Inn on the Edge

by Gail Bridges

  She turned to Tim. He whispered something to her and she nodded, smiling.

  I watched Rhonda-Lynne and Tim, wondering about what Nikki had told me earlier. Had Tim, this kind, round-faced man really attacked Mr. Abiba? How bizarre. Tim looked no different than usual. He seemed relaxed and content, excited for his wife. Not riled up at all.

  Maybe Nikki had been mistaken.

  Mr. Abiba’s voice drew me back. “Listen up, everyone! My lovelies. You are wondering when you will find the time to accomplish the things I have asked of you, these new artistic endeavors as well as your Lessons and your various sexual escapades. Is this not correct? Of course it is! Do not worry. From this moment on, most beloved of guests, you will have free rein of the inn. Your rooms will no longer be locked.”

  Excited murmurs met this announcement.

  “Be proud of yourselves. You have earned my trust. Raise a glass.”

  Free rein of the inn? How extraordinary! How generous of Mr. Abiba! There was a full champagne glass in front of me. Zettia must have set it there without my noticing. I picked up the delicate little flute and toasted, just like everyone else.

  And there was more. The gifts kept coming.

  To the left of each champagne flute was a tiny filigreed silver canister of medicinal salve. For our various aches and pains and sorenesses, explained Mr. Abiba. Because he knew we were feeling the effects of our stay with him. “Because I care about your health. Dab a tiny amount where you most need it. My medicine works wonders on the erogenous zones. Massage it in. Use it often. Masturbate with it, even! You are guaranteed immediate results.” He leaned back in his chair, like a grandfatherly doctor. The type who used to make house calls and took his time about it.

  I opened mine. White creamy lotion filled the canister almost to the top. It smelled of the tiny yellow flowers that graced the breakfast table each morning, the inn’s trademark flower. I took a dab and rubbed it between my fingers, knowing already how wonderfully soothing it would be on my genitals. I stared at my finger. Was it tingling? I shivered in my seat. I could hardly wait to use this salve on my erogenous zones.

  Sighing, I tucked it into my pocket.

  “And now we have a most special treat!” said Mr. Abiba, his face lit up with excitement. “Joshua Taylor! Bring out your guitar and enchant us with your musical interpretations. A mere taste of what is to come. Let us all meet in the Fine Arts Room in fifteen minutes to hear him play.” He held up his hand. “Bring your calling cards, if you please. You will have need of them.”

  With that, he swept from the room.

  Josh and I looked at each other. Then he studied his guitar-picking fingernails.

  “Are you ready?” I asked, “Fingers all limbered up?”

  His knee bounced. He gave me a lopsided grin. He was getting nervous. As he did before every performance. He kissed me, then stood. “You won’t believe the guitar he loaned me. It’s a Ramirez—just like in that picture! One hundred and twelve years old. I played for almost an hour this morning while you were painting. My god, that’s an amazing instrument.” He looked wistfully toward the Fine Arts Room.

  “Warm up,” I said. “I’ll go to the Tower and get your calling cards and meet you there. Go!”

  When I came back downstairs, the door to the Fine Arts Room was closed, but I could hear soft scale runs and arpeggios coming from within. Josh, warming up. Zettia was passing out tea again and I took one. I took a careful drink, blowing on it, searching its dark depths. What effect would this cup of tea have on me? Zettia’s teas were special. Invigorating. Would it have the volcano effect? Would it make me drag Josh to the bedroom and have my way with him? Or would it do something different this time, like making me feel as if I were the sexiest woman who ever walked the face of the earth? That wouldn’t be so bad. I smiled and took another sip.

  Zenith joined me. “Angie! Hi.”

  I blushed like a teenager on her first date.

  Zenith ran a light finger up and down my arm. “I missed you.”

  My nipples sucked themselves into tight little nubs and a flush rose to my face. She stood so close I could smell the sweet aroma of flowers that wafted over me with her every move. Her lips brushed mine in a promise of a kiss. “Come with me,” she said, pulling me down the hallway and tucking us neatly into the narrow area between two potted palms. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, kissing me, this time for real. “I want you again.”

  I just about fainted.

