Wisp of a Thing: A Novel of the Tufa (Tufa Novels) Read Online Free Page A

inside.
    The lobby smelled like potpourri and fresh flowers; lace-edged country knickknacks covered every surface, and one corner was set up with displays of the same items for sale. He stepped up to the desk, carefully propped his guitar case against it, and less carefully dropped his duffel bag to the floor. “Hello?” he called.
    A woman in her fifties, with dark skin and ebony hair touched with gray, appeared from the office. She wore a T-shirt decorated with appliqué hearts. “Hello, young man. Can I help you?”
    “I’ve got a reservation. Robert Quillen. Hope I’m not too early to check in.”
    Peggy Goins looked him over with the practiced evaluation of a woman who had never lost touch with her inner horny teenager, the one who’d spent a single glorious summer in the 1960s traveling and fucking all along the eastern seaboard. This Robert Quillen was slender, with a thick head of black hair, an easy smile, and dark, piercing eyes. She’d seen eyes like that before; they spoke of the capacity for furious anger, and other furies far more intimate. He carried a single bag, which meant he traveled alone, and a guitar, which said he was musical.
    Although he looked like one of them, she knew immediately there was no Tufa blood in him. It happened occasionally; people ran across the “Tufa mystery” on the Internet or in a book and imagined they, too, were somehow connected. But there was more to it than just physical resemblance. After all, the Tufa weren’t the only ones in the world with straight black hair and a swarthy complexion. But this boy sure did look the part, and folks in Needsville with less of the true in them might easily assume he was, especially since he was a guest at the Catamount Corner. Peggy’s establishment survived on the desire of anyone with even a drop of Tufa blood to return to Needsville. It was similar to the call of Mecca, or a bird’s urge to migrate, except that it was more subtle, usually unconscious, and could be resisted without too much effort. Those who answered it, however, often learned things about themselves they’d never imagined.
    She flipped through a recipe box and pulled out a three-by-five index card. “Here you are, Mr. Quillen. And how long will you be staying with us?”
    “Probably three nights, but maybe more. Is that too vague? I mean, if I need to stay on longer, will that be a problem?”
    “Not at all. We only have one other couple coming in this weekend. Now, next month, when the leaves really start to turn, then it’ll be a madhouse here. Nothing but Canadians and Texans until Thanksgiving.” She handed him the guest registration card. “Fill this out for me, if you would.”
    She took his Visa card and ran her fingers over the signature on the back. She sensed only vague things from it, but they made her frown nonetheless. She was right about his temper; it would burst out soon, and affect a lot of people in town. She also saw disturbing flashes of blood, and the ghastly image of a pale hand clawing up from a grave. But mixed in were smiles, strains of music, and the sighs of lovers. She remembered her own omens at sunrise and wondered how this newcomer would figure into them.
    Rob quickly filled in the other information, but paused at “emergency contact.” Normally, it would be Anna. Now, he had no idea whom to put down. He left it blank.
    As she waited for the card’s authorization, Peggy asked, “Here to trace your family?”
    “People keep asking me that. Do I really look that much like a Tufa?”
    She waved her hand. “Oh, honey, looks got nothing to do with it. Tufa’s like Cherokee, you can be blond and blue-eyed and still have enough in you to count. It’s just that we get people in here, prowling the cemeteries, looking for ancestors. They take pictures and videos and rubbings and such.”
    “Well, not me. I’m a musician.”
    She nodded, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, you’re Rob from the TV show!”
    His