Dreadful little place, he thought, so perfect, like a Hollywood set, just like Teresa’s hometown. He remembered having the same reaction, feeling the same vague distaste when he’d traveled to that small town in Ohio to marry Teresa Raglan, daughter of the local judge.
He pulled his gray Buick Regal into a well-marked parking place in front of the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop. There were two large plate-glass windows, painted all around with bright-blue trim. He could see small circular tables inside, with old-fashioned white wrought-iron chairs. Behind the counter an older woman was talking to a man while she scooped chocolate ice cream out of a carton set down into the counter. The front of the shop was painted a pristine white. It was a quaint little place, just like the rest of the town, but for some reason he didn’t like the looks of it.
He stepped out of the sedan and looked around. Next to the ice cream shop was a small general store with a sign out front in ornate type that could have come straight out of Victorian times: PURN DAVIES: YOU WANT IT-i SELL IT.
On the other side of the ice cream shop was a small clothing store that looked elegant and expensive, with that peculiar Carmel-like look that the rest of the buildings had. It was called Intimate Deceptions-a name that for James conjured up images of black lace against a white sheet or white skin.
The sidewalks looked brand-new and the road was nicely blacktopped. No ruts anywhere to hold rain puddles.
All the parking spots were marked with thick white lines. Not a faded line in the bunch. He’d seen newer houses on the drive in, apparently all built very recently. In town there was a hardware store, a small Safeway barely large enough to support the sign, a dry cleaners, a one-hour-photo place, a McDonald’s with a very discreet golden arch.
A prosperous, quaint little town that was perfect. He slipped his keys into his jacket pocket. First thing he needed was a place to stay. He spotted a sign reading THELMA’S BED AND BREAKFAST right across the street. Nothing fancy about that sign or title. He pulled his black travel bag out of the back seat and walked over to Thel-ma’s big white Victorian gingerbread house with its deep porch that encircled the entire house. He hoped he could get a room up in one of those circular towers.
For an old house, it was in immaculate shape. The white of the clapboard gleamed, and the pale blue and yellow trim around the windows and on cornices seemed to be fresh. The wide wooden porch planks didn’t groan beneath his weight. The boards were new, the railing solid oak and sturdy.
He announced himself as James Quinlan to a smiling lady in her late fifties whom he found standing behind the antique walnut counter in the front hall. She was wearing an apron that had lots of flour on it. He explained he was looking for a room, preferably one in the tower. At the sound of an ancient cackle, he turned and saw a robust old lady rocking back and forth in an antique chair in the doorway of the huge living room. She was holding what appeared to be a diary in front of her nose with one hand, and in the other she held a fountain pen. Every few seconds she wet the tip of the fountain pen with her tongue, a habit that left her with a big black circle on the tip of her tongue.
“Ma’am,” he said, and nodded toward the old lady. “I sure hope that ink isn’t poisonous.”
“It wouldn’t kill her even if it was,” the lady behind the counter said. “She’s surely built up an immunity by now. Thelma’s been at that diary of hers with that black ink on her tongue ever since she and her husband first moved to The Cove back in the 1940’s.” The old lady cackled again, then called out, “I’m Thelma Nettro. You don’t have a wife, boy?”
“That’s a bold question, ma’am, even for an old lady.” Thelma ignored him. “So what are you doing in The Cove? You come here for the World’s Greatest Ice Cream?”