Page 13 of The Woodcarver's Model
“But when I saw your bowls at the market the other week, they were fifty dollars each.”
“Oh, those were carved for the tourist trade. These ones are the real thing made from a better grade of wood, slow-aged for stability,” Mitch lied. Soon after meeting them, he’d decided to levy an Asshole Premium on any sale he made.
He wrapped the bowls in plastic bubble wrap, boxed them individually and, with wishes for a happy marriage, bid the couple a fond farewell.
Once the money was deposited in the Bank of Cookie-Jar, Mitch poured himself a congratulatory glass of wine, sat on the porch of his house and stared out into the peace that surrounded him. The sun was just beginning to set as a shooting star made its appearance in the eastern sky.
Chapter Seven
The Marsh Inn and Restaurant was on the main road from just beyond the cut-off Rob had taken to the cemetery. It was hard to miss with its six-foot-high green Martian cut-out—which looked suspiciously like the Great Gazoo from theFlintstonescartoon—complete with a cartoon bubble declaring, “Don’t be a dum-dum. Our food is yum-yum.”
“How bad could it be?” Rob said to himself.
The inn itself was an impressive, large two-storey clapboard house complete with a widow’s walk. More than likely, it had originally been the home of a wealthy seagoing man. It was painted a soothing sage green with accents of yellow and rust on the ornate gingerbread trim and pillars of the covered porch which encircled the house. Much to his delight, there were Adirondack chairs scattered all around. Rob loved nothing more than sitting on a porch and watching the sun go down. He opened the wood-framed screen door and stepped into the lobby.
Carol Gough was the proprietor of the Marsh Inn. She greeted Rob with a warm, unpretentious smile. “You must be Mr Hanson.”
“That’s me,” he answered. He liked her already.
“Well, welcome to the Marsh Inn. Now, I have you down for three nights.”
“Would it be possible to extend that if I’m kept here longer?”
“No problem at all. Right now, it’s only you and a nice young couple from Nanaimo.”
After taking care of registration, he noticed the time—seven-thirty. He glanced towards the door of what he thought was the dining room.
Carol smiled. “The restaurant’s open if you’re hungry.”
“I’m starving, actually. I don’t think I’ve eaten more than a sandwich all day.”
“Well, you go and drop your bags off in your room. Freshen up and come on down. What are you drinking? I can have it ready for you.”
He thought for a moment. “What do you have in the way of reds?”
“Amarone, shiraz or merlot? The amarone is heaven.”
“Heaven it is. I’ll be right back.”
Rob went up to his room on the second floor and discovered it had a view over the water. It was like he was back at SeaBreeze. He was going to enjoy his stay here.
He entered the dining room and was greeted by his server, Marla. She was Carol’s daughter. “I’ve seated you nearer the fire, but not too close. We want you comfortable, not sweltering.”
His glass of wine was waiting for him. He sipped his way through it while his dinner was being prepared. He decided to let the chef choose. It was a seafood lover’s delight—salmon, scallops and oysters formed the base, with a light salad on the side and a glass of sauvignon blanc.
A young couple joined him in the dining room. He watched them interact and caught snippets of conversation. They were obviously getting married and there seemed to be some friction regarding her sister. He ordered them a bottle of champagne on his tab.
From encounters with a beautiful young photographer to a sun-dappled country lane and now this meal, the day had been perfect. He took his wine out onto the porch. It was nearing sunset and a shooting star arced across the eastern sky.
* * * *
Rob awoke refreshed after a good night’s rest. He had a light breakfast in the dining room before heading off in his Jeep for a drive around the island. The market wouldn’t be open yet, so he had some time to explore.
He got himself turned around leaving the inn and ended up back on the country lane. He passed the veterinary clinic, which had several trucks parked in front, and soon found himself at the cemetery.
It was an unpretentious country graveyard. He started to photograph it. There was the formal entrance—two stone pillars with a wrought iron arch bearing the name of the ‘Marsh Island Burying Ground.’ It wasn’t fenced in, just open to the woods on one side and the sea on the other. The headstones were plain—some simple stone plaques. Even the largest monument, one to Josiah Marsh, carried no ornamentation, only a name and dates.They must be Protestants.
“Lost again?”
