Cooking up a Storm Read Online Free PDF Page A

early-June day was cool. A pearly fog blanketed the roadside motels, lending them an unearned, nostalgic air. Between these gentle reminders of the modern day, he spotted salt marshes and pine groves, open moors and tiny quicksilver ponds complete with patient fishermen. Narrow back roads led off from the highway. Along their shady verges he saw houses of similar vintage to the one that had lured him here. Some were covered in crisp white clapboard, others in weathered cedar shingle. All stirred a pleasant pang of longing in his chest — pleasant because his dream of owning such a place seemed for once achievable.
    He had investigated the local property values. They were high, but so was the balance in his brokerage account. If he played his cards close to his chest and chose the right moment to bid, he’d take the pot with no trouble.
    As a further sign of serendipity, he rolled into the car park behind the Coates Inn in time for the evening meal.
    He knew the ocean was near. He could hear the meditative shush-shush-shush of breakers on the shore. The air was sharp with sea smells, and the heady scent of roses blooming nearby was dizzying to a man with his sensitive nose.
    He climbed out of the low-slung car and donned his linen jacket. Shaking the kinks out of his legs, he looked around. Two rectangular wings extended backwards from the black-shuttered white house. Between their stiff embrace a tidy herb garden sloped to a windbreak of hemlock and pine. The paint on the wings was peeling. They looked sturdy enough, but uninhabited. Apparently, the inn was not currently fit for guests.
    On the lookout for further flaws, he ambled to the front of the eighteenth-century house. Here the view did not disappoint. The past seemed imprinted on the pristine clapboard: a soft vibration tingled seductively over his skin. In his mind he heard games of tag and a rope swing creaking in the shady oak. For generations, children had played here and squabbled and had their boo-hoos kissed by loving parents. He looked up at the widow’s walk and pictured a whaling captain’s wife standing braced on the railing, her hair and dress whipped back by the wind, her eyes fixed on the endless expanse of the Atlantic, waiting for her man.
    His cock stirred within his trousers as he imagined reunions after months at sea. What would it be like to do without sex that long? From the age of seventeen he hadn’t gone more than a week between encounters. After a month, would you rip off your clothes and do it on the doorstep? Would your woman drag you to the bedroom and lock you in? An image formed in his mind: tiny mother-of-pearl buttons marching up a slender female back. A single forceful wrench would scatter them, creating music to accompany deep kisses of homecoming.
    I want this place, he thought, and his arousal surged as much at the idea of owning the inn as for his fantasy.
    Shaking his head at himself, he crunched up the oyster-shell path. A border of yellow and purple irises led him to a brass-handled front door. He filled his lungs with sweet Atlantic air and tugged it open.
    He smiled. The interior was everything he’d hoped, homey and warm with a collection of worn but not ragged antiques. The floor was oilcloth painted to resemble marble, the old-fashioned version of linoleum — in good condition, too. One of the local craftspeople must have restored it. He nodded in approval, then frowned.
    PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED , said the sign beside the empty hostess station.
    Eh bien , he thought. It will be interesting to see how long this takes. He crossed the hall to examine a photograph of dunes iced in snow and fringed with golden beach grass. The hand-lettered card beneath the frame said JACK WESTON, $575 . A bargain at any price, he thought, though he wasn’t one for acquiring art. Something about the image moved him, the purity maybe, or the sense of timeless peace. He was promising himself he’d consider buying it when a small, smiling