《Blood on the Vine》


 Welcome Home, Miranda Knight

    I passed my exit. Didn¡¯t even bother to slow down when the sign read Amherst 1 Mile. I knew what the hell I was doing, but that didn¡¯t mean I was going to explain it to her. My cell phone buzzed on the passenger seat. Normally quiet, the incessant droning reverberated in my runty Toyota. I cranked up the stereo where Carly Simon crooned You¡¯re so Vain, which is a song that perfectly suits my mother. I drove another hundred miles, faster than I intended. In a hurry to get there, but why? What was left of my childhood home? I¡¯d not intended this journey, so there wasn¡¯t any Googling or planning to know for sure even how to get there, and there certainly wasn''t yet a per diem. Instinct drove me passed my mother''s exit and kept me going. A sudden onset of nostalgia, a morbid undeniable curiosity steered my chuttering, smells-of-burning-oil beige Toyota Corolla (circa 1990) off the sixteenth exit where signs told of wineries and roadside diners. I observed Seneca Lake, which loomed for miles, gleaming and glistening a long stretch beside me. I stole glances of it as my car sputtered around winding roads. I watched it from my rearview mirror. Although I have long since shred my childish form and grown into a woman, the lake retains its miles of majesty which fill me with childlike wonder. Great, powerful, spread out, and so vast that I still felt small when presented with it. Bigger than a lake, as vast and deep as an ocean, it made me and my compact time-worn Corolla feel microscopic in the universe. I reached for my depression medication, a moderate dose of Zoloft, before I remembered I''d been weaned off the pills in the weeks prior. It was my choice to stop taking them and somewhat against the advice of Dr. Susan, my therapist. What is it about the lake that''s held my heart captive all these years? Was it the strength of the swells after stormy weather? The lull on days like today, patient and inviting? Was it because the lake was a backdrop for my father¡¯s scurrilous criticism or his sudden, inconsequential death? The smell of pine was overwhelming and reminded me of summers riding my bike on this hilly winding road, but I can¡¯t for the life of me remember its name. Everything is so eerily familiar, my tired scrawny legs pushing against metal pedals. The wind forcing my long brown hair in every direction. Racing to get home before curfew, so dad wouldn¡¯t fly into a rage. He¡¯d have to find someone else to be mad at. Nostalgia is magical, but not the kind that comes from a fairy godmother. It''s the sort of chaotic neutral magic that wily shadow men cast in dark alleys. "All magic has consequences, some good and some bad." The mystics whisper. "It always comes with a price." I tried to focus on the music, to stop myself from such maddening dark thoughts and twisted feverish memories. Well, you''re where you should be all the time...And when you''re not, you''re with some underworld spy...Or the wife of a close friend.Wife of a close friend¡­


    I sang along to the last little bit before commercials took over. Tall trees cast shadows across the road. I couldn''t help but be reminded me of darker times, the shadows in my memories, the stuff I couldn¡¯t remember and wasn¡¯t sure if I wanted to. Mom and dad fighting. Doors slamming. Rubbery cold dinners, cold as his damned heart. The egg smell of hard water, but also the earthy odor of Concord grapes mixed with the pine. That''s what flowed into the Corolla through open windows and air vents. (The air conditioner broke eons ago). I longed for a glass of wine, a crisp Chardonnay or Pinot Noir. Across the country, in California, they¡¯d scoff at our Vitis Labrusca, but Seneca Lake¡¯s wines have drawn in Jewish tourism for decades and kept wineries and lakeside restaurants in business. The fox grape, aptly named for its wild, distinctively animal musk, is kosher. Fancy sommeliers, plenty of whom I¡¯ve known throughout my travels as a food and drink reporter, often scoff at Concord or Catawba wines. I never did because I grew up on labrusca varieties. It¡¯s something home offers.


