Trophy House Read Online Free Page B

Truro. Raymie’s B & B actually straddles the boundary between P’Town and North Truro and was given the choice of addresses by the U.S. government. She chose P’Town because, she figured, for visitors looking for action no matter how tame, P’Town would be a better draw than Truro, where there’s nothing but wind, sand, sky and some old houses. Not even a downtown. People coming off Route 6 drive round and round, looking in vain for downtown Truro. One man was known to have driven around for a day and a half before he was willing to ask someone for directions to Truro, only to be told he was already there.
    In 1989, Raymie bought a falling-apart late-nineteenth-century house that looked as if no one but mice and squirrels had lived in it for many years. She got a small-business loan and fixed it up with the help of shelter magazines specializing in before-and-after features—along with my kibitzing, as she called it—carefully following good ideas and discarding bad ones. What she ended up with was three bedrooms with queen-sized beds, one with a thin slice of water view for which people were willing to pay twice as much as for those that only looked out on trees and grass. She enlarged the kitchen so that if she’s full up the guests can all have breakfast at approximately the same time. She chatted with them at breakfast, gave them tips on what to see and what to avoid, and did the cheerful hostess bit so well that no one could tell when she was blue or under the weather. “It’s an act, Dannie,” she told me. “But a lot of the time I really mean it. I really like my guests. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t.”
    We drew up in her gravel driveway and parked alongside a Honda with chipped paint and a dented rear door. It had New Jersey plates. There was another car parked some ways off, a Lexus. As we got out, Beth reminded me that we were only going to stay a few minutes.
    â€œGod, am I glad you showed up!” Raymie led us into the kitchen, where she was obviously in the middle of preparing something for dinner. “Can you stay?” she said. “I’ve made much too much marinara.” Beth threw me an urgent look and I told Raymie we had to get home for dinner; I thought maybe Tom would show up; I hoped he would.
    Raymie asked Beth a few questions point-blank: What was she doing here? How was the boyfriend? Beth began to squirm and I said quietly, “Beth’s taking a little vacation on her own. Can we leave it at that?” Beth sighed.
    Raymie stirred her spaghetti sauce with a long-handled wooden spoon, turning her back to us but talking over her shoulder. She complained briefly about not having the cash to fix the roof. Then she said, “I’ve got a real strange one staying here for two days. He makes me nervous. I haven’t felt this way about a guest since that couple from Arizona…”
    â€œThe man who was wanted for mutilating sheep?”
    â€œThat’s the one.”
    I wanted to know precisely what had put her off about her guest. “Well, for one thing, he didn’t have any luggage, just a small backpack, not even a change of clothes, nothing. For another, he smoked nonstop, one cigarette from another. You know I don’t allow smoking on the premises, but I’m sure he was doing it anyway. You can smell it.” She heard him—through the door, of course—talking in an urgent voice on his cell phone late at night. “He didn’t want my blueberry pancakes, just asked for coffee, black. He looked as if he hadn’t slept more than five minutes all night.”
    â€œSomething on his mind?” I said. Beth had perked up and was listening with interest. “How old is he?” she asked.
    â€œI’d say mid-thirties. While he was out taking a walk—he said—I took a look inside his room—I had to replace some towels anyway. He’s got a detailed map of