“You’re right! What a coincidence. I think she may have become a romantic figure after the wreck, and perhaps, you were a namesake of hers.” He remembered the frightened screams of the women he had heard the night before and thought about the bereaved fiancé.
He shivered as they stood there in the hot sun looking at the girl’s grave. Could something have drawn his own Lydia here on this date?
The past would never seem as remote to him again.
The Inn by the Sea is at 40 Bowery Beach Road, Cape Elizabeth, Maine. For details on bookings, visit www.innbythesea.com/ or call (207) 799-3134.
WHERE YOU NEVER DINE ALONE
JOHN STONE’S INN, ASHLAND, MASSACHUSETTS
The manager at John Stone’s Inn always looked after his guests—and maybe still does.
As Dwayne and Rita Doughtry left their apartment on the outskirts of Boston to go out to dinner, Rita was still urging her husband to change his mind and go to a restaurant nearby.
“Ashland is twenty-five miles from here,” she complained. “And the weather report says it may snow tonight.”
“There’s always that possibility in winter,” said Dwayne. “But we can’t hibernate until spring.”
His wife looked at him crossly. “But I hate driving in snow.”
“That’s because you’re from the South and not used to it.”
“No. It’s not that. I don’t know why I feel this way tonight. It’s like something is going to happen, and part of it will be because of snow, that’s all.”
“Something will happen. We will eat a sumptuous dinner in a historic inn where the past will come alive.”
About forty minutes later the Doughtrys were entering Ashland, driving toward the center of town. They heard the mournful wail of a train whistle. Then came the noisy clatter of the wheels as a diesel engine, car after car rumbling behind it, sped by. The track was very close to the road. Wham, wham, wham, went the freight cars as they passed. Rita sat quietly, watching the slots of gray March dusk pass swiftly between each car and giving herself up to the hypnotic sight. She could feel the nose of their Honda shuddering at the impact of the wind from the train.
“It runs right through the middle of town, just the way trains used to do,” said Dwayne nostalgically. “Doesn’t slow much for Ashland, does it?”
“No. It certainly doesn’t.” Trains weren’t one of Rita’s favorite topics. She’d had a “conflict of interest” with one once about a crossing, and the train had won. Rita had miraculously emerged unscathed, but the incident had made her heart beat faster every time she saw a crossbars without a gate and heard the approach of a train.
“The inn should be right along here somewhere.”
She turned and saw it. “There it is on the corner. Oh, Dwayne. I love it!” They parked and got out of the car.
John Stone’s Inn, at 179 Main Street, was painted a cheery New England red, and for a moment Rita stood staring at it and the black colonial-style sign out front. On it was painted the stern countenance of a man of another era. An old-fashioned balcony on the second floor was supported by white columns running the length of the inn. On the third floor, two dormer windows perched near the peak of the roof.
Lights glowed welcomingly in the windows of the first two floors and the large wing on the side. Only the windows on the third floor were dark.
“It would look perfect on a Christmas card, if only those gables were lighted, too,” said Rita.
“Yes, it would,” said Dwayne. “Let’s go in. I’m freezing!”
Once seated in the restaurant, Rita took off the hunter-green car coat with its hood. Holding the menu in one hand, she fluffed out the back of her long black hair with the other. How lovely she was, thought Dwayne, watching her as she studied the menu. She debated between beef Bourguignon and chicken Grand Marnier.
“Two brandies first, please,” said Dwayne to the waiter, after they had both decided on the beef. They carried their glasses over to the fireplace, and Rita talked about an upcoming magazine story, a trip trailing tigers in Sumatra. She was a freelance writer. How could she be so daring about some things and so fearful about others, he wondered.
“Old John Stone is giving us the eye,” said Dwayne. “See his picture over the bar?”
Rita turned her head and smiled. “He almost seems to know something we don’t. A secret?”
At that moment the front door opened, and an icy gust blew in with two couples, their coats flecked with snow.
“A real blizzard’s blowing up out there!” said one of the women, shivering.
“Not much chance of that this time of year, ma’am,” replied the hostess.
Dwayne saw Rita pale, but she turned away from the new arrivals. She was listening to one of the boys clearing a table. “But sir, I did see someone downstairs near the storage room,” he was saying to the manager. The rest was lost, for the boy was hustled into the kitchen.
“It’s a good time for the grand tour of the inn while everyone is waiting for their food. Would you like to go along?” asked the hostess, stopping by the fireplace.
“That sounds wonderful!” said Rita.
“Well, if it’s no trouble,” Dwayne replied, with limited enthusiasm; he was enjoying the warmth of the fire.
Joining them, the young assistant manager had overheard the exchange. “Oh, no. My pleasure,” he replied. Several other diners came, too, and they all formed a procession down the stairs into the cellar.
“Slaves were kept here in this hidden room during the Civil War until it was safe for them to go on their way to Canada,” their guide said, with the air of one who had given this tour many times before. “It was part of the Underground Railroad,” he explained. “I’ve heard stories that some people have heard the voices of the
