Between a Wok and a Hard Place Read Online Free Page A

cook stews in a large cast-iron kettle suspended from the hearth. Legend
    has it she hid the baby under the pot when they were attacked by Delaware Indians. The pot, now spilling over with a
    plethora of petunias, graces the front porch of the Inn.
    Adjacent to the sitting room is the recreation room, the newest addition to the Inn. While I would prefer that my
    guests amuse themselves with Scrabble and quilting, they have a preference for treadmills and television. But it is my
    establishment after all, and the waiting list is long. The treadmill they got, the television they did not. Call me old-
    fashioned, but the road to hell is paved with remote controls.
    To the left of the foyer is the dining room, with its massive table, around which my guests are expected to take their
    meals together. Behind the dining room is the kitchen which, for as long as I can remember, has been Freni's domain.
    Even when Mama was alive, Freni cooked for us. Back then it was her job to feed the farmhands.
    Directly in back of the vestibule is the only downstairs bedroom - until recently mine. Of course now I share it with
    Aaron. If the truth be told - and this must never get back to Aaron - I was actually looking forward to having it back all to
    myself for a few days. I hadn't realized just how luxurious, and perhaps decadent, it is to be able to sprawl completely
    across a bed and not brush up against anyone. I believe firmly in a biblical hell, and the best metaphor I can come up with
    for it is a shared bathroom. Mine should be the only hair to clog the shower drain.
    Upstairs are all the guest rooms, along with Susannah's room, and the suite I had built for Pops. Before you criticize
    me soundly for having stashed an octogenarian upstairs, at least allow me to state that we now have an elevator
    connecting the two floors. The impossibly steep staircase of yesteryear is still there, however, because it adds a certain
    quaintness.
    Outside, in back of the Inn, where the old six-seater outhouse (the largest in the county) used to be, there now
    stands a white, wooden gazebo. To the left of that there is the chicken coop, then the barn, and then acres of cornfields
    backed by acres of woods.
    My point is that there is plenty of space for my guests, and there was absolutely no reason on earth for Dr. Brack to
    be lurking outside my private door. When I opened it, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
    "Ha, I must have scared you," he said.
    "Can I help you?" I snapped.
    Even under the best of circumstances, Dr. Wilmar Brack gave me the willies. Primarily it was because his age was
    indeterminate, probably due to extensive plastic surgery (believe you me, the frailer sex is not above going under the knife
    these days!). Judging by the amount of glint left in his eyes, however, I presumed that he was possibly in his fifties. He
    had thick gray hair that grew everywhere it was supposed to except for the crown of his head, which was capped by a
    perfectly round, shiny circle, looking for all the world like the photos of alien landing pads in the British papers. Three long
    hairs had been trained across the pate from right to left, and then lacquered into place.
    At any rate, Dr. Brack didn't even have the decency to appear taken aback. "You promised to let me bend your .ear
    for five minutes."
    "My ears are already folded; stapled, and stamped. Besides, I'm really very busy."
    "Two minutes of your time, then." I let out a sigh that was heard as far away as Oregon, and led him to the sitting
    room. I gestured to the most uncomfortable hard-back chair in my collection.
    "Bend away." Dr. Wilmar Brack lit up like a two candle jack-o'-lantern-lantern. "You know who I am, of course."
    "You won the Nobel prize. You've told me that five I times."
    He squirmed. The chair was as hard as I had hoped. "I said I was nominated for the Nobel prize. I didn't actually win.
    Still, it's quite an honor, don't you think? After all, the Nobel prize is worth far more than