  She pulled me close. “I mean, right now would be great, but it’s not a good time, not with Josh about to play for us. Later.” She nodded at her own words, not expecting a response from me. Not that I was capable of giving her one. “You and me. And Josh, if he wants to.” She shivered with anticipation. “Yes. Definitely with Josh. A three-way. How about it?”

  I just about fainted. Again. “Sure! Yeah, great!” I managed to squeak.

  She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. “Speaking of Josh…remember after the Train Ride game? How I took care of you?”

  If I’d thought I was in a tizzy a moment ago, that was nothing compared to what I felt now. My lips parted and my breath came in shallow puffs as I remembered how Zenith had taken care of me, how beautifully she’d made love to me, how she’d brought my inner lesbian roaring to life. Oh the kisses! The caresses! Those lovely little breasts that fit so perfectly into my mouth! And above all, that slim, long-fingered hand that had fit me so perfectly. Oh yes, I remembered. I would never forget. Never.

  I coughed, blinking. Then I nodded, smiling shyly.

  “You do remember, don’t you?” she asked, running that same glorious hand, the one that had made love to me, up the front of my shirt, trailing it lightly over the swell of my breast. “Because I sure do.”

  “All of it, yes,” I said, the words breathless. I swallowed.

  “Well…” She cleared her throat. “Honey. Before you woke up, I took careof Josh too.”

  I sucked in my breath, staring at her. “Oh.”

  “I thought you should know. In case he hadn’t mentioned it yet.”

  Josh and Zenith getting it on? With me in the same bed, oblivious? Really? First him, then me, making love with the same woman while the other slept? I didn’t know what to think. Why hadn’t Josh shared this savory tidbit with me? Did he think I already knew? Was he hiding it from me? No, he wouldn’t. Right? All these thoughts, and more, flashed through my mind as Zenith stood there, flicking my nipple through the fabric of my shirt, smiling. Making it very difficult to think. So I gave up. It wasn’t important. What was happening to my left breast and to my pussy was what was important.

  “You like that?” she whispered.

  I made a noise suspiciously like a moan. She pressed one hand over my mound and gave my nipple a gentle twist with the other. “How about this?”

  “Yes! Yes!” I gasped. “Zenith! You know exactly what you’re doing to me!”

  She blew into my ear. “Of course I know what I’m doing. Honey, you’re the sweetest little thing. But your husband…he’s sweet too. In a different way.”

  “I know! He’s great!”

  She laughed softly. “He’s got this thing he does after sex…”

  I frowned. “He sucked your knuckles?”

  That was my thing! His and mine. He’d done it with her?

  “Mmm-hmm. He did.” She lifted her hand from my breast and wriggled her long graceful fingers in front of my face. Her eyes twinkled. “Knuckles. Fingers. Nails. The whole deal.” She closed her eyes. Licked her lips. Let out a long, slow sigh. Shuddered. Imitating him with wicked perfection. She brought her own hand to her mouth and opened her lips.

  Slurp-slurp. Lick-lick. Nibble-nibble. Suck-suck.

  “Mmm…” she pretended to moan, peeking at me.

  I smiled in spite of myself, deciding it didn’t matter, not really. There was enough of Josh to go around. I could share him with Zenith. And with others too, most likely. I’d seen him look sideways at Zora. And a
t Jonathan. And Nikki. Definitely Nikki. Besides, who was I to complain? I’d been busy too. Checking out Valerian’s muscles. Hoping to get Vane in bed again. Wondering what it would feel like to make love with teddy-bear Geoffrey. Imagining Logan spreading Mr. Abiba’s lotion all over my genitals. There was no doubt about it, I’d had a very fruitful fantasy life recently.

  Shocking but true.

  Zenith was gazing at me, still doing that thing with her hand.

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed too. It was funny, after all. I shook my tea so violently that I sloshed some onto the floor. Who would ever have thought I’d be giggling about my husband’s sexual proclivities with another woman? A woman who was also my lover?

  Unreal. That was what it was.

  She kissed me full on the lips. “See this hand? You and Josh have both made love with it. You have my left hand in common.”

  We leaned against the wall between those potted palms, pressing ourselves together so tightly I felt the warmth of her body on mine, felt her heartbeat, felt her nipples hardening. “Look,” Zenith said, coming up for air too soon.“They’re all going into the Fine Arts Room.”

