Olde Salem Inn
Snow had been steadily falling on New England since noon, making the roads treacherous despite the best efforts of the road crews. Twice Logan Mansfield's Jaguar left the road. Visibility was drastically reduced, and as daylight waned he was forced to drive at fifteen miles per hour. His eyes soon grew tired from staring into blackness broken only by swirling snowflakes.
"How much further is it to Boston?" Darlene asked.
Logan looked down at his odometer before replying, "About seventy miles."
"At this rate, we won't get there until midnight."
"I don't plan on trying to make it to Boston in this storm. I'm going to stop at the first motel I can find. The road is like a sheet of glass, and I don't want to total my car."
"It's an old car anyway. If you smash it up, just buy a new one."
"This is not just any old car. It's a 1992 Jaguar XJ220—a classic. This baby cost me over $700,000, but the price is immaterial. There were fewer than three hundred made. This one has still got the original 24-valve V6 turbocharged engine, 542 horsepower ...."
"Enough! You know I think cars are boring. Besides, if this is such a good car, it should be able to make the trip without any problems. I think we ought to continue on to Boston. After all, we've got reservations at the Omni Parker House. I don't want to spend the night in some Motel 6 in the middle of Crabwell Corners."
"You can sleep in the car then because I'm not going to drive any further than I have to in this weather."
Twenty minutes later Logan spotted a lighted building up ahead, and he pulled off the road onto a circular drive. As he neared the building, the Jaguar's headlights lit up a wooden sign that read OLDE SALEM INN.
"We're in luck!" he exclaimed. "We should be able to get a room here without too much trouble."
Logan walked into the inn, with Darlene reluctantly trailing behind. The main desk was straight ahead, the dining room was to the left and a sitting room with a huge stone fireplace was to the right.
"This place looks like it was built in the eighteenth century," Logan surmised.
Darlene clearly could not care less.
An old man behind the desk greeted them with a thick New England accent, "Good evening, folks. Come on in and get warm."
"Do you have any rooms for the night?" Logan asked hopefully.
"Ayah, we have six rooms. And this bein' our off-season, we have six vacancies."
"Great! We were on our way to Boston," Logan explained, "but I don't like driving in this weather."
"Can't say as I blame you," the desk clerk agreed, sliding the guest register toward Logan. "Just sign here and I'll show you and your missus up to your room."
"Oh, we're not married—not yet anyway," Darlene announced. "He's Logan Mansfield, and I'm Darlene Brooks."
"Nice to meet you both. My name is Ambrose."
Darlene was taken aback when Mr. Ambrose did not recognize either of their names.
"Logan is the lead singer of Men from Mars, the hottest rock group in America."
"Oh, is that so?" Mr. Ambrose asked politely. "And are you a musician, too, Miss Brooks?"
"No, I'm a model. I'm the girl in the Foxee jeans commercials and ads."
"A musician and a model—isn't that something? I'm proud to have you both stay here," the innkeeper said, opening the door to a guest room at the top of the stairs. "While you two get settled in, I'll go put on a pot of coffee."
"Sounds good. Thanks, Mr. Ambrose," Logan said gratefully.
Darlene looked at the canopied bed, the cushioned window seat, and the hand-sewn quilt and rolled her eyes.
"This place is even worse than I thought it would be!"
"I think it's nice. It's—homey."
"It's boring! But what can you expect from such a culturally backward place as this?"
"Culturally backward? What's that supposed to mean?"
"The desk clerk had obviously never heard of either you or me, which means he doesn't watch television or read newspapers and magazines."
Logan laughed. He knew how much it upset Darlene when people failed to recognize her.
* * *
"Mr. Ambrose, I have a rather stupid question to ask you," Logan said when he went downstairs after putting his luggage in his room. "Why is this place called the Olde Salem Inn? Salem's on the north shore of Boston, isn't it?"
"It wasn't named after the city but after that road out there. In the days before Henry Ford's automobile, it was called the Plymouth-Salem Turnpike, and this place used to be called the Plymouth-Salem Inn. Now people around here just call them the Olde Salem Turnpike and the Olde Salem Inn."
