Everything looked neat and clean. A colorful quilt covered the large bed, and a little table with two chairs nestled under a window. One corner of the room held a kitchenette with a sink, a two-burner stove, two cupboards, and a small refrigerator. The bureau was an incongruously bulky thing that seemed to be hewn from logs. Someone had scattered a few rag rugs over the wooden floor, and more photos of starry skies graced the wood-paneled walls. Through an open door, Walter could see a bathroom with a toilet, sink, and tub/shower combo.
“Is it all right?” Martin asked. He seemed slightly nervous.
Walter gave him a genuine smile. “It’s perfect.” It was. Homey without being overdone, brightly lit by several lamps, and not remotely reminiscent of either his family house in Chicago or anywhere he’d slept during the war.
“Good.” Martin gestured at the small woodstove, which was lit with a glowing fire. “More wood’s out back when you want it. I’m sorry this cabin doesn’t have a television, but—”
“I never watch it.” That was true. The inanities made his jaw hurt.
“All right, then. If you need anything, just come knock on the office door.”
“You work all night?”
Martin grinned. “I live here. I have a little apartment. Cozy.”
For no reason at all, that pleased Walter.
After Martin left, Walter unpacked, tucking his clothes into drawers or hanging them in the closet. Then he took a long, hot shower. He’d brought back a few scars from the war, but they were small, insignificant. Anyone who saw his naked body would never guess what he’d been through. But Walter knew, and when he looked down at himself, he could see the inner wounds as clearly as if his skin were transparent. He didn’t look at himself often.
Warm and clean, smelling faintly of Ivory soap, Walter turned off all the lights but one and climbed into bed. As always, he left his pistol at the bedside. When he’d first returned to Chicago, he couldn’t even leave the house without it, even though he’d been terrified he might accidentally shoot someone. He’d considered it a major victory when he required the gun nearby only at night.
It wasn’t late yet, but he didn’t care. He’d found a good place to shut off the world, and he wanted to clock out now.
With one lamp lending a comforting glow, he quickly fell asleep.
2
Walter awoke later than usual, well rested and more content than he’d felt in ages. The mattress was a good one, and the sheets were soft and sweet-scented. But unit three itself had been the real soporific, without any sinister shadows for his demons to hide in. He hadn’t awakened with bad dreams even once.
He put on blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a lightweight jacket. He hated wearing hats and hadn’t even bothered to bring one with him, so he’d been pleased to see Martin hatless as well. Maybe it was hard to wear one over those springy blond curls. Walter’s own hair was dark brown and as straight as broom straw if he let it grow long.
The first order of the morning was breakfast, he decided. Under a zinc-colored sky, with birds chirping all around him, he crossed to the Kitee Café. Almost every seat was taken, and again the other customers stared at him openly, seeming curious but not unwelcoming. They were, he couldn’t help but notice, an oddly attractive group of people, as if the little restaurant had been filled by a movie casting agency instead of inhabitants of a real town. Maybe his perception of attractiveness was simply filtered through an unusually restful night.
“Good morning!” Dorothy called when she appeared from the kitchen. She carried two heaping plates of food. “Take a seat and I’ll be right with you.”
He sat in the same place as the night before, his table by the window—although jeez, it wasn’t really his. Dorothy hurried over with a cup of coffee and a menu. “Decaf,” she announced.
“Thanks.” He looked over the menu’s typical breakfast fare. “Pancakes and sausage?”
“You bet. Home fries with that? Or eggs?”
He considered briefly. “Eggs, please. Scrambled.” Walter was a big man—tall and muscular—and he’d been underfeeding himself for years. His mother used to beg him to eat more, until she’d finally given up. He would end up big around the belly if he kept up like this without physical work. He wasn’t sure he cared.
Although the café was busy and Dorothy was apparently the only person waiting on tables, she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave him. “Did you enjoy the inn?” she asked.
“It’s fantastic. Um, thanks for putting in a good word for me with Martin, if that’s what you did.”
“My pleasure. I hope you decide to stick around for a while.”
The food wasn’t as exotic as the previous night’s dinner, but it was delicious. Dorothy gave him both maple syrup and something made from blackberries, and he used plenty of both. He was nearly through with his meal when he noticed something odd about the other diners—they were strangely quiet. Oh, they clattered plates and cutlery like anyone would have, but their speech was hushed and sparing. Like people at a funeral, only there were no hints of sorrow. In fact, most of them smiled if he caught their gaze. Maybe they were all immigrants and it was some kind of cultural thing. His travels had taught him that not everyone was as loud and boisterous as Americans.
Another thing: the locals touched each other a lot. Nothing inappropriate. But as he watched closely, he noticed that they rested a hand atop their companions’ or briefly stroked an arm or shoulder. Children wiggled up against adults like friendly puppies, but when it came to the adults, age and gender didn’t seem to matter; people touched anyone within reach. Even Dorothy took part in this, briefly caressing her customers’ backs or brushing her fingers against their forearms whenever her hands were free. Watching all of the casual contact made Walter uncomfortable, but it also made him sad. It had been a long time since anyone had affectionately touched him.
Breakfast was an even bigger bargain than dinner. Walter thanked Dorothy and then ventured outside. He felt a bit at loose ends. He’d spent most of the past year either driving or working, but today neither was on the agenda. Hell, he didn’t have an agenda. Pretty soon he’d have to decide where to go next, but for today, maybe he could just wander.
There wasn’t much to see in what passed for downtown Kiteeshaa. Aside from the café and the motor court, the business district consisted of a little grocer, a gas station with a mechanic’s bay, a tiny shop that seemed to carry clothing and shoes, and an office space of indeterminate purpose. Nothing for tourists, and even the locals would have to drive to Newport for most needs. He was charmed to discover that the town boasted a plant nursery, its storefront crowded with pots of riotously colored flowers.
In fact, as he continued his walk, he noticed that all the houses were fronted by carefully tended gardens. He recognized a few of the plants, such as the roses and lavender, but he knew very little about gardening, so mostly he just registered splashes of color among a thousand shades of green.
He thought it was weird that every house had such a lush, well-tended garden. Walter knew quite a lot about construction due to his family’s business—even if his own role had largely involved pushing paperwork—and he could tell that the houses, although modest, were also in perfect condition. Not a single loose shingle, no peeling paint, no windows in need of repair. The sidewalks were free of children’s toys, and he didn’t spy a single scrap of litter as he walked down the road. Strange.