another idea. Let's do it right, she said. You go and buy a straw boater and a pair of white duck trousers. I have a long, frilly, light blue tea dress and perhaps I can find a parasol someplace. We can play croquet on the lawn and take quiet walks along country lanes and push each other into leaf piles.
“ The Homestead?” Corbin asked. His face had an odd and dreamy look about it.
“ Do you know it?” She was dialing Greenwich information and did not see his expression.
“ No.” He blinked. “No, I've never been to Green wich.” The Homestead, he thought. A common name. You'd find an inn or restaurant called the Homestead al most anyplace you went. But Corbin wondered if this one was painted white with black shutters, and had a widow's walk on top, and whether it sat high on a knoll above a steep open lawn, and had a full-length veranda and a cir cular driveway that approached from the right.
Two more weeks would pass before Gwen had cause to regret that she'd ever heard of the Homestead. But the weekend they had there together was perfect. Utterly, ecstatically perfect. The room they shared was a delightful confection of Victoriana. There was a heavy mahogany sleigh bed, Tiffany lamps, stenciled wallpaper, an ancient bouquet of artificial flowers under glass, and a ponderous dresser of walnut burl topped with pink marble. Although modern baths had been discreetly added, their room contained an antique washstand whose pitcher was filled with lilac-scented water. The dining room on the main floor had once been an attached barn. They sat on Windsor chairs under a high ceiling whose original chestnut beams had recently been exposed.
The menu, though excellent, disappointed Corbin at first glance. He'd had his heart set on canvasback duck, but it was not listed. And he thought a maraschino sorbet should have been added between courses. And terrapin. How could a proper menu not include Maryland terrapin. But no mat ter. There was a wonderful mussel bisque that he could almost taste from the menu although he could not specifi cally recall ever having it. And a good selection of game foods—quail, pheasant, venison, and partridge. But no woodcock. There should have been woodcock.
After dinner, Corbin and Gwen stepped outside to the open section of the porch, each with a cognac in hand. As Corbin, with one arm around Gwen's waist, looked down over the sloping lawn toward the road below, an urge to take her by the hand and sneak off for a moonlight swim flitted across his mind. There was a small hidden cove, he thought, or imagined, just through those trees down to the right. Smiling to himself, he shook off the notion. Even if there was such a cove, and he had no reason to believe there was, it was late October. The water would be more bracing than he bargained for. The very thought of it gave him a chill, and he remembered the warmth and coziness of their room. Gwen read his mind.
“ I've never made love in a sleigh bed.” She squeezed him.
Saturday morning brought a late breakfast in bed, another turn at lovemaking, and then a long cool walk past the impressive homes of the Belle Haven section of Greenwich. Along the way, Corbin thought of that secret cove again and the path that led to it. But there was no path, only the macadam driveway of a sprawling Tudor house. As they returned to the Homestead, Corbin had his first daylight look at the inn. It was, in fact, much as he had envisioned it when he first heard Gwen say the name. Except it was painted brown, not white with black shutters. And there was a sort of rotunda porch built on one corner. And there were out-buildings that did not appear in the picture he'd seen in his mind. But the widow's walk was there, and it was high on a knoll, and there was a circular driveway ap proaching from the right. Corbin, however, did not dwell on these similarities. He knew they could have applied to a thousand other buildings. And anyway he didn't care. He was having too
“ The Homestead?” Corbin asked. His face had an odd and dreamy look about it.
“ Do you know it?” She was dialing Greenwich information and did not see his expression.
“ No.” He blinked. “No, I've never been to Green wich.” The Homestead, he thought. A common name. You'd find an inn or restaurant called the Homestead al most anyplace you went. But Corbin wondered if this one was painted white with black shutters, and had a widow's walk on top, and whether it sat high on a knoll above a steep open lawn, and had a full-length veranda and a cir cular driveway that approached from the right.
Two more weeks would pass before Gwen had cause to regret that she'd ever heard of the Homestead. But the weekend they had there together was perfect. Utterly, ecstatically perfect. The room they shared was a delightful confection of Victoriana. There was a heavy mahogany sleigh bed, Tiffany lamps, stenciled wallpaper, an ancient bouquet of artificial flowers under glass, and a ponderous dresser of walnut burl topped with pink marble. Although modern baths had been discreetly added, their room contained an antique washstand whose pitcher was filled with lilac-scented water. The dining room on the main floor had once been an attached barn. They sat on Windsor chairs under a high ceiling whose original chestnut beams had recently been exposed.
The menu, though excellent, disappointed Corbin at first glance. He'd had his heart set on canvasback duck, but it was not listed. And he thought a maraschino sorbet should have been added between courses. And terrapin. How could a proper menu not include Maryland terrapin. But no mat ter. There was a wonderful mussel bisque that he could almost taste from the menu although he could not specifi cally recall ever having it. And a good selection of game foods—quail, pheasant, venison, and partridge. But no woodcock. There should have been woodcock.
After dinner, Corbin and Gwen stepped outside to the open section of the porch, each with a cognac in hand. As Corbin, with one arm around Gwen's waist, looked down over the sloping lawn toward the road below, an urge to take her by the hand and sneak off for a moonlight swim flitted across his mind. There was a small hidden cove, he thought, or imagined, just through those trees down to the right. Smiling to himself, he shook off the notion. Even if there was such a cove, and he had no reason to believe there was, it was late October. The water would be more bracing than he bargained for. The very thought of it gave him a chill, and he remembered the warmth and coziness of their room. Gwen read his mind.
“ I've never made love in a sleigh bed.” She squeezed him.
Saturday morning brought a late breakfast in bed, another turn at lovemaking, and then a long cool walk past the impressive homes of the Belle Haven section of Greenwich. Along the way, Corbin thought of that secret cove again and the path that led to it. But there was no path, only the macadam driveway of a sprawling Tudor house. As they returned to the Homestead, Corbin had his first daylight look at the inn. It was, in fact, much as he had envisioned it when he first heard Gwen say the name. Except it was painted brown, not white with black shutters. And there was a sort of rotunda porch built on one corner. And there were out-buildings that did not appear in the picture he'd seen in his mind. But the widow's walk was there, and it was high on a knoll, and there was a circular driveway ap proaching from the right. Corbin, however, did not dwell on these similarities. He knew they could have applied to a thousand other buildings. And anyway he didn't care. He was having too
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