Mary Downing Hahn - All the Lovely Bad Ones

One

G randmother met us at the Burlington airport, a big smile on her face and her arms open for a hug. With a squeal of delight, my sister rushed toward her, but I held back. Public displays of affection were okay for girls, I guessed, but not for guys. After all, I'd be thirteen soonway too old for that kind of silly stuff.

After giving Corey a big hug, Grandmother turned to me. "Just look at you, Travis. You've shot up since Christmas. How tall are you?"

I shrugged. "About five six, maybe seven. Not all that tall. There's a guy in my class who's already six feet."

"I'm almost as tall as Travis," Corey put in, never one to be left out. "And I'm a whole year younger."

While Corey chattered about the plane ride from New York, Grandmother led us to the baggage claim. We grabbed our suitcases and headed for the parking lot. The late-afternoon air was cool and the sky was blue, a change from the heat and humidity we'd left in the city.

"Welcome to Vermont." Grandmother opened the door of a shiny red pickup truck. "Toss your luggage in the back and climb aboard."

Corey jumped in beside Grandmother, and I squeezed in by the door.

"So do you think you'll be able to stand being away from your parents for a whole summer?" Grandmother asked.

My sister and I looked at each other and grinned.

"We'll miss them a little," Corey said, "but we're used to summers away from home."

Grandmother smiled. "I'm glad you chose the inn instead of camp."

Corey and I didn't look at each for fear we'd laugh and give ourselves away. We hadn't had a choice, actually. Camp Willow Tree had made it very clear that neither Corey nor I was welcome to return. It seemed we'd failed to get into the true spirit of camp. We'd started food fights, played hooky from evening campfire, made up rude words to the camp song, overturned a canoe on purpose, and let the air out of a counselor's bike tires the day we were sup posed to ride twenty miles up a mountain in the pouring rain. Was it our fault the camp staff had no sense of humor?

The truth of it was Corey and I tended to get in trou ble wherever we went. Bad onesthat's what we were. Well, not really bad. We preferred to think of ourselves as pranksters. But like the camp staff, adults (including Mom and Dad) didn't find our antics as funny as we did.

Our parents had made us promise to behave ourselves at the inn. One bad report from Grandmother and we'd spend the rest of our vacation taking pre-algebra in summer schoola fate even worse than camp craft projects involving Popsicle sticks and feathers.

Just before the turnoff for Middlebury, we left Route 7 and took a winding road that rolled over hills, past farms and fields, red barns and sturdy farmhouses. Herds of black and white cows raised their heads to watch us go by. Beyond them, the mountains rose greenish blue a gainst the sky.

"Here we are." Grandmother pointed to a neatly painted sign: THE INN AT FOX HILL-NEXT RIGHT. Under the words was a picture of a smiling fox. A VACANCY sign hung below.

Grandmother swung into a long, straight driveway shaded by tall trees. At its end was a three-story pink brick building. The late-afternoon sun touched every thing with goldthe lawn, flower beds, and wooden rocking chairs on the front porch. Behind the inn, clouds cast their shadows on the Green Mountains.

Grandmother parked the truck, and Corey and I jumped out. I grabbed for my suitcase, but Grandmother said, "Leave your luggage for now. Henry can bring it in later. Martha's promised to have a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade, freshly squeezed, and a plateful of chocolate-chip cookies, still warm from the oven."

We followed Grandmother down a stone path bor dered with dense white flowers to a brick patio shaded by a huge wisteria climbing over a trellis. Nearby, a fountain splashed into a pool, and I glimpsed flashes of red fish swimming in its depths. Flowers bloomed everywhere, and bees hummed. Birds called back and forth in the trees.

As we settled ourselves around a table, a woman strode toward us carrying a tray. Her gray hair was pulled back tightly into a knot, and her mouth seemed to have settled into a permanent frown. Without so much as a smile, she set the tray down and stepped back.

"Thank you, Martha. It looks lovely." Gesturing to Corey and me, Grandmother introduced us to the woman.

"Pleased to meet you." Still no smile, just a quick dip of the head.

"Mrs. Brewster is our cook," Grandmother told us. "People come to the inn year after year just to eat her famous blueberry pie."

Another dip of the head and Mrs. Brewster left us to enjoy the lemonade and cookies.

"Martha's a little standoffish," Grandmother admitted, "but she and her husband more or less came with the inn. And she's truly magnificent in the kitchen."

Corey jabbed my ankle with the toe of her shoe and whispered, "She looks like an old grump to me."

Grandmother leaned across the table to brush a strand of hair out of Corey's eyes. "You'll change your mind when you eat your first meal here."

Corey helped herself to a cookie. While she chewed, she looked around. "Is that a swimming pool?"

Grandmother nodded. "You can use it any time you likeas long as someone's with you. I don't have a life guard."

She pointed past the pool to the wide grassy lawn, dot ted with old-fashioned Adirondack chairs, turned to face the mountains. "If you like tennis, the court's over there. I have bicycles for the guests. The state park just down the road has a great network of biking and hiking trails."

Grandmother ate a cookie. "If it rains," she went on, "there's a library, computer, TV, DVD player, and at least a dozen old-fashioned board games. Hopefully, you'll find plenty to do."

Corey and I leaned back in our chairs and drank our lemonade, just as fresh and cold as Grandmother had prom ised. It looked as if it was going to be a good summer. No s chedules. No organized activities. Nobody blowing whistles at us. No boring crafts. For once, we were free to do what we wanted to do. Including nothing. Nothing at all.

Corey studied the inn. "Do you have many guests?"

"There are six rooms," Grandmother said. "Four on the second floor and two on the third. We can house twelve guests, but tonight we only have twoa couple of young men."

Corey looked around. "Where are they?"

"They've gone out bicycling, but they'll be back soon for dinner."

"You must usually have more people than that," Corey said.

Grandmother sighed. "That's what I thought when I bought the place, but the inn's kind of remote. Tourists like to be closer to Burlington or Middlebury, Stowe or Wood stock." She shifted in her chair as if she were about to get up but then changed her mind.

"Actually, the inn's location is only part of the problem," she added slowly.

Corey and I sat up straighter, as if we both sensed some thing exciting.

For a moment, Grandmother stared at the inn, her gaze drifting from one window to the next as if she were admi ring the flower boxes.

"I wouldn't bother telling you," she said at last, "but you're sure to hear the guests talking about it. Fox Hill is mentioned in Haunted Inns of Vermont."

Corey and I leaned closer, our eyes wide. A little shiver raced up and down my spine. A whole summer in a haun ted innwhat could be more exciting than that?

" Oooh ," Corey murmured. "I've always wanted to see a ghost."

"Don't be stupid," I told her. "You can't even watch a horror movie without having nightmares."

"Huh," Corey said. "Just last week I watched one of the Scream movies, and I didn't even close my eyes or cover my ears once!"