  Damn, I thought. Fucking hell!

  Then I thought, I didn’t used to swear. What’s gotten into me?

  But she was right. The door of the Fine Arts Room was open now. Zenith and I stood frozen, almost hidden by our potted palm, breathing heavily, flushed.

  I wanted her. My body cried out for her.

  She reached up with the hand and ran her palm down my cheek.

  I about had an apex.

  “Later?” she said, tossing her Burnt Sienna head.

  I could hardly wait.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I went into the Fine Arts Room, following Zenith. It was set up differently than yesterday, set up for Josh’s mini-recital. The twelve chairs, plus Mr. Abiba’s, were set up in two rows, an intimate, scaled-down version of the formal recitals Josh performed twice a year. Zenith went to sit at the back, near Valerian, but I crossed to the front, forcing myself to cool down. Her last word—later, later, later—ran through my head. I sat down in the middle of the row and closed my eyes, practicing slow, even breathing.

  I had to concentrate. I had to forget her, for the moment anyway. And I had to ignore the waiting, empty walls where my future murals would be, which was no easy task. This was Josh’s time to shine.

  And he did.

  I opened my eyes again and saw my handsome Josh, standing tall and grave beside a chair in the front of the room, holding a honey-colored guitar by the neck. He waited, shifting from foot to foot, wearing his wedding jacket, looking terribly distinguished, like the exceptional musician he was. He nodded solemnly to me. I smiled back. Gave him a thumbs-up.

  He fucked Zenith, I thought.

  The room grew quiet.

  Mr. Abiba’s voice rang out from his large chair at the end of the row. “Let me present Mr. Joshua Taylor!”

  Josh bowed. We clapped.

  Guitar in hand, he lowered himself into the chair and placed his left foot on a small stool. He held the strapless instrument lightly perched on his knees, its headstock raised—classical guitar position. I frowned. Did the loaner instrument look a bit smaller than Josh’s own guitar? The neck just a tad shorter, a pinch narrower? An antique such as this might well be different from a modern instrument. I bit my lip, hoping the smaller size wouldn’t throw him off. It didn’t take much to throw a classical guitarist off his or her game—I’d been around musicians enough to know what Josh was doing was not easy.

  I could never do it. I was the sort of person who got flustered just speaking in front of four people. If it was me up there, I’d have a heart attack before playing the first note.

  Josh cleared his throat. “This piece is a favorite of mine. ‘Recuerdos de la Alhambra’ by Francisco Tárrega. I hope you will love it as much as I do.”

  He let his audience wait a long moment—always the showman—then played the sweet opening notes. His lithe fingers moved across the strings, playing a soft, trilling tremolo,weaving individual notes into lilting Spanish melodies. I let my breath out in a long sigh. What beauty, this guitar music, so utterly different from the boisterous chord-strumming I’d grown up with. It was studied and intelligent. Evocative. Delicate. Subtle. Tárrega’s masterpiece floated in the Fine Arts Room, surrounding us, drawing us in with its fragile sound.

  It always affected me the same way, Josh’s playing. I’d heard this piece probably fifty times, and still, it took me by surprise. If someone asked me if I likedclassical music, I’d answer “not particularly”, but here, now, listening to ‘Recuerdos’ as performed by the person I most loved in the world, I knew it to be a lie. Because I couldn’t think of anything I liked more.

  By the absolute silence, the rapt attention of the audience, I wasn’t the only one.

  Josh played passionately, beautifully, each note lovelier than the last. And the loaned guitar, how sublime! How sweet its tone! I’d never heard anything like it. What Josh would give to own a precious instrument like this loaner guitar. Eyes closed, his face completely relaxed, he let the final mournful strains of the song die away. He sat in silence for an entire minute, then he stood up, held the guitar at his side, and bowed deeply.

  And then we heard it.

  A sob.

  Heartrending, bereft. Tragic. It was Mr. Abiba, and he was crying.

  Josh froze, horrified, his mouth hanging open.

