“Damn this is good!” Royal’s eyes crinkled. “Everything tastes good when you work up an appetite.” We sat at a trestle table in the bar. I swallowed, beamed at him, popped in another crisp, crunchy onion and chewed. He took a swig of dark beer and wiped the foam from his mouth with a paper napkin. Carrie stood at the bar ogling a young blond man in khaki shorts, sandals and a colorful poncho despite the dismal weather. He did not wear a shirt beneath the poncho. No doubt that’s why Carrie stood so close. After spending so much of our brief stay inside the inn, the old place felt familiar, the ambience comforting. The fog brought the evening on early so all the old wall lamps glowed. Fat candles in octagonal holders of gold-tinted glass on each table added to the effect. The polished wood of floor, bar, stools, tables and benches shone like glossy chestnuts. The inn was filling up, most of the tables taken. Voices chattered and murmured. A cheer came from a group of guys playing darts in the Games Room.