Darlene came down the stairs, a look of either annoyance or boredom—possibly both—clouding her beautiful features.
"You two young folks must be hungry. Why don't you sit down in the dining room and I'll get you something to eat?"
As Logan sat in front of the bay window watching the storm, he saw a Rolls Royce Silver Seraph pull into the parking lot. A well-dressed couple, nearly the same age as Logan and Darlene, got out of the car and entered the inn.
"Good evening, folks," Mr. Ambrose greeted the newcomers. "Come on in and get warm."
"Do you have any rooms for the night?" the man asked.
"Ayah, we have six rooms," Mr. Ambrose replied. "Only one is taken, so we have five vacancies."
"Good, we'll take one," the man said brusquely, taking his American Express card out of his wallet.
Mr. Ambrose waved the card aside, saying, "We can settle the bill at check-out time."
The couple checked in, and Mr. Ambrose showed them to a room on the other side of the inn from the one he had given Logan and Darlene.
In the dining room, Darlene finished her plate of unadorned lettuce and celery sticks.
"I'm going to go take a hot shower," she announced. "Did you bring my suitcase in from the car?"
Logan nodded.
"While you're bathing, I think I'll go read in front of that fireplace for a while."
"What fun!" Darlene said sarcastically and headed up the stairs.
Logan found some old copies of The Saturday Evening Post next to the easy chair in the sitting room.
"These would be worth something on eBay," he mused when he noticed the dates and the Norman Rockwell covers.
As Logan was reading an article entitled ''Can Jersey Joe Stop Rocky Marciano'' in a 1952 issue, the woman from the Rolls Royce wandered into the room.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize anyone was in here."
"No need to apologize. I was just sitting here, trying to get warm and thumbing through one of these vintage magazines."
"The fire looks inviting. My husband insisted on running the air conditioner to defrost his windows. Now I'm trying to thaw out. My name is Laura Wyndham."
"Logan," he replied, shaking the hand she offered.
A spark of recognition appeared on her attractive face.
"Not Logan Mansfield, the frontman for Men from Mars?"
Logan was surprised. The woman hardly seemed the type to be interested in hard rock.
"My younger sister is a great fan of yours," she explained. "Would you be upset if I asked you for an autograph?"
"Not at all," he replied and signed a piece of the inn's stationery for her.
"Thank you. She'll be delighted."
"Why don't you sit down," he suggested, pulling a chair close to the fire for her. "You're shivering. There's some hot coffee in the dining room if you'd like me to get you a cup."
"I'm afraid I can't drink caffeine after dinner. It will keep me awake all night."
"How about some hot chocolate, then?"
"Okay, but only if you have a cup, too."
Logan soon returned with two steaming mugs of hot cocoa. As Laura stared into the flames over the rim of her cup, Logan watched her over the rim of his. It was ironic, he mused, as he gazed at Laura's exquisite profile, that people considered him lucky to be romantically involved with one of the world's top fashion models. He didn't think he was that fortunate, though. Oh, there was little doubt that Darlene was beautiful, but in all honesty, she was simply not his type. Hers was the blond-haired, blue-eyed, tanned look of the California girl, the latest in a long line of fashion models such as Cheryl Tigues and Christie Brinkley.
Physically, Laura Wyndham was the exact opposite of Darlene. Laura had dark hair, which she wore up, off her shoulders. Her thickly lashed eyes were dark, too, and her skin pale like fine porcelain. Darlene, in keeping with the popular lean look, was 5'10" and 112 pounds. Laura, on the other hand, was shorter and had a fuller, more feminine figure, one that Logan found tantalizing. Darlene, Logan hated to admit, looked cheap. She wore far too much makeup and way too much flashy jewelry. Her perfume was always a little too strong, her clothes tended to be too short or too tight, and she always talked too much or laughed a bit too loudly.