    The road turned bumpy, forgotten by time. In my youth, it was newly paved and well-trafficked. My banana seat bicycle would fly down the hill and into wide turns, giving my scrawny youthful legs a break, but my tires crunched over forgotten rubble and cracked cement. My legs (still scrawny and the reason I disdain floor length mirrors) shook, the carchugged along like a tug boat. My cell phone bounced on the seat beside me, still intermittently buzzing from texts and unanswered calls. The radio¡¯s promo noted I was now enjoying the ¡°Sounds of the 80s, 90s, and today.¡± Easy listening isn¡¯t my favorite, but it¡¯s either that or yacht rock which is even less tolerable. Frankie Valli came on as the lake disappeared behind a dense tangle of trees. I was edging in on my childhood home now. It was late afternoon and the sun was glinting off the treetops, leaving me sometimes blinded and sometimes shrouded in the darkness created by a canopy of leafy, overgrown tree tops.


    You¡¯d be like heaven to touch. I wanna hold you so much.


    I pictured my father singing over a hot stove, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He loved Frankie Valli. And I thank God I¡¯m alive¡­ You¡¯re just too good to be true¡­ Can¡¯t take my eyes off you¡­


    The stereo seemed to almost choke on these lyrics. A faint fuzz creeping into the background and distorting the big band sounds. To say I felt a bit freaked out and pitched into sudden, creepy afternoon darkness is to put it mildly. Something was off, and it wasn¡¯t just the burden of nostalgia, long-forgotten memories which were so suddenly defibrillated and brought back to life. A gentle tugging in my brain threatened to relive my father¡¯s last moments. I pushed down on the gas pedal, but my old Toyota barely gained speed on the cracked cement and rocky roadway. A noise in the backseat that caused me to look up into my rearview where there was a ghastly woman looking back at me. I deviated in my steering, launched the Corolla into the crippling side of a steep abandoned driveway. A woman in my backseat, raven-haired, greyish skin and dark eyes. As soon as she lifted her finger to her lips, hushing the scream that was building in my throat, she was gone. A quick look in the empty backseat did not convince me it was only a trick of shadows, but I didn''t have time to worry about ghosts when smoke billowed from the Toyota¡¯s hood. Countless times I was told to retire the old Corolla, that something like this was bound to happen and I¡¯d be left stranded on some deserted road, but I was attached to the pile of rust and torn leather. My skin crawled with fleshy goosebumps. It was the car I loved, the car that had taken me on countless trips up and down the east coast. Besides, it was all I could afford. Print media never has paid well, and even less since people stopped paying for magazine subscriptions. My meager salary meant I was stuck with the old Corolla, but rather fond of her too. I didn''t want to junk her like a farmer puts an old cow out to pasture, which is just code for vet assisted euthanization or worse dead by his own hand. Despite my adoration for my car, in that moment, I didn''t want to be anywhere near her or whatever was haunting her in that moment.


    I was frightened by what I¡¯d seen in the backseat. I grabbed my cell phone and stepped out into tall grass. One wheel was in a ditch, the other three in a flat patch of grass. I¡¯d missed a gravel driveway by a few feet, but at least I¡¯d not hit the tree. My phone had zero bars even when I headed back to the road and held it up to the sky. Minutes before it was glowing with my mother¡¯s furious and frantic texting and now nothing. From the road, I got a better look at where I was. There was a sign strangled by vines, but I could just make out the words.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Molly Grange Inn.


    ¡°It can¡¯t be.¡±


    My whisper sliced through the silence. It was then I realized there wasn¡¯t any sound coming from trees stilled by a nonexistent breeze or the silent countless birds that must reside in them. I attempted to steady my hands, but couldn¡¯t soothe their shaking. The air was impossibly dry and acrid. No sound or wind came off the lake which was across the road and not too far away. If not for the phantom woman, I¡¯d have driven right by the old driveway, a winding drag that led to the inn. The stately mansion lay just at the end of the sloping driveway. My childhood home. I¡¯d arrived much like I arrive at most of my destinations, going too fast and hoping for too much. I¡¯d imagined rolling into a beautiful, maintained property but the mouth of the old drive looked abandoned, haunted even. I pushed my cell phone into my jean¡¯s pocket, and carefully hiked down, noting every detail for an uncommissioned piece I planned to submit to the Niagara Gazette about my connection to wine country, to this place.


