Blossom sat on Sarahs feet with her ears perked and her head tilted, staring with quizzical amazement at the limp hides hanging over the woman's mountainous chest. The basset hound's rubbery lips quivered and she issued a whispered woof, as if she were trying to unobtrusively gain the attention of the pelts.
“Oh, isn't this just the cutest little ol& place!” the beauty queen drawled, beaming a smile all around the front hall, though how she could see anything through her dark glasses was beyond Matt. She twirled around and gave Sarah a pat on the cheek. “And aren't you just the cutest thing! A real Amish person. Isn't that clever! Wait'll Tim sees you! He's out in the car right now, tryin' to get the price on pork bellies, but he'll be in directly. Just wait'll he sees how cute you are!”
Sarah gave the woman her Mona Lisa look and said nothing.
Matt felt a fist of tension tighten in his chest.
“Marvin, get a picture,” the plump wife ordered, elbowing her husband's belly.
Marvin chewed on the stub of an unlit cigar, grumbling as he lifted his camera and fiddled with the knobs. “Cripes, Peg, all I've been doing all day is taking pictures of Amish.” He pronounced Amish with a long A. His voice was as gritty as gravel, and he spoke in staccato bursts of words, as if his weight and his smoking had constricted his lungs. “They all look alike. We're going to get home and have two hundred and eighty pictures of the same person.”
Peg squeezed her bulldog face into a horrific pinched look, glaring into the end of her husband's zoom lens. “Just do it, Marvin. Just humor me. We're on vacation. We're having fun.”
Whether you like it or not, Matt added mentally. He watched in amazement as Marvin backed down the hall so he could focus his oversize lens. Mrs. Marvin sidled up next to Sarah as she might have to a cigar store wooden Indian and creased a smile into her pudgy face. The beauty queen moved into the picture as well, sweeping her fur from her shoulders with the drama of a runway model.
Blossom snarled, grabbed a mouthful of fluffy fox tails, and bolted for the kitchen. The beauty queen squealed and ran after her. Marvin, looking at the whole thing through the distorted view of a two-hundred-twenty-millimeter telephoto lens, didn't have a chance. The dog hit him in the ankles, knocking him off balance, and the beauty queen gave him a shoulder in the midsection as she ran bent over trying to grab the flying ends of her fur. Marvin flew backward into the kitchen door, which obligingly swung back on its hinges.
They ended up in a heap on the polished linoleum, Marvin with the fox stole draped across his face and Miss Alabama 1967 sprawled unceremoniously over his belly. Blossom took one look at the scene and made a hasty escape through the doggy hatch in the back door.
“Oh, Mrs. Parker, Mr. Morton, I'm so sorry!” Sarah held out a hand to help Mrs. Parker up. The woman teetered upright on her spike heels, her tight ivory wool skirt hiked up above her knees, her nest of russet hair tilting drunk-enly, her sunglasses askew. She clutched her patchwork of fox hides to her chest like a security blanket.
“I&d best go up to my room and repair myself,” she said dazedly. “Tim just hates to see me disheveled.”
As she staggered out into the hall, Marvin Morton struggled to sit up, cradling his precious camera in his big sausage fingers. “I oughta sue,” he said around the crumpled remains of his cigar stub. “I think I've got a whiplash.”
“Lucky I'm here then, isn't it?” Matt said coming to stand behind Sarah.
“Why?” he asked, struggling to rise. “Are you a lawyer?”
“No, I'm a doctor. I can examine you and give you a diagnosis and treatment. You're not afraid of big needles, are you? The best thing for whiplash is major doses of cortisone,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “Of course, that's excruciating painful in itself.”
Marvin paled. His wife grunted at him. “Stop your complaining, Marvin. It wasn't the little Amish girl's fault. You had to stand there right in the way of Miss Silicone USA and play with your phallic symbol—”
“Why don't you both help yourself to wine and a snack in the parlor,” Sarah suggested with a brittle smile, trying desperately to resurrect her hostess image.
The Mortons went off in the direction of the front parlor, grumbling at each other. Sarah heaved a sigh, wiping the back of her hand across her brow. She slumped against the kitchen counter and looked up at Matt with a woebegone look to rival the basset hound's.
“Well,” he said with a grin. “That was exciting.”
“It was terrible.”
“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “But it was funny.”
Sarah's lips twitched and she gave in to the laughter. It had been a disaster. The first time Ingrid had left her in charge of the inn and within five minutes of the guests' arrival they were getting knocked senseless and threatening to sue. Still she couldn't help but see the funny side of it, and it felt good to laugh with Matt. It probably felt too good, but she didn't want to think about that now; she just wanted to share this moment with him. She watched the humor wipe away the lines of weariness in his handsome face and light up his dark eyes, and her heart gave a great big thump in her chest.
Matt watched her laugh, her clean, pretty face taking on a rosy glow, and his heart gave an answering thump. He reached out for her hand, just needing to touch her, and when her fingers curled around his, warmth spread through him like sunshine.
“Want to go share some wine and cheese with Marv and Peg?” he asked softly.
“Not really, but I suppose we'd better.”
They walked out of the kitchen together like pals, Matt with an arm draped across Sarahs slim, square shoulders, smiles lingering on their mouths.
“Can I ask you a question?” Sarah said.
“Anything.”
“What's a phallic symbol?”
“Ah … um …” He cleared his throat and dodged her questioning gaze. “I'll tell you later.”
“Maybe you can show me?” she asked innocently.
Matt groaned, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I sincerely hope so.”
Things just got curiouser and curiouser as the evening went on. It was the practice at Thornewood for guests and hosts to gather in the parlor to chat after dinner. Breakfast was the only meal served at the inn, so guests trekked into Jesse for their evening meal. Upon returning they were offered coffee or cocoa or brandy and fresh baked cookies as well as conversation.
This was something Ingrid and John pulled off with great success, both of them having excellent educations and a wide range of travel experiences. Sarah, however, had been outside the county only once, to visit relatives in Ohio, and her formal education had ended, as it did for all Amish children, at fourteen. Confronted with the role of hostess, she seemed to forget that she was quite well-read and had some understanding of current affairs gained through the pages of Ingrids Newsweek.
Of course, it didn't help matters that the current guests were … well, strange.
Sarah sat in her chair unable to think of anything much to say while the Mortons and Lisbeth Parker stared at her as if she were an oddity in a museum.
Matt cleared his throat in an attempt to break the silence. “Mrs. Parker, it's too bad your husband wasn't feeling up to joining us.”
She gave Matt a vacant look, then flinched as if she'd been pinched, and batted her long false lashes at him. “Oh, well, travel doesn't agree with Tim,” she said, pouring a little brandy into her coffee. “He has a delicate constitution.”
“I&d be happy to take a look at him—”
“No! No,” she repeated, calming herself. She resurrected her beauty queen smile and bestowed it upon everyone in the room. “It's nothing serious, I assure you. He simply needs his rest.”