Well, at least I could remember his name. I just had to think of Joe at the shabby old Wharf Rat, for which I felt a sudden wistful pang. And I wondered how this Joe knew our names& probably a fast phone call from the
receptionist. One more welcome, though, and I might say something I d regret. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]