In stark contrast, Laura's clothes were tailored to fit her body perfectly. Her makeup was applied so skillfully that Logan could not be sure she was even wearing any. His mother would have said Laura was a "lady" or that she had "class." He had always laughed at his mother's old-fashioned ideas, but he could not deny that those two words certainly applied to the woman currently sitting opposite him.
Logan was just finishing his hot chocolate when Darlene stomped down the stairs with the force of a tsunami. The temperamental model barged into the sitting room, disturbing the peaceful calm that Laura and Logan had been enjoying.
"This is absolutely incredible!" she declared with an exaggerated pout. "There's no television or radio in the room."
"Why don't you try reading a magazine, then?" the rock star suggested.
"Have they got Elle? Cosmo? Marie Claire?" she asked, shuffling through the stack of Saturday Evening Posts. "Christ! They don't even have People! I don't suppose there's anything to drink around here?"
"Hot chocolate?" Logan asked with a smile.
Darlene extracted a pack of French cigarettes and a gold lighter from her Gucci bag.
"This place is so dreary! I just might go insane by morning."
Exhaling a small cloud of smoke into the room, Darlene finally turned her attention to Laura.
"I don't believe we've met. I'm Darlene Brooks."
Laura smiled and extended her hand.
"I know. I recognized you from your ads. My name is Laura Wyndham, and may I say that you're even lovelier in person?"
Logan was amused at how Darlene's mood improved with a compliment. Her face lit up, and she began telling Laura just how difficult it was to be a model.
"You know, it's not all glamour as everyone imagines."
During one of Darlene's anecdotes, the fourth guest, Alexander Wyndham, joined the other three in the sitting room. Laura dutifully introduced her husband to Logan and Darlene. Alexander, a self-made millionaire, was so filled with a sense of self-importance that he was not in the least impressed by meeting a rock 'n' roll icon and a world-famous supermodel. He did, however, seem to appreciate Darlene's good looks and slender body.
"Here it is eight o'clock on a Saturday night and there's not a damned thing to do!" Darlene complained.
"Yes," Alexander agreed. "It's a shame we're stuck in this bucolic hell hole. If I were in New York, I'd be able to get some work done. I should have brought my laptop with me. But no, I had to listen to my wife."
Laura's fair complexion turned a rosy pink; she was clearly embarrassed by her husband's childish behavior and thoughtless remarks.
"I don't suppose it has stopped snowing yet," Logan said, attempting to change the subject.
"It was still coming down when I checked a minute ago," Alexander said. "It had better stop soon. I want to get back on the road first thing in the morning."
"I hope they do a decent job plowing the roads," Logan remarked.
"Yeah, you wouldn't want to get a scratch on your old car," Darlene said, pouting again.
"That wouldn't bother me," Alexander said matter-of-factly. "I get a new car every year, anyway. In fact, I've been thinking of getting rid of the Rolls next month and getting a Bentley."
Darlene's ears perked up. While not a person to appreciate the value of a classic sports car like the Jaguar XJ220, she was one to recognize a status symbol of wealth and power like the Rolls Royce.
"I've never ridden in a Rolls before," she said, flashing her blue eyes at the wealthy Alexander Wyndham.
"Why don't you and I go outside and I'll drive you around the parking lot," he offered, adding to his wife's embarrassment.
"Sounds like fun," Darlene replied, and the two of them grabbed their jackets and headed out the door. Neither one bothered to ask Logan or Laura if they wanted to go along.
There was an awkward silence in the room, but Laura broke it by saying, "I apologize for my husband's behavior."
"No need to," Logan replied; he imagined the lovely Laura did a lot of apologizing for her spouse. "I'm sorry about Darlene. She's a flirt by profession."
"And Alex has no resistance when it comes to pretty blondes."
"Why on earth would a man be interested in someone like Darlene when he has a wife like you?"
Logan could not understand the strange look Laura gave him until he realized with a shock that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I don't know what made me say that."
"That's all right; I'm not offended. In fact, that's the nicest compliment I've had in a long time."