    A Knight Inn. That¡¯s what the sign read when I was a kid. It was bigger too, etched in stately gold on a curvy piece of painted white cedar. Better name surely than Molly Grange Inn, which I hated. Perhaps if the owners hadn¡¯t renamed it, people would have kept coming and the old road wouldn¡¯t have fallen into such disrepair. Keeping the old name would have at least kept the property familiar with the locals. Everywhere I looked, it became clearer and clearer the place was hemorrhaging money. The birdfeeder was overgrown in vine, just like the signage at the road. It lacked water and was crumbling along its base. The trees were far too close to the driveway indicating that there¡¯d not been any landscaping in quite a long time. Grandpa is rolling over in his grave right now, I made a tsk sound and kept walking. As I did, the sky erupted in a fluttering of sparrows, blackened shadows against clear blue sky. Suddenly shaking limbs and bird noises were all I could hear.


    No one would ever say, Oh that Miranda Knight''s got nerves of steel. The few people that really know me know I am a chicken shit. I''m spooked easy. I triple check my locks and never walk alone at night. It had then occurred to me for the second time that I may be having a manic episode triggered by my now untreated depression. Probably Harry, my boss at the magazine (Erie county''s second leading seafaring magazine All Sails Final) he''d say that I''m perpetually late, akin to using far too many semicolons, and that I was never on time or stayed long enough at his barbeques. He''d once asked if I were a lesbian. "You know Miranda," he said, "you can bring your girlfriend if you''ve got one. No one here cares about stuff like that." I wasn''t offended and politely corrected him, but we''d known each other six years and I counted him among my closest friends when he asked. That should tell you something about my personality. I''m closed off is how my mom describes it. So what was I doing treading loose gravel when I should have been sitting at a formica table sipping tea with the world''s chattiest Cathy, my mother who''d waited a good long time to see me finally? The birds'' crying was a fading distant sound when my eyes finally settled on the sprawling mansion. Not so much had changed in the last twenty years, except some of the first-story windows were covered in lattice work. Morning glories crawled through the white criss crossed lattices, making their way up to the third story. I had to tilt my head all the way back to take it all in. The third floor, the window of my childhood bedroom.


    Although much of the paint was peeling, the house was in decent enough condition. For a moment, I was able to set aside my petty anger over its name being changed and remember it as it was and appreciate the owner for not making too many external changes. The sculpted wood around my old window still featured a small arch and a few shingles on the eave. I always felt that was fitting, considering that room was my sanctuary, a real home when things were getting bad in the bigger parts of the old mansion. It had it''s own little roof, the only window with one.


    A woman, likely a guest of the inn or perhaps a maid, appeared in the window. I waved to her, but she rudely snapped the curtains closed. If she was a member of the staff, I prayed the rest of them were nicer. I still had no cell service and I was going to need a mechanic. I wondered if maybe she didn¡¯t see me standing so far below and at an odd angle, and made my way toward the gigantic double doors that led to the lobby.


    It was then that I heard a scream. It wasn''t the wailing of hundreds of birds, but rather the singular scream of a distressed woman coming from somewhere in the hedge maze. It isn''t the huge hedge mazes you see in near sprawling castles along the English countryside or in The Shining, but rather a small, dull maze with a broken fountain at its center. Even when I was little and the estate was in its full glory, the fountain didn''t work. It was always dry. A work in progress my grandfather and father never finished.