  Mr. Abiba rose to his feet. Tears flowed down his craggy, tortured face. “I owe you an apology, Joshua Taylor. Forgive my outburst. Long ago, someone very dear to me played that very piece on this very guitar,” he said, his voice breaking, “and I am remembering a long-ago love. A person very dear to me who went over the edge and is now lost to me. Pay me no attention. I still mourn, even after all this time…” Hands to his face, back curving in on itself, he slumped into his seat again.

  Pay him no attention? Impossible.

  In moments, we surrounded our beloved Mr. Abiba. Zenith kneeled at his feet, crooning. Jonathan hugged his wide shoulders. Rhonda-Lynne patted his back. Logan claimed the closest chair, pulled it close, and put his arm around his waist. Vane whispered in his ear. Josh—guitar safely stowed in its case—blotted Mr. Abiba’s face tenderly with the linen handkerchief swiped from the borrowed suit jacket. I sat beside Zenith on the floor, holding Mr. Abiba’s dry hand in mine, rubbing the back of it with my thumb.

  Together, we tended to our friend, our leader, our teacher, as best we knew how.

  But it was me he looked at when he finally opened his eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice stronger now. “A moment of weakness.”

  Zettia made her way to Mr. Abiba and held out her hand. “Adi,” she said.

  When had she arrived? Had she been there all along? Did she know who had broken Mr. Abiba’s heart? She leaned over him, speaking softly in her honey voice. “Adi dearest. You need rest.”

  He sniffed mournfully.

  Zettia looked up and regarded us, his acolytes. “You must understand. My Adi is a man of many passions. A man of many loves. He feels everything so very powerfully.”

  Mr. Abiba straightened up in the chair, regaining a touch of his former regal posture. He dropped my hand and took Zettia’s. “So true, my love, so true! Sometimes it catches me quite by surprise. Takes me plummeting right over the edge.” He took a deep breath, shuddering only slightly—so brave, so brave, to pull himself up from such despair. He was a man of many loves, but also a man of sublime self-control. “Passion,” he said somberly, “the symphony of emotions. Where would we be without it? What use living?”

  Zettia held his hand to her cheek. “Indeed, my love.”

  “Indeed,” he repeated.

  They stared at one another. Things beyond my comprehension flitted across their faces.

  Finally, Mr. Abiba drew in a breath. He broke his connection with Zettia. After a moment his eyes settled on my husband. “
Ah, yes…Joshua Taylor. Our very own resident classical guitarist. Your playing is simply transcendent. I salute you.”

  “Thank you,” said Josh.

  Mr. Abiba stood up. Zenith and I scooted to the side to give him space.

  “I must excuse myself. I shall lie down for a spell, as my Zettia has recommended.” His face brightened. “But first I will set a game in motion! Zettia—take your hands from me, I’m fine. I am well on the way to regaining my equilibrium. Why must you hover over me like a mother hen? Humor me. Let me speak to my friends.”

  Zettia nodded and took a step back.

  “Everyone has their calling cards, I presume?” asked Mr. Abiba, sitting up straight in his seat. He did look better—in fact, his face was far less wrinkled and blotched than I remembered. Perhaps my mother was right. She’d always said that a good cry could do wonders for the complexion.

  We all nodded, clutching our calling cards, suddenly alert. My heart skipped a beat.

  “Good! I need each of you to take one card out of your individual packs and give it to me. Vane and Valerian, Zora and Zenith—you too.”

  Give him a card? Why? What was Mr. Abiba planning? With expectant glances at one another, we got to our feet, our tight circle of concern and worry dissolving as if it had never existed. Order had been restored. Our leader was back. It was abundantly clear that we, his guests, wanted—needed—to be led. How were we to experience Mr. Abiba’s symphony of emotions if he wasn’t there to help us in the task? Happy now, we rummaged in pockets and purses, collecting our calling cards, wondering about the precise nature of Mr. Abiba’s upcoming game. Would I get through it without falling to the floor in a coma?

  I passed my card, and Josh’s, to join the others in Mr. Abiba’s outstretched hand. He shuffled them. And shuffled them again.

  I crowded in closer. We all did. We followed his every move as he flipped our calling cards to and fro.

  “Now for the fun part,” he said. “Everyone draw a card, but don’t look at it yet. Oh what excitement! I feel so much better. Come now, who will draw the first card? Geoffrey? Nikki? Tim?”