Don't Believe a Word by Patricia MacDonald

more like an apartment than a hotel room. It had a living room and a dining area, as well as a small bedroom. The sliding glass doors, all unbreakable and safely locked, faced out onto a small courtyard which was bleak in the winter chill, with a few scrawny trees, and snow piled against the building and beneath a pair of garden benches. All the furnishings in the apartment-sized room were well worn and nondescript. Still, a layout of this size would have cost a thousand dollars a night in New York City, she thought. Here, the price was rock bottom and reasonable. Eden pulled the stiffly lined drapes closed, unpacked quickly and set up her electronics. She lay down on the plaid double bedspread and tried to take a nap, but it was no use. Her nerves were on edge.
    Finally, she got up and went down to the desk to ask where she might buy a few basic supplies. The pudgy young man in his maroon Garden Suites V-neck pullover directed her to a convenience store down the block. Eden elected to walk, and was amazed at how the damp cold cut through her. The road to the convenience store was quiet, almost dead, except for the roar of planes arriving and departing overhead. The store was haphazardly stocked, but she carried back some water bottles and a few things for breakfast. She had noticed that the room had a coffee maker, and she liked the idea of having breakfast in her robe and slippers. When she came back through the lobby, the young man at the desk buttonholed her to inform her of the hours that breakfast would be served in the lobby.
    ‘I think I’m going to have it in my room,’ she said.
    ‘No problem,’ the desk clerk said pleasantly. He asked her if she wanted a free newspaper delivered in the morning, and Eden gratefully agreed.
    Just then a stout, gray-haired man in a plaid sport coat and a parka came up to the desk. ‘Can I help you with those?’ he asked, pointing to Eden’s plastic bags bulging with water and crackers. ‘I’m in the next suite over from yours.’
    Eden leaned away from him, surprised and shocked as if she had been spied on, but the young clerk laughed.
    ‘Don’t mind Andy,’ he said. ‘He’s here so much he thinks of this place as his neighborhood.’
    ‘I do indeed, Oren.’
    Eden smiled wanly. ‘Oh, I see.’
    Andy, undaunted by Eden’s obvious discomfort, plucked one of the plastic sacs from her hands, and opened the door to the sidewalk. ‘Shall we?’ he said.
    Eden wasn’t quite sure how to act in the face of overbearing friendliness, but the clerk was looking at them with benign amusement. She walked along beside Andy, who explained that he was on the road and away from his beloved home in Indiana, his wife and children, for almost half the year. ‘Counting the days till I retire,’ he said as they reached their respective doors. ‘Though to tell the truth, I’ll probably miss the road.’ He handed Eden back her bag with a smile. ‘If you need anything now, Eden, I’m right next door.’
    Eden thanked him, although she did not feel totally comfortable with his familiarity. ‘Good night,’ she said, and hurried to lock the door behind her.
    The hours until the arranged meeting dragged, but at last it was time to get into her car and go. She left some extra time so she could negotiate her way across Cleveland, but, as she had six weeks earlier during the funeral visit, Eden found it an easy matter to get around. The city traffic was not the cutthroat affair that she was accustomed to in the New York area. People seemed to take their time, and there was usually a moment where one could peer at an address, or make a last-minute turn without the screeching of brakes all around.
    They had agreed that Flynn would pick the restaurant for their first editorial meeting, and Flynn had decided on an Italian restaurant called Alfredo’s. Eden was picturing an old- world sort of place, with dim lights and candles, and a shiny mahogany bar. The reality was something very