Bloody Royal Prints by Reba White Williams Read Free Book Online Page A

First Home —learning about furniture and the like—but she needed to get out more often.
    She looked out the car window. They were on I-95, a highway Coleman hated—so many big trucks roaring by, threatening to blow smaller cars away. There wasn’t much to look at to take her mind off those trucks—signs advertising McDonald’s, Dunkin’ Donuts, Wendy’s, no trees, no flowers. Ugly and boring.
    She was grateful when they turned onto a wooded road with little traffic, leaving the trucks behind. Through the trees she caught glimpses of charming villages, church steeples, flower gardens, and, beyond them, the glitter of the sea. Oh, joy!—exactly what she’d hoped for.
    Half an hour later they left the road, and turned into a tiny village called Silverdale, only a few miles from Merriweather. Coleman spotted the handsome stone railroad station for which Silverdale was famous. Early pink roses in boxes and pots surrounded the building, adding to its attractiveness.
    â€œLook at that station, Bethany! Isn’t it fabulous? I can see why people like to come up here by train. I read about the train ride in an article about the Swan Inn,” Coleman said.
    â€œIt’s the best lookin’ train station I’ve ever seen,” Bethany said. “But do they have good train service?”
    â€œThey must. There’s an art colony near here, and the artists arrive at this station, too. Lots of people depend on it.”
    A few miles further on they turned again, this time onto a paved road that bordered an exquisite green. Its perfection reminded Coleman of a film set. She asked the driver to pull over so that they could look at everything. A sign on the roadside read, “You have entered Merriweather, Connecticut. Welcome!”
    â€œHow friendly! Did you ever see a prettier square? Look, that church is just like the one in Stowe, Vermont. I love New England churches,” Coleman said. “The house nearest it must be the parsonage—it’s the same style and, like the church, white with dark green trim. I think the building on the other side of the church has a library sign on it, and that bigger one must be a school . . . ”
    â€œYes, the square is beautiful—picture perfect. Is the inn you want to visit near here? I don’t see any cottages,” Bethany said.
    â€œAccording to the map, we should drive through the village and we’ll eventually come to a little park. The bay should be on our right, and the inn is in front of the bay, right beside the road. I think the cottages are scattered around,” Coleman said.
    There was almost no traffic, and the driver was able to drive slowly through the village, which was as pretty as the square, and amazingly neat. Most of the houses and commercial buildings were shingled, grayed with age. Some had brightly colored painted doors or shutters—green, yellow, red, blue, orange. Many had low fences and hedges bordering the road, and most had small front gardens celebrating spring with daffodils, tulips, forsythia, and other flowers she couldn’t identify.
    The little town seemed to have everything one could need. They passed the post office, a dry cleaner, a supermarket, a delicatessen, a movie theater, a gift shop, and several restaurants, including one specializing in seafood, with a big swordfish painted over the doors. A colorful fruit and vegetable stand, backed by a shop with other kinds of food, stood next to a coffee shop. A bookstore caught Coleman’s eyes, and Bethany spotted a window full of smart-looking clothes.
    â€œI’d like to take a look in there,” she said.
    â€œWe’ll come back to town later, have a late lunch, and visit that shop,” Coleman said.
    The houses ended at the park, where more forsythia, daffodils, and a few early azaleas and dogwoods bloomed. Graveled paths and small benches invited visitors to come for a stroll, or sit down and enjoy