A Night at the Inn

The Halstead Inn's large dining room bustled with activity, but the woman sitting by the fireplace didn't seem to notice. Nelson Marker remembered seeing her in that same spot the day before. Forty-ish, her chin length brown hair was laced with wiry gray strands. A vain woman could have easily freshened the style with hair color; he found her more interesting because she didn't.

His own hair color had officially changed to salt-and-pepper ten years ago, when he hit fifty. He liked it, never too concerned that it aged him. His wife, Maria, once insisted men pulled off aging better than women. Nelson thought it was a personal thing—some men handled it better than others, as did some women.

The woman by the fireplace had a dignified appearance. Her clothes were stylish, a neat black sweater over slacks and smart-looking ankle boots. A long red scarf hung around her neck, looped over one shoulder. It looked soft, as if it were made of a smooth fabric like cashmere, striking against the black outfit.

He wasn't sure why she'd caught his eye. There were plenty of people coming and going, enjoying the amenities of Southern New England and the Connecticut River Valley. His host had mentioned the Inn was leased to capacity, as it often was during the colorful autumn season. There were endless sights to see, places to go, people to meet. It simply wasn't as enjoyable as he'd hoped, doing it all alone.