    I took a few more steps toward the door when I heard moaning. Certain someone was injured, I abandoned the inn and headed toward the hedge maze, my skin alight in goosebumps and chills cascading down my spine. My lack of nerves had me feeling rather sick, but I couldn''t ignore the panicked cries coming from behind a row of spoiled evergreen bushes. Gingerly, I stepped around the first row and found myself in the most awkward of situations. Nancy and Frederick Showalter, I''d later learn, were counted among the inn''s few employees. She the manager, and he the maintenance man. Perhaps bored by the lack of patronage, they''d taken to agoraphilia, which is the thrill of having sex outside. As manager, it was Nancy''s duty to welcome all new guests, but this was not how I expected to be greeted. Frederick held Nancy in his lap, a passionate embrace. I kept snug to the bushes and thought long and hard how I could escape unseen. Nancy let out another piercing scream, which if you ask me was a bit of overacting on her part but did seem to excite her partner. She''d later admit to me how she loved to make whoopy (her words) in the grass on hot afternoons. She was an oversharer, like my mother in that way and also the same age, but that''s where the similarities ended. Nancy isn''t a soft doughy woman like my mom. She''s quite firm and athletic, a toned blonde with pointed memorable features. Frederick, who I guessed around twenty years her junior, also shared her love of fitness. It showed in his smooth arms and muscular legs both of which were somehow wrapped around his lover and frantically thrusting into her while she cooed and moaned. It was downright pornographic, the thing you''d expect to see on your male college roommate¡¯s laptop. It didn''t belong in the spooky atmosphere I''d come to know since landing at the Molly Grange Inn. Frederick¡¯s hands slid up her stomach and firmly took hold of her breasts. He used them like pulleys to take her down so she was against him. He thrusted vigorously until he finished inside her, and for a while they just laid like that. It was all too voyeuristic, but I was certain I couldn''t get away without being seen or heard.


    ¡°Did you hear that?¡± Nancy asked. Frederick looked at her, confused for a second. Mortified, I turned and started jogging around the row of bushes to safety on the other side. Now, with only a couple feet of dense bushes between us, I could hear them but was out of eyesight. "I thought I heard a car a bit ago. Sounded like tires squealing." I breathed a sigh of relief. It was my accident they''d heard, not me stumbling awkwardly into their privacy. As I headed back toward the inn, I could hear them gearing up for round two or three. Who knows how many times they''d done it that afternoon. I''d soon come to know that Nancy and Fred were insatiable as rabbits in springtime.


    Finally, I found myself in the empty lobby of the inn. I felt transported back in time, another rush of nostalgia flooded me with memories good and bad. Twenty years hasn''t exactly flown by and yet it was as vibrant in my memory as witnessing Nancy and Fred''s lovemaking not five minutes earlier. The ghosts of my past haunted me like echoes in my arteries. Before I could really process my surroundings, in stormed Bellinger.

 Checking Inn

    WHERE ARE YOU?!!!!!????


    A torrent of messages from my mother caused my phone to emit frenetic beeping, which alerted Bellinger to my presence. If I could have disappeared into the floral wallpaper, I would have. I pulled needles and twigs from my hair and did my best to smooth it. You should know that Bellinger is incredibly handsome. This is important for later, so I must describe him in that moment. He stood in the doorway, a halo of sunlight outlining his physique. He wore fitted wranglers and a loose white bottom up. He moved his hand sheepishly through his tousled hair, which was like the gentle swells of waves far from shore. His facial features are those of a kind and gentle man, but his gaze is impactful and left me insecure feeling. I felt instantly shy, like an intruder, but wasn''t I in the lobby of a working inn?


    "Is that your car up there?" He asked.


    "Yes." I answered. "But I''ve just got a signal, so I''m going to have it towed."


    He insisted on calling the tow for me. He was also very concerned that I may be injured. I couldn''t tell him my scraped arms and sloppy appearance wasn''t due to any accident, but rather that I escaped voyeurism through a bush in the old hedge maze.


    While I waited for Bellinger to get off the phone with the repair shop, I texted mom back.


    I went to the inn. The car is broke down,and I''m going to be staying here awhile.


    Miranda, nothing good comes from digging up the past.


    Mom I''m staying. You''re welcome to meet me here, or I''ll visit you when the car is running again.


    My mother had long insisted I stay away. She¡¯d spent the last twenty years reminding me that digging up the past would only trigger grief that years of therapy had yet to heal. The inn was sold. It was someone else''s problem. For a long time I agreed, but there was always curiosity to contend with. There''s a story in these walls, a childhood of good food and company, the local wines and wineries. I could use the freelancing money to fix up the old Corolla. I''d give Harry first dibs, but the magazine rarely had the budget.


