Camelot & Vine Read Online Free

where to go.
The cab picked up speed for a few minutes, slowing again when we
caught up to traffic.
    "There it is," said Alex, jabbing his thumb
at the driver's side window.
    I scooted across the seat to wipe the fog
from the window behind him. I couldn't make out what he meant so I
let the window down, allowing in a few raindrops. Then I drew in a
breath that I didn't let out.
    I hadn’t expected to see Stonehenge
squatting alongside the highway like a roadside zoo. My image had
been of proud stones standing aloof on the wide, open plain. But
like captive animals on display, the stones did not stand so much
as hulk. With umbrellas open against the rain, well-behaved
tourists filed past them on roped-off walkways. I closed my window.
The windshield wipers beat fast and steady.
    “Going to be a full moon tonight if it
clears up,” said Alex. “The loonies are out. Want to stop while
it’s light?”
    “No thanks.”
    “You have to see Stonehenge while you’re
here.”
    “I’ll wait for a day when it’s not so
busy.”
    “No such day,” he said.
    Alex soon turned north, delivering us from
the main highway to the quiet countryside via a twisted, two-lane
road lined with farmland. The entire drive from Salisbury to Small
Common, even through the Stonehenge traffic, took a little over
half an hour. By the time we arrived in the village the rain had
stopped, and late-day sun broke through the clouds. Golden drops
glistened on every drooping rose petal and thatched roof. A mist
hovered above the lane like steam on a swimming pool when the
water’s warmer than the air. In my heart I thanked the brochure
girl and her auntie.
    Alex rolled the taxi to a stop on the gravel
driveway in front of a two-story brick house that looked like it
might be haunted. “Suggestion for jet lag, if I may,” he said.
    Apparently it was obvious. “Sure.”
    “Stay awake until a normal hour tonight,
say, ten o’clock. Then don’t sleep more than eight hours. You’ll be
on local time quick.”
    “I’ll try.” I didn’t question why Alex
should be an expert on jet lag. I only doubted I could stay awake
much longer, and I had no idea what time it was. Although my
headache persisted, the nausea was gone. My stomach’s growl had
progressed to a roar.
    Alex retrieved my bags from the trunk. I
paid him the exorbitant sum he requested and tipped him ten
percent.
    “Coo,” he said under his breath. Or
something like that. “Full moon.” He tucked himself behind the
wheel and drove off in the direction from which we’d come.
    I gazed up at the house, which leaned a tad
sideways and managed to loom even in the sun. A sign propped
against the front steps said “Langhorne Bed and Breakfast.” I
dragged myself up the stone steps and knocked. When no answer came
I opened the creaking door and stepped into a dark, low-ceilinged
hallway. The faint smell of curry arrived at my nose, making my
mouth water. A Persian runner ran the length of a hardwood hallway
so dark it was almost black. Lugging my shopping bags, I followed
the banter of television news to a doorway at the end of the
hall.
    “Hello?”
    “Oh!” came the response, then a little crash
of dishes. “Ah, well.” A thin, fortyish man with dark eyes and
delicate features peeked out the door, dabbing a linen napkin at a
spot on his crisp, white shirt. “Hello. Do you need a room?”
    “Yes.”
    “Lucky you, I’ve got one.” His socks slid
across the floor. I followed him into a dining room wallpapered
with faded toile, where he gestured for me to sit at the huge
table.
    “The attic room’s all I have. A hundred and
twenty quid if that suits you. Sorry you’ve missed dinner. Where’re
you from?”
    “Los Angeles.” I tried to smile. I was too
proud to ask what a hundred and twenty quid might equal in dollars,
too tired to return his sociability. He ran my credit card through
a device attached to the wall phone. We waited for the beep. “How
long will you be