A light rain drizzled on the asphalt, glistening pink under a capsule of red light on the wall of a brick firehouse. They parked on the curb and watched pedestrians exiting Grant’s Tavern. It was a merry-looking place with colorful wreaths and white twinkling lights strung through shrubberies and trees. The building was old and painted white with black shutters. The brochure—Sherry had taken one from the diner earlier—said there were nineteen guest rooms, a pub, confectionary, and restaurant. “We could get drinks and see if they have rooms for the night?” “Suits me,” he said. They quickly secured rooms, dropped their bags on tall quilted sleigh beds, and met in the pub for cocktails. Grant’s had been a roadhouse since 1846, the walls of the pub adorned with nineteenth-century horse tack. An antique guest register on display was open to the signature of Ulysses S. Grant, 1868, with notations for a room and a stable for his horse. The bar featured several microbrewed beers, and Sherry ordered the Devil’s Hoof while Brigham ordered port and oysters on the half-shell.