    What was left of the past under this new ownership? What was she so worried I''d find here? Our time has passed and all that was left were memories. Jorts and polka dotted tank tops. Capri Suns. Racing through the backdoor, up the long hall, into the foyer, and out the enormous front doors. Grandpa smoking a pipe on the front porch. His enormous belly challenging the elasticity of worn suspenders. I¡¯d catch frogs, hike the trails, make a mud pie, or listen to one of grandpa''s tall tales while sipping sweet tea. The hard times, the arguments, the debts and the deaths, those were the things she wanted to make disappear, but weren''t those the exact things I''d longed to write about? How food and drink paired with childhood trauma?


    Some of the house¡¯s history was documented on the walls in old photographs showing the house being built. She''d taken nothing of our time here. Left it all to the new owner, the very tall new owner. The inn was marketed ¡°as is,¡± so many of our things were included in the sale and I wasn''t the least bit surprised she''d left behind our family photos,  but I was surprised to find them neatly framed and dusted on the walls of the long hall. Looking around, I didn¡¯t see any familiar furniture. Most of it was modern pieces, designed and inspired by an older time, sort of like the house itself was built to look a lot older than it actually was. The photos, perhaps they should belong to me and my kin, but I kind of liked that they stayed with the old place and not packed up to collect dust in mom''s attic or in whatever dump the furniture ended up in. Bellinger took care to frame them and place them among folk art on the tacky floral wallpapered walls.


    The photographs told a story. It had been in my family for generations until my mother sold it in a quickie sale for half the asking price. There were photos of my great-grandparents, my grandfather, my dad and my mom. Right on the end, in the last picture, there was even a picture of me. I looked to be about seven years old and I was giving a thumb¡¯s up in front of a bright red tractor. That was my grandfather¡¯s tractor and he¡¯d just bought it that day. He wanted a picture of me beside it. It was the only color picture hanging on the wall. I was more than a little disappointed  to come to the end and find there weren''t more. I missed my grandpa¡¯s soft brown eyes, and longed to see them in color.


    "The tow should be here in an hour or so." Bellinger said. "There''s a bar at the end of the hallway if you''d like to wait there. I can show you where it is."


    "Thank you." I said. "I know where it is."


    Bellinger appeared confused. For a split second his age was showing in his furrowed brows and in the creases forming by his eyes and forehead.


    "Have you stayed with us before?"


    I pointed at the last photograph. The kid a happier, more youthful version of myself. I said, "That''s me."


    Although I knew where the bar was, Bellinger accompanied me there anyway. He explained that he met me once.


    "Well sort of," he said. "I was with my dad who was talking to your mom. I was probably about nineteen then, but you weren''t quite as old."


    I could sense Bellinger trying to get a sense of how old I was. I decided to play coy and leave his inquisitive gaze lingering, his unspoken question unanswered.


    "Your mom was packing some belongings into a station wagon. Dad wanted me to take some photos."


    The bar hadn''t changed at all. It was still massive in a bright room with many windows highlighting the beautiful back lawn and a slight corner view of the sparkling lake across the street. I felt transported back in time to colorful brunches and buffets. The tables were still scattered and plenty, still featured white linens and blue fabric napkins. The inn was our home that we shared with travelers including visiting dignitaries and local celebrities. We threw elaborate parties and always had guests and staff milling the grounds. Affluent people would come in and out of our lives. Money was tight because it was costly to keep it running, and dad never could get over bumping shoulders with folks who had what he wanted. Green. Moola. It was everywhere and yet nowhere to be found. That was one thing that had changed. The bar was empty save the barman.


    Bellinger tapped on the end of it, and a jaunty guy with a handlebar mustache put down a bottle of red and two glasses. He fit the roll of barman well with his checkered shirt and neatly folded apron. He bantered for a bit with Bellinger and I, but then went back to quietly wiping dust off glasses.


    "Your grandpa was a great man." Bellinger said.


