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

cheeks burned. This never got easy. “Yep, that’s me.”
    “I am so sorry, I didn’t recognize your name at first. Oh, you poor thing, bless your heart.”
    “Thank you. Do you mind if we keep this just between ourselves for now?”
    “Of course, whatever you need.” She patted his hand. “But if you want to talk, I promise you, I can listen with the best of them, and I keep secrets like a beehive keeps honey from a bear.”
    “Thank you,” he repeated.
    She returned his credit card, but when he reached for it, she said, “Would you mind if I had a look at your palm?”
    “Are you going to tell my future?”
    “Oh, no, nothing so silly. No one can predict the future. Every blink of every eye changes it. I can just sometimes tell what your next few days might be like.”
    “Well … I suppose.” He put his card back in his wallet, then let her hold his hand, palm up.
    Most of her evaluation was empirical. Rob’s hand was small, but by its weight, she knew the muscles were built up the way only prolonged musical practice would develop them. His nails were short and neat. One knuckle felt larger than normal, probably a healed injury from the temper she’d already sensed. But then came observations and impressions that had no material source, but that she trusted as much as any physical sign. After a moment, she released his hand and nodded.
    “Did I pass?” he asked, amused despite himself.
    “Of course. It looked to me like your time here will do you a world of good. Everything will be different when you leave.”
    “That’s a tall order.”
    She patted his hand. “You just wait and see. But I’ve got to warn you: Not everyone you meet will be as honest as me.”
    “I’ve worked with TV producers. I’m ready for anything.”
    He followed Peggy across the lobby. He stopped at a framed newspaper clipping on the wall that showed a dark-haired young woman in an army uniform gazing sternly into the camera. He recognized her at once. “Bronwyn Hyatt is from here?”
    “Oh, yes. She grew up here. She lives out at her family’s farm.”
    “Huh. Imagine that.” He remembered the media circus surrounding her rescue in Iraq and her return to the States in the spring, and the way that she completely dropped out of the public consciousness since. Maybe he should look her up and ask her how she did that.
    *   *   *
    Upstairs, Peggy unlocked room 17B with a simple key, not one of those ID cards used in chain motels. Then she stepped aside so he could enter.
    The room brought him up short. Lace edged everything, from the writing desk to the telephone receiver. Little painted animals in overalls and straw hats ran along the baseboard, and the bed sported an enormous canopy and a huge, thick mattress. When Rob tossed his guitar on the bed, it bounced a foot into the air.
    “That looks comfortable,” he observed.
    “We don’t get many single young men coming through,” she said. “Usually couples.”
    “I bet they appreciate that.”
    She handed him the key. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us and manage to get some rest. There’s a café menu on your desk. Local calls are free, although Lord knows who you’d call around here. But you’ve probably got one of those fancy picture-taking cell phones anyway.” As she went out, she added cheerily, “If you need anything, just holler. I’m usually in the office behind the desk during the day, and my husband and I live out back.”
    “Thanks. I should be fine for tonight.” As she turned away, he added, “Did you know you have wild emus around here?”
    “Yes,” she said with disgust. “They used to belong to old Sim Denham. He bought a whole gaggle of the nasty things. Thought he’d make a fortune with them. Then the bottom dropped out of the market and he just let ’em go. Now the darn things are everywhere.”
    “I nearly ran over one today. Are they dangerous?”
    “No, but they give me the whim-whams the way they just stare at you.”