propped the chair under the door handle, and fell into the dreamless sleep of physical exhaustion. I woke a couple of hours later, stiff but rested, and ravenous.
The hotel was quiet. I looked both ways before stepping out of my room, but no one was around, nor was anyone in the lounge—except Stan, abandoned to sleep on a couch in the total relaxation only a cat seems able to achieve. Hattie Mae was evidently out or napping. Dinner was not yet in preparation, so the kitchen was cold and silent.
There was no one to beg for a snack. Although exercise wasn’t high on my list of priorities right then, calories were. And my neck was getting stiff from looking over my shoulder.
I moved my aching body out the door and down the hill to the village shops.
Fifteen minutes later, somewhat fortified by some melt-in-the-mouth candy called “tablet”—sort of a vanilla fudge—I wandered toward the other end of the village.
There was no traffic in the Sound today. The crashing waves provided the explanation; in the mysterious depths of the sea the storm had not yet worn itself out, and this was no place for small boats.
I didn’t linger at the jetty, but walked down the street, and as I passed the minute post office, decided to turn in. Hope springs eternal.
Surprisingly enough, in this case it was justified. I hadn’t yet opened my mouth to make my inquiry when the postmaster handed me an envelope.
“Ah, ye’ll be Mrs. Martin, I’ve nae doot. I’ve a letter for ye. The post was late today, due to the gale and it havin’ to be brought by special ferry, but it’s come noo, and if I’m no’ mistaken, ye’ll be findin’ the key to yon cottage in it. I was juist goin’ to take it up to ye.”
He handed over a slim packet with, sure enough, a bump in it. I tore it open.
“Dorothy, hope this is the right key. Found it under umbrella stand; suspect Samantha.” (Samantha was my young Siamese, who would chase anything she could get her busy little paws on. I was lucky she’d pushed her trophy under the umbrella stand. It could just as easily have been shot into the wilderness under the refrigerator and lost forever.)
“Gorgeous weather here, last of the summer. Your asters thriving. Hope having good time. Jane.”
I chuckled. Jane’s note was so like her. Brief, businesslike, no nonsense about “Dear” or “Love.” But she’d taken considerable trouble to search my house for the key. I’d have to find her a really nice thank-you gift, which she would accept with gruff disclaimers, but would secretly treasure.
“
Thank
you, so much!” I beamed at the postmaster. “You were right; it is the key.” I didn’t ask how he knew about the key. I’d lived in Sherebury long enough to know that small towns in this part of the world know everything about everybody. Here in a tiny community like Iona, a person probably couldn’t snarl at her husband in bed one night without getting anxious queries about her marriage the next day. I was a little more curious about how he knew who I was, out of all the Americans on the island, but I didn’t like to ask.
“Good! It’s a fine wee cottage; ye’ll enjoy it. And may I say that’s a bonnie wee bonnet ye’ve got on?”
I’d forgotten my tam-o’-shanter, which I’d jammed on as I’d left the hotel. Well, my hats do tend to make me recognizable. I smiled my appreciation of his compliment as I made my way out the door and up the short path to the village street.
At the head of the path, I hesitated. Left or right? The sensible thing would be to go back to the hotel and collect my luggage, but I was eager to see my new domain. I turned right.
I moved along at the leisurely pace my aching muscles preferred, looking over the gardens on the seaward side of the road. On the whole, they hadn’t fared too badly in the gale. Some of the flowers had been blown off the fuchsia hedges, and the more fragile annuals and perennials lay prostrate and discouraged, but the
The hotel was quiet. I looked both ways before stepping out of my room, but no one was around, nor was anyone in the lounge—except Stan, abandoned to sleep on a couch in the total relaxation only a cat seems able to achieve. Hattie Mae was evidently out or napping. Dinner was not yet in preparation, so the kitchen was cold and silent.
There was no one to beg for a snack. Although exercise wasn’t high on my list of priorities right then, calories were. And my neck was getting stiff from looking over my shoulder.
I moved my aching body out the door and down the hill to the village shops.
Fifteen minutes later, somewhat fortified by some melt-in-the-mouth candy called “tablet”—sort of a vanilla fudge—I wandered toward the other end of the village.
There was no traffic in the Sound today. The crashing waves provided the explanation; in the mysterious depths of the sea the storm had not yet worn itself out, and this was no place for small boats.
I didn’t linger at the jetty, but walked down the street, and as I passed the minute post office, decided to turn in. Hope springs eternal.
Surprisingly enough, in this case it was justified. I hadn’t yet opened my mouth to make my inquiry when the postmaster handed me an envelope.
“Ah, ye’ll be Mrs. Martin, I’ve nae doot. I’ve a letter for ye. The post was late today, due to the gale and it havin’ to be brought by special ferry, but it’s come noo, and if I’m no’ mistaken, ye’ll be findin’ the key to yon cottage in it. I was juist goin’ to take it up to ye.”
He handed over a slim packet with, sure enough, a bump in it. I tore it open.
“Dorothy, hope this is the right key. Found it under umbrella stand; suspect Samantha.” (Samantha was my young Siamese, who would chase anything she could get her busy little paws on. I was lucky she’d pushed her trophy under the umbrella stand. It could just as easily have been shot into the wilderness under the refrigerator and lost forever.)
“Gorgeous weather here, last of the summer. Your asters thriving. Hope having good time. Jane.”
I chuckled. Jane’s note was so like her. Brief, businesslike, no nonsense about “Dear” or “Love.” But she’d taken considerable trouble to search my house for the key. I’d have to find her a really nice thank-you gift, which she would accept with gruff disclaimers, but would secretly treasure.
“
Thank
you, so much!” I beamed at the postmaster. “You were right; it is the key.” I didn’t ask how he knew about the key. I’d lived in Sherebury long enough to know that small towns in this part of the world know everything about everybody. Here in a tiny community like Iona, a person probably couldn’t snarl at her husband in bed one night without getting anxious queries about her marriage the next day. I was a little more curious about how he knew who I was, out of all the Americans on the island, but I didn’t like to ask.
“Good! It’s a fine wee cottage; ye’ll enjoy it. And may I say that’s a bonnie wee bonnet ye’ve got on?”
I’d forgotten my tam-o’-shanter, which I’d jammed on as I’d left the hotel. Well, my hats do tend to make me recognizable. I smiled my appreciation of his compliment as I made my way out the door and up the short path to the village street.
At the head of the path, I hesitated. Left or right? The sensible thing would be to go back to the hotel and collect my luggage, but I was eager to see my new domain. I turned right.
I moved along at the leisurely pace my aching muscles preferred, looking over the gardens on the seaward side of the road. On the whole, they hadn’t fared too badly in the gale. Some of the flowers had been blown off the fuchsia hedges, and the more fragile annuals and perennials lay prostrate and discouraged, but the
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