A Rather Remarkable Homecoming by C. A. Belmond Read Free Book Online

right in the center of town. It was really just one long main street with impossibly narrow country lanes springing out of it like vines climbing up into the hills, all crammed with whitewashed and slate-roofed houses that looked just like huddled ladies putting their bonneted heads together to gossip on market day.
    The main street itself was lined with only a few essential shops and public buildings, most of which were closed for the evening and only dimly lighted, so I strained my eyes to peer at the weather-beaten signs rocking slightly in the breeze. There was a town hall, a bank, a very old post office, a hardware store, a hairdresser and barber, and a few typical tourist shops, all closed at the moment.
    Farther along was a stone church with its grey-shingled rectory sitting quietly beside it, and an old graveyard beyond that. There were a few Edwardian houses with white fences and tiny immaculate gardens, but there were no lights on in any of them, indicating perhaps that they were owned by “second-homers”. And there was a venerable but worn-out theatre whose street-level windows were boarded up, its marquee still bearing the traces of letters from some long-forgotten theatre troupe’s appearance.
    Then suddenly there was a brief, clustered spark of life: two very grand Victorian houses sitting side by side, the larger one with its lights ablaze and a grand wraparound porch filled with welcoming old-fashioned wooden chaises longues, and gliders and rockers.
    “That’s our hotel!” I said, pointing to the painted wooden sign that read The Homecoming Inn .
    Jeremy steered the car around the corner to a well-lighted parking lot behind the hotel, where there were only a scattering of cars. He turned off the ignition and we both let out a sigh of relief.
    We trundled our suitcases up the walkway and across the hotel porch. The heavy front door had a small window covered with a white lace curtain. We pushed it open and entered a dark, old-fashioned parlor with formal chairs and a grandfather clock whose grave tick-tock was the only sound echoing in the hotel. The lobby was a smaller room at the foot of a staircase with paisley carpeting. Behind the stairs was an elevator; but we stopped at the broad reception counter and waited.
    A young girl in a white blouse and black skirt was sitting sleepily behind it. When she saw us she straightened up, rose from her chair and attempted a professional smile. Jeremy gave her our name, and she consulted her computer, clacking away for a time, until she finally handed us our key.
    “You’re all set,” she said shyly to Jeremy. “Do you need help with the bags?”
    “I can manage. But can we get some supper?” Jeremy asked.
    The girl hesitated, then said, “Well, the restaurant is closed. But I think I can send you up a cold plate.”
    “Thanks,” I said, and we headed for the elevator.
    Our room was on the next level up, and the polished but irregular floor boards creaked beneath our tread as we went down the corridor. Jeremy had booked the biggest suite, and we entered a small but cheery sitting room where we deposited our bags.
    “Got a fireplace in the bedroom,” Jeremy reported, for he was in there ahead of me, and was already wandering around in search of a corkscrew for the bottle of wine he’d brought with us.
    “Mind if I shower first?” I asked.
    “Go ahead,” he said. “They’ve got nice bathrobes in there. But no corkscrews anywhere!”
    “Open it with your teeth if you have to,” I joked, as I stepped into the big old-fashioned tub with the shower overhead. I was so grateful for the reviving hot shower, even if the plumbing did groan alarmingly and the pressure rose and fell without warning.
    By the time I emerged, pink and moist in a fluffy bathrobe, Jeremy was busy in the sitting room, arranging the table with the help of the girl from downstairs, who’d brought up the supper tray herself. She reached into her pocket for the coveted corkscrew,