The Welcoming

man with white hair.
    The grandfather, Roman decided, but it was Charity’s image he studied. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her baggy overalls were stained at the knees. From gardening, Roman guessed. She was holding an armful of summer flowers. She looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but he noted that her free arm was around the old man, supporting him.
    He wondered what she had been thinking at that moment, what she had done the moment after the picture had been snapped. He swore at himself and looked away from the picture.
    She left notes to herself: Return wallpaper samples. New blocks for toy chest. Call piano tuner. Get flat repaired.
    He found nothing that touched on his reason for coming to the inn. Leaving the desk, he meticulously searched the rest of the parlor.
    Then he went into the adjoining bedroom. The bed, a four-poster, was covered with a lacy white spread and plumped with petit-point pillows. Beside it was a beautiful old rocker, its arms worn smooth as glass. In it sat a big purple teddy bear wearing yellow suspenders.
    The curtains were romantic priscillas. She’d left the windows open, and the breeze came through, billowing them. A woman’s room, Roman thought, unrelentingly feminine with its lace and pillows, its fragile scents and pale colors. Yet somehow it welcomed a man, made him wish, made him want. It made him want one hour, one night, in that softness, that comfort.
    He crossed the faded handhooked rug and, burying his self-disgust, went through her dresser.
    He found a few pieces of jewelry he took to be heirlooms. They belonged in a safe, he thought, annoyed with her. There was a bottle of perfume. He knew exactly how it would smell. It would smell the way her skin did. He nearly reached for it before he caught himself. Perfume wasn’t of any interest to him. Evidence was.
    A packet of letters caught his eye. From a lover? he wondered, dismissing the sudden pang of jealousy he felt as ridiculous.
    The room was making him crazy, he thought as he carefully untied the slender satin ribbon. It was impossible not to imagine her there, curled on the bed, wearing something white and thin, her hair loose and the candles lit.
    He shook himself as he unfolded the first letter. A room with a purple teddy bear wasn’t seductive, he told himself.
    The date showed him that they had been written when she had attended college in Seattle. From her grandfather, Roman realized as he scanned them. Every one. They were written with affection and humor, and they contained dozens of little stories about daily life at the inn. Roman put them back the way he’d found them.
    Her clothes were casual, except for a few dresses hanging in the closet. There were sturdy boots, sneakers spotted with what looked like grass stains, and two pairs of elegant heels on either side of fuzzy slippers in the shape of elephants. Like the rest of her rooms, they were meticulously arranged. Even in the closet he didn’t find a trace of dust.
    Besides an alarm clock and a pot of hand cream she had two books on her nightstand. One was a collection of poetry, the other a murder mystery with a gruesome cover. She had a cache of chocolate in the drawer and Chopin on her small portable stereo. There were candles, dozens of them, burned down to various heights. On one wall hung a seascape in deep, stormy blues and grays. On another was a collection of photos, most taken at the inn, many of her grandfather. Roman searched behind each one. He discovered that her paint was fading, nothing more.
    Her rooms were clean. Roman stood in the center of the bedroom, taking in the scents of candle wax, potpourri and perfume. They couldn’t have been cleaner if she’d known they were going to be searched. All he knew after an hour was that she was an organized woman who liked comfortable clothes and Chopin and had a weakness for chocolate and lurid paperback novels.
    Why did that make her fascinating?
    He scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets, struggling for objectivity as he had never had to struggle before. All the evidence pointed to her being involved in some very shady business. Everything he’d discovered in the last twenty-four hours indicated that she was an open, honest and hardworking woman.
    Which did he believe?
    He walked toward the door at the far end of the room. It opened onto a postage-stamp-size porch with a long set of stairs that led down to the pond. He wanted to open the door, to