Logan got up and walked to the bay window. Outside, Darlene was behind the wheel of the Rolls Royce, with Alexander Wyndham sitting close beside her.
"Jealous?" Laura asked as she joined Logan at the window.
"Are you kidding? I don't mean to sound callous, but Darlene is nothing more than a temporary playmate until Miss Right comes along. How about you? Are you jealous?"
"I've been Mrs. Alexander Wyndham for eight years. I've gotten used to his behavior by now."
Outside, the Rolls came to a stop, but neither the driver nor the passenger got out of the car.
"How about another cup of hot chocolate?" Logan offered as he and Laura turned away from the window.
It was nearly an hour before Darlene and Alexander returned to the inn. Logan and Laura were sitting in front of the fire, drinking hot chocolate and talking quietly.
"Don't you two look nice and cozy," Darlene observed.
Despite her own transgressions, she was always jealous when her boyfriend paid attention to another woman.
"Logan was telling me about his Jaguar," Laura explained.
"Not that old car again!"
"I like sports cars," Laura said, looking her husband in the eye. "I always admired the sleek design of a Ferrari or a Lamborghini."
"And that's from a woman who was driving a Ford Escort when I first met her!"
Alexander and Darlene laughed uproariously as they headed for the kitchen.
* * *
Logan woke early the following morning, dismayed to see that the snow was still falling and that the road had not been plowed. He quickly got dressed and headed downstairs. Mr. Ambrose was nowhere to be found, but a pot of hot coffee and a selection of bread and pastries were set out in the dining room. After a quick breakfast, Logan went out to his car. As usual, the Jaguar's engine turned over on the first attempt. Logan turned on the front- and rear-window defrosters and got the ice scraper out of the trunk. While he was brushing the snow off the windshield and windows, Laura joined him outside.
"You and Alex all set to go?" he asked.
"I haven't seen Alex this morning. I thought he would be out here, but I was wrong," she said, noticing that the Rolls was covered with close to eight inches of snow. "I wonder if it's going to stop soon."
"Hop in," Logan said, opening the passenger door. "I'll see if I can get a weather forecast on the radio."
Logan scanned the FM stations to no avail. Then he switched to AM and found a local country music station. After several minutes, the deejay informed them, "We'll be back with Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood after this newsbreak." Logan turned up the radio. He was relieved to hear that the snow would be tapering off during the late morning hours.
"I suppose I can hang around until the afternoon. It's only about an hour's drive to Boston."
"I'm sure Alexander won't want to wait. To him time is money."
"Yes, but safety is ...."
Logan stopped speaking; his attention was again focused on the news broadcast.
"... were medevaced to Boston Metropolitan Hospital where all four were pronounced dead on arrival. Massachusetts State Police say the accident was caused by the icy road conditions."
"Did you hear that?" he asked.
"Something about a car accident on this road."
"Funny. I could have sworn I heard the newscaster say my name."
* * *
Logan and Laura went back inside the Olde Salem Inn. Mr. Ambrose was still not at the main desk.
"Alex?" Laura called, looking in both the kitchen and the sitting room. "Maybe Darlene has seen him."
"That's funny," Logan said with a puzzled look on his face. "I don't remember if Darlene was in the room when I woke up this morning."
"That explains it!" Laura said with a heavy sigh. "There are four vacant rooms in this place. Alex and Darlene must be having a little tête-à-tête in one of them."
"Do you want me to go upstairs and find out?" Logan offered.
"No. Let's go get some coffee," she replied, affectionately taking him by the arm.
Logan poured two coffees and brought them to a table near the window.
"Isn't it funny?" Laura asked. "Alex and Darlene were the ones who were in such a hurry to leave here."
"In a way the whole situation is odd," Logan said. "Just look at us: four very wealthy, young and attractive people. We have what most people only dream of having."
"Everything but happiness," Laura added.
"That's what's so peculiar. Take your husband. He's a successful businessman, and you're a beautiful, intelligent, well-bred woman. You appear to be perfect for each other, yet he's drawn to a superficial girl who looks at him with dollar signs in her eyes. I, on the other hand, am a rock singer, not the most respected of professions. Theoretically, I should want to be partying day and night with a beautiful, vivacious woman like Darlene, and yet ...."