    "You knew of him?" The truth was everyone knew of him. His reputation hadn''t dwindled in the years since his death. Bellinger said the few people who still vacation at the inn, the very same who vacationed under our ownership, often spoke of his generosity. My grandfather wasn''t a rich man, but he had built enough wealth to give to local charities. If someone in town had a sick kid or their house burned down, he''d host a charity event to raise money for the family. Every year, people would bring their dachshunds to our backyard to compete in a race. Tickets were twenty dollars a piece and sold out in a day. Every dime went to the children''s hospital. In those days, my mother was her most joyful. My father''s gambling and drinking had not yet sucked the last shine from her eyes. My father resented his father in law, but my mother and myself were completely enamored by him. It felt good being so close to someone everyone seemed to admire. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    My father frequently complained about my grandpa''s philanthropic pursuits, which dad insisted took precedence over other needs. Family needs. It was always family needs, but I never saw him give a dime to my mother for groceries or winter jackets. Any money he had went to the track. Horse betting and good whiskey. That isn''t to say he didn''t believe in the inn. It was the one thing my dad and grandpa had in common. They worked tirelessly to make it the most prominent establishment in the county, and at one point it was almost a historical landmark but years of bickering over how to spend money took precedence and the papers were never filed.


    Bellinger explained how he inherited the inn after his dad passed.


    "I didn''t do a damn thing with the place, but then Molly came along and¡­ well it was her dream I guess to raise a family here. To be bed and breakfast people."


    He had a faraway look in his eyes. Like a man lost at sea on purpose. Like someone who was lost, but didn''t want to be found.


    "Who''s Molly?" I asked.


    He looked startled. Guilty even. Like he''d been caught saying something he shouldn''t.


    "My late wife." He said curtly. He abruptly excused himself, leaving me with concerns I''d be responsible to pay the barman. Being exceptionally good at his job, the barman, who I learned is named Ralph, shook his hand and hands at me when I reached into my purse.


    "No need. It''s on the house."


    Ralph advised me of the cost of rooms, and suggested I go and speak to Nancy if I was planning to check in. Nancy was posted at the front desk.


    "Glad to have you, doll face." Nancy walked me up to my room. She championed two sets of stairs without getting winded. By the end of it, I was nearly doubled over but she looked like someone just out for a leisurely stroll. It was remarkable considering the work out she''d already had that day. Out in the hedge maze. Where any inspecting visitor could come upon them. I shuddered and looked away because it was hard not to envision her stark naked and riding her husband like he was the main attraction in a bull riding competition. At the top of the stairs, I felt the wind knocked out of me for an entirely different reason. There next to the balcony doors was a photograph of a woman with dark hair and eyes.


    "What''s the matter, doll face? You look like you''ve seen a ghost."


    "Who is that woman?" I pointed to the picture with a shaky finger. I''ve seen her before. In fact, she was a dead ringer for the girl in my backseat. But she couldn''t be because there was no girl in the back seat of my car. It was a trick of shadows.


    "That''s Ashton''s wife." She said with a tinge of melancholy.


    "Where is she?" I asked.


    "She''s been gone a long time. Ran off a few years ago. Left her ring. Couldn''t even give the man a divorce, and no one has heard from her since so maybe she''s dead."


    Before I could ask anything more, Nancy was ushering me into my room.


    "Picked this one special for you, Miranda Knight. Thought since you''re already acquainted with it, why not give you your old room?"


    ¡°How did you know?¡± I asked.


    "Oh folks come around and always say that the cheaper rooms on the third floor are the ones where the Knights used to stay. They say oh that one on the end, closest to the balcony was Miranda''s room and her mom and pop had the one down the hall there. I gave you a 10% discount, seeing as how you¡¯re practically family.¡±


    I  thought, I wouldn¡¯t go that far, Nancy and thanked her for the discount.


    "Kinda freaky how they both died." She said, gazing down the gal toward my father and grandfather''s bedrooms.


    Nancy has no filter. She will say the cringiest things with complete absentmindedness. Her face completely ignorant of her faux past. Her smile unwavering even when I''m glaring at her.


    "Well, dollface, let''s get you settled in."


    Nancy lingered in the open doorway. I desperately wanted to be alone. To get away from this callous woman who''d so heartlessly commented on my family''s tragedy.


    "The old-old man, your great-grandfather, he was quite a character. Did you know him at all?"


