"This place is great. The two landladies are so nice. You’re gonna love it," our newly met co-guest Charlie said, explaining he’d been coming to this B&B for ten years.  

Curbside, the inn didn’t inspire the confidence Charlie exuded as we unloaded luggage, but he looked like a fellow who could recommend good accommodations. Jim and I followed him in the front door. He strode down the hallway like a man coming home.  

"Who’re you?" issued from a boxy woman who blocked passage to the inner sanctum. So this was one of the 'nice ladies'? I had expected a petite, sweet-faced, gray-haired lady leaning toward stout and smiling through pearly dentures. Well, I figured, it was the rush hour as check-in times go, so maybe charm and friendliness take a back seat to brevity and efficiency.  

I’d barely announced our names and the fact that we came bearing a reservation when the disheveled woman pointed to an exceedingly spartan room next to the front entry, door agape.  

"We’ve put you in the parlor."

"Oh, yes, thanks." I tried on a smile, hoping it hadn’t arranged itself as the grimace it felt like.  

We headed in, followed by the greeter, who seemed to not have had time to don her 'greeting clothes', nor found the tools to tidy her unruly hair. Clad in clothes I would have worn for housework, she stood in the doorway and leaned against the chipped trim to recite the rules of the house.  

"You can park behind the inn. Just drive up the road on the side here." She pointed to a steep, narrow drive a couple yards from our window. "We need to fit six cars in that space, so keep that in mind."

I envisioned a new crop of door dings by morning.  

While the landlady droned on about the proper way to conduct a stay at this inn, I glimpsed Charlie dutifully moving his Lexus up the steep hill to the lot, where I imagined him squeezing between two other guests’ cars, then laboring with his door--using both hands and feet--to effect a sidehill exit.  

We were given the directions back to our room after we obeyed the parking directive. They sounded akin to a trek through Alice’s maze. And, we were warned, in case we had any idea of spending a pleasant evening in the garden--overgrown though it was--the path lights are no longer left on after dark. This was solely for the guests’ safety, we were assured, due to the potential for deer to wander in, become cranky over folks hanging about in their territory and knock them over.  

I assumed Charlie wasn’t an outdoor sort of guy.  

We turned our attention to the tiny cell we’d been assigned. In order to survey our night’s environs unsupervised, we closed the door. We discovered that the room was best viewed from afar. The decorations were, euphemistically speaking, sparse, consisting solely of two pictures placed strategically in a three-foot-square portion of one wall. The bed, which at first appeared to have a huge swale in the middle, turned out to be worse than initially thought. Unlike the bulk of the B&B’s in the area, there was a distinct lack of attractive wallpaper, overstuffed pillows, plush rugs, or even the rudimentary bedside clock. The bath amenities included a wafer-thin sliver of soap. Among the clever items strategically placed in the WC was a half-full bottle of Softsoap situated on the sink and a generic tissue box tossed on the above-john shelves. The rest of the room was uncluttered by such pesky items as shampoo, lotion or hair dryer. Tattered guest towels lying on the sink completed the casual look.  

Maybe Charlie finds plump bath towels too indulgent, I thought. Or maybe he is annoyed by a firm bed adorned with colorful bolsters and down comforters.  

One large window overlooked the front porch. Directly in front of our room, separated only by an old piece of glass and a flimsy sheer, a conversation pit of wicker was arranged. I could already picture the after-play crowd critiquing until the wee hours on the other side of the wall a few feet from our bed.  

I kept thinking about Charlie, coming here for ten years. Had he never been to another B&B? Out of the 54 lovely inns competing for the honor of housing the theater crowd in this small burg, this one dropped off the low end of the scale.  

After a grim performance of 'Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf'--the high spot of the day, however unlikely that seems--we straggled back to the inn over sodden sidewalks under a foreboding sky. While preparing to retire for the night, exhausted after a long drive and a longer play, we attempted to button up for sleep. The innkeepers must have thought privacy was only needed in front, as they hadn’t seen fit to supply a blind for the side window. Unconvinced, I couldn’t bring myself to parade around scantily clad under the glaring overhead light in front of a two by six opening to neighborhood view. I freed the side curtains from their tether and braided them into a semblance of window covering.  

Was Charlie really in the same B&B we were?  

We climbed into bed, and held onto our respective sides lest we tumble into the chasm formed by the center of the mattress. Even the tiniest movement broadcast deafening squeaks and shuddering vibrations. The threadbare quilt afforded nearly sufficient warmth in the drafty room. Huddling in the depths of the chasm started to sound tempting.  

Aside from a bed long past its prime, the old house had many of its own quaint quirks. The slightest weight on the floor echoed throughout the structure. Our inn-mates overhead proved to be nocturnal sorts, opting to take long hikes above us during the night. Every footfall resounded with a prolonged squeak. Outside was no better. What had appeared to be a quiet park-side street by day became a heavily-traveled boulevard once we were tucked in.  

We decided the hostesses pocketed all the room fees, never once thinking of freshening the paint or replacing the beds with, say, mattresses manufactured this century. An interior designer might have suggested a more appealing rug--or at least one that fit the room dimensions--and nightstand lamps that came from somewhere other than a flea market. Nonetheless, we somehow passed seven hours in that pathetic room.  

What was it Charlie saw there? We decided he’s either one of the owners’ kin or a marketing agent. Elsewise, why does he keep coming back?   

Why, Charlie?  Why?  

Author's Biography

Kate Ayers is a semi-retired court reporter in the Pacific Northwest, honing her skills by writing short stories, book reviews and the occasional magazine article.  

In her free time, of which there is precious little, she attempts to train one irascible Shar Pei, tend her one-acre garden and play with all her friends, not the least of whom is her husband of nearly 20 years.

Other works by Kate can be found at The Pink Chameleon, Einkwell.com Archive and BookReporter.com.

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