The Boat House Read Online Free PDF Page A

woman in a mid-length coat stood reading the menu.
    He lowered his eyes, and looked at the key.
    It wasn't as if he had a guarantee of a four star hotel, or anything. For all that he knew, Mike was probably expecting him to camp out amongst dust sheets and bags of plaster. It's costing you nothing , the logic would go, you ought to be grateful . Pete's brother could make a personal favour seem like a tip to the bellboy. He was tempted simply to press on, see if he could make it back to the valley by morning; the Zodiac was still giving him problems, and this way he wouldn't have to cope with a cold engine after a night in the open.
    Turning the key around on the tabletop had made a faint pattern in spilled sugar. Strange, how he felt more attached to the valley as home than he did to the area where he'd been raised. But then, the old town and its suburbs were barely recognisable now. New roads, new buildings, a shopping centre that was down-at-heel less than five years after it had opened. He dusted off the key, and pocketed it. Then he glanced out at the endless river of lights that he was soon to rejoin.
    A wraith stood at his shoulder.
    It was a trick of reflection, of course, but still it startled him. He turned to face the woman who stood by his table, and the shell of darkness became filled out and real.
    "Excuse me," she said. "Do you have a car?"
    At a distance she'd hardly appeared to be more than a girl, but now he could see that she was probably closer to his own age. Her face was clear and hardly lined, but her grey eyes had a depth that could only have been earned. And she had a trace of an accent - not one that he could immediately identify, but enough to transform a simple question into something strange and unexpected.
    "Yes," Pete said, guardedly; given the location, he could hardly say anything else.
    "And you're alone?"
    "I suppose I am." He was looking her over as he said it, half aware of what was coming. His usual response to roadside hitchhikers was the same as that of ninety-nine per cent of the population, which was to zip on by, feel bad for a while, and then forget all about it. But this kind of approach was different. For one thing, it was personal. And Pete, when it came down to it, knew that he was your basic and average Nice Guy; couldn't help it, that was the way he'd always been.
    What the hell, she seemed okay. Sane, clean, and probably decent company. Maybe she could even help him to stay awake.
    "Can I have a ride?" she said.
    "You don't even know where I'm going."
    "It doesn't matter."
    And then she smiled; and Pete's momentary suspicion faded, like a drowned sailor returning to the deep.
    They walked out through the big glass doors and into the night. The parking area was well lit and, like the cafeteria, almost empty; there were a couple of dozen vehicles in the bays before them, but beyond these lay an acreage of line-marked space running all the way out to the landscaped boundary hill and the trees. Motorway noise was a continuous background drone, the sodium-glow buzz of the airport just over the horizon. Pete led the way across the paved area and onto the asphalt.
    The Zodiac stood alone. It was as if the cars on either side had waited until nobody was looking and then quietly rolled away.
    "This is it," he said when they were close enough for it to be obvious which one he was talking about. "Want to change your mind?"
    She didn't even take time to think it over. "No," she said, and she took in its battered old lines as if it was as good as anything she'd become used to. "Is it American?"
    "No," he said, unlocking the door, "this is one of ours. It's the kind of car they're usually talking about when they say how they don't make 'em like that anymore. This is just before they cross themselves and say, Thank God. Any luggage?"
    "Just this," she said, showing the yellow carrier bag that she'd brought out with her. "Where are we going?"
    "You really don't care?"
    "I'm kind of touring