    I instantly smiled at the thought of great-grandpa Charles. My nostalgia had crept up again and betrayed me in the presence of a woman who I wanted to feel unwelcome. I couldn''t help but remember the way my grandfather would describe my great-grandpa. He loved to drink, but he wasn¡¯t the violent sort. He just loved wine, so much so that he built himself this estate, right on the lake, where he could drink wine. ¡°He even planned a vineyard, but it was never finished ¨C too much competition already in the area anyway,¡± my grandpa told me. I hadn''t heard the gruff voice of my grandpa in my mind''s ear in so long. Suddenly I felt like I could cry a river of tears, but I held back.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know him, but my grandfather told me stories.¡±


    ¡°He''s a famous guy too." She said.


    ¡°Strange how he croaked, though. Right? Real strange way to die.¡±


    Leave it to a perfect stranger to suck you right out of your sweet memories into a horrible dark one. Fuck you, Nancy ¨C but not the sweet, gentle fucking Frederick would give you. Nope. Fuck you tied to a tractor plowing a field of cactus.


    "Your mom got quite the inheritance with this place, but she got right the hell out of dodge. Can''t blame her. Ashton should do the same."


    My grandfather¡¯s will left the estate with my father, not my mother. My granddad knew my dad wouldn''t give up the place. It was his first love and probably the reason he married my mom. They played together on the manicured lawns as kids. Held hands in secret under the gas lamps out on the trails. He loved the inn and the people in it even if he was a selfish man. For a few years, it was a wonderful bed and breakfast. It was sad being there without grandfpa, but it was uplifting knowing we¡¯d kept the place out of foreclosure and there were always fun parties and merriment even after he was gone, but it didn''t last long. Dad gambled. Nancy knew it. I could see it on her face, but she said nothing. For once, she left a bad thought unspoken and I was grateful not to discuss my dad''s untimely passing with her. She noted that there were extra towels in the bathroom closet, and I prayed this was the end of it. That she''d finally take leave of the doorway so I could close it and be alone with my thoughts. She then launched into a memorized spiel, letting me know what time food was served and where I could find the house¡¯s many balconies.


    ¡°Well, you probably already know where the kitchen is and all that." She was wrapping it up, I was certain of that now and so eager to do away with her.


    ¡°If you need anything, just call the front desk from the phone there.¡± An old timey rotary phone sat on an equally dated bedside table. "We don''t offer room service."


    I thanked her, as I ushered her into the hall. She looked ready to say something else even as I shut the door. Taking in the room, now called the Josephine Suite, I noted where my single, wrought iron canopy bed with pink frilly bedding had been. In its place is a wooden dresser. Where my white dresser had once been, now sits a gigantic king-size sleigh bed with white and yellow linens. Overall, my old room was unrecognizable because of new paint and furniture, but it still felt familiar. It felt like mine if we''d have stayed and I''d have grown up here. The room felt matured, and that felt distinctly appropriate.


    I could hear the muffled whispers of Nancy talking to someone, the housekeeper I determined. She told the poor woman to keep an eye on me because I seem ¡°out of sorts.¡±


    It seemed I was going to be hot gossip around the inn. I should have paid cash and given a fake name¡­too late now I thought.


    ¡°It¡¯s a shame about the old man." She said callously. "He knew what he was doing with the family¡¯s money. She''s Randall''s kid, you know?¡±


    The gasp from the maid was entirely audible, even through the door. My stomach was in knots again. Despite feeling nauseous, I kept my ear pressed against the cold wood. I hated her in that moment, this woman who would eventually save my life.


    ¡°Yes. I am not making this up. That girl¡¯s father is Randall. She found the body.¡±


    "Poor child." The housekeeper said. "I''ll do my best to look out for her."


    Like the last scene in a dramatic play, I imagined they echoed stage left and the lights went out and a curtain closed.


    Just when I thought I could fall asleep, Nancy and Frederick entered the room nearest mine. We shared a wall even, the very wall my bed was against. Her intense, literal cries were like an ear worm that invaded my canal and took occupancy despite the pillow barrier I''d forged. I no longer found their passionate sex games a curiosity. It felt like an assault to hear them banging away and to relive that afternoon''s discovery again and again with every passionate scream Nancy let loose. I never slept that first night, but it turned out there''d always be sleepless nights at the Molly Grange Inn and it wasn''t always Nancy''s fault. Sometimes it was Molly''s.