The next morning I awoke to a room filled with sunlight, and I remembered where I was. As I prepared to fling back the covers and pounce all over the day, I rolled my head sideways to glance at the bedside clock and discovered the first numeral was a four. That couldn’t be right. I slowly turned my body to bring about a face to face confrontation, intimidation seemed necessary for this level of sass, but the small appliance stuck to its guns and proclaimed the day fifteen minutes away from 5am. What kind of cheeky insubordination was this? I thought for certain we’d have daylight until 10 at night but birds singing before 5? Sacrilege. The antique shops wouldn’t open for hours, and breakfast was still three crucial digits away. I flopped over in disgust and tried to diffuse the adrenaline in my system. False start, everyone, just go back to sleep. As I rearranged the plush pillows around me, I made a mental note to lower the window shades later that evening. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice . . .
I reawakened at eight to see Mom pulling on her sneakers and looking bright-eyed and bushy tailed. I possess the superpower of being low maintenance, and within fifteen minutes, I was dressed and sipping a cup of tea while Mom sat by the window in a high backed chair reading a portion of Psalms aloud. The day was destined for greatness.
Breakfast was the cuisine of kings. Small tables were individually set, and delectable food kept bursting through the swinging kitchen door at intervals. One of the innkeepers, Cheryl, cooked while her husband Mike served, and it was somewhere between the homemade applesauce and coconut banana bread that I noticed a small army of toy rodents stacked on a Victorian buffet. While the stuffed critters were in no way offensive, I did find vermin an interesting choice of décor. Not only did the visual provide a conversation starter, but Mike would breeze by their vicinity with a coffee pot and activate one of the minions. You’ve never experienced an authentic, gourmet breakfast until you’ve eaten quiche while a toy hamster clad in leather sings “Born to be Wild” and strums a tiny, plastic guitar.
Amidst the chuckles, Cheryl poked her head around the corner and said, “It was either those or let him help decorate the guest rooms. You guys got off easy; he wanted Velcro wallpaper.”
After our three course meal and a few tips from Cheryl, we set out to attack the day. The weather was a balmy 62°, which Mom found delightful and I considered only two degrees above hypothermia. I dropped off Mom at a shop sure to sate her antiques appetite, and I journeyed to the Breakwater Lighthouse.
© 2012 – Traci Carver