Logan let his sentence trail off, but the sentiment was left to hang in the air.
"It must be a case of opposites attracting," Laura theorized.
"I think it's more than that. It's as though I've spent the last fifteen hours examining my values." He let out an embarrassed laugh and explained, "I'm not myself today."
"I know what you mean," Laura said reflectively. "Yesterday, I would never have considered leaving Alex. Not that there's any love left, but I have a lifestyle I've grown accustomed to. After last night, though, I'm not sure if it's worth it. I realize now there are more important things in life than big houses and expensive clothes."
Logan looked deeply into Laura's eyes. Blushing, she turned her head away and looked out the window.
"It's stopped snowing," she announced.
This news was met with mixed reactions. Both of them were glad the storm had finally passed, yet it meant they would continue on their separate journeys and most likely never see one another again.
Suddenly, Laura stiffened.
"Logan, look! The Rolls is gone."
The two left the dining room and ran outside.
"It was here just a few minutes ago when we were listening to the radio in your car."
"Let's go back inside," he said. "You don't have a jacket on; you'll catch your death."
"Good morning, folks," Mr. Ambrose called from his post behind the desk. "Come on in and get warm."
"We're looking for Mrs. Wyndham's husband and for the young woman who was with me last night."
"They've already checked out, sir."
"When?"
"Late last night."
"That's impossible!" Laura cried. "My husband's car was parked outside this morning. You must have seen the Rolls Royce."
"Like that one?" Mr. Ambrose asked, nodding toward the window.
Outside a wrecker was towing a silver Rolls Royce down Olde Turnpike Road. The car's windshield was shattered, and its front end was demolished.
"Bad accident out there last night," Mr. Ambrose told them.
"I heard something about it on the radio this morning," Logan said, his voice quivering with apprehension. "There was another car involved, wasn't there?"
"Ayah. One of those expensive foreign sports cars, a Porsche, I believe. No, wait, it was a Jaguar."
Logan quickly turned toward the parking lot. He was relieved to see his XJ220 was still parked in the lot, undamaged.
"That's the odd thing about car accidents," Mr. Ambrose said cryptically. "Some people die, while others walk away without a scratch."
Logan looked from the old man to Laura.
"Almost as though life were giving them a second chance," he mumbled.
"That's exactly how it is," Mr. Ambrose agreed. "Now, if you two young folks don't mind, it's just about check-out time."
Logan carried his and Laura's bags out to the parking lot and placed them both in the Jaguar's trunk. When they got into the car and Logan turned on the ignition, the country western station was repeating the news.
"Last night, shortly before 8:00 p.m., there was a head-on collision on Olde Salem Turnpike. Rock superstar Logan Mansfield and his girlfriend, the Foxee jeans model Darlene Brooks, were traveling north when a Rolls Royce driven by wealthy New York businessman Alexander Wyndham struck Mansfield's Jaguar. Neither Logan Mansfield nor Wyndham's wife, Laura, were injured in the accident, but Wyndham himself and Darlene Brooks were medevaced to Boston Metropolitan Hospital where they were both pronounced dead on arrival. Massachusetts State Police say the accident was caused by the icy road conditions."
"It's not the same story," Logan insisted. "I distinctly remember the first broadcast saying that all four were pronounced dead on arrival."
"It doesn't matter," Laura said, lovingly caressing Logan's hand. "I don't understand what happened, but I do know you shouldn't question fate when you've been given a second chance."
"You're right," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Let's go to Boston. I've got a reservation for the best suite at the Omni Parker House."
As he drove the Jaguar out of the parking lot, Logan glanced at the space where earlier that morning he and Laura had seen the silver Rolls Royce. A deep layer of snow now covered the ground, as though the car had never been parked there.
Salem loves snowstorms. He thinks sledding down a steep hill is as much fun as riding on a broom.
