we drove the car off the ferry and through the Stephen King streets trying to find the inn. The island hadn't changed much in the last century. There were large white clapboard hotels with black iron stags on the lawns. Also stone walls, lighthouses, heather, ponds and meandering lanes. It was the kind of place famous novelists come to write large novels in small cottages. Vera said it reminded her of the location for a low budget horror movie — one of those towns where a group of fun-loving teenagers in revealing clothing keep running into a Naugahyde-faced psychopath thrashing about with a chain saw and meat hooks. As for us, we were cold, wet, starving. And to make matters worse, we found the B & B. I waited in the car while Vera ran to the door to ask where we should park. She climbed back in and took my hand. "Now sweetie don't be mad, but she's wearing a costume." "What do you mean a costume?" After we went in I saw what she meant. Mrs. Dordogne, the inn keeper, was standing at the kitchen table with a smile on her face even more frightening than Linda Evangelista's. She was dressed in a calf-length Royal Stewart plaid skirt, knee boots with brass spurs, a white, high-collared blouse with a brooch pinned at the throat, and giant tortoise shell combs in either side of her short hairdo that made it look like she had heating vents installed on her head. She held out two heart-shaped doilies with heart-shaped muffins sitting on them. "Welcome!" she bellowed. I wanted to run, but Vera paralyzed me with her supernaturally powerful sideways tractor beam. I took the muffin. "It's my own recipe! Oat bran! No fat! No sugar!" Mrs. Dordogne exclaimed (everything she said was exclamatory). I'm sure she'd once been a girl scout leader, a volleyball coach or, perhaps, a technician with the Inquisition. She was a hardy, peppy, cheerful gal with a seething fury somewhere deep below the surface. Just the sort of person I dread running into after a puker of a boat ride when all I want to do is wash up, warm up and find a good place for dinner. "And a nice glass of sherry takes the chill off!" Mrs. Dordogne said, pouring us each a water glass of cream sherry from a half-gallon bottle with no label. "My husband says I'm just a real people person! Now sit, sit — you must tell me all about yourselves!" We were about five minutes into our stay and neither of us had yet uttered a word. I took a slug of the sherry and a bite of the muffin. They tasted like creosote and mildewed Masonite. I gave Vera my I-could-kill-you-for-getting-me-into-this glance and she responded as she always does. She told a big lie designed to extract us pronto. "Oh my gosh," Vera said checking her watch. "Our dinner reservation is in five minutes. We better run." "Don't be silly!" Mrs. Dordogne said grinding her teeth. "This is your romantic getaway! I won't have you go back out in that weather without a little appetizer! It's my curried pumpkin-shitake soup! No fat! All veggie broth!" My ears were starting to throb from the combination of Mrs. Dordogne's voice and the solvent-like sherry I was gulping. "Which restaurant is it?" she shouted. "I'll call and let them know you're going to be late. We're very relaxed here!" Vera was thinking fast. "Shoot, I can't remember the name. It's in my notebook out in the car." But not quite fast enough. "I've got my slicker right here! I'll run out and get your notebook," Mrs. Dordogne clucked. "Was it the Roundelay, the Old Salt, McDowall's?" I was finally compelled to speak. "I'm allergic to pumpkin and shitake," I lied. "Makes me bloat up like a manatee." "Yeah, I think I want to get to dinner," Vera said. "Maybe we can talk some more after." "I have a lovely video of the island's points of interest we can all watch!" Mrs. Dordogne said. "And I'll bake some fresh muffins! Mr. Dordogne should be home by then! Maybe we can talk him into playing his dulcimer!" Her eyes were blinking independently of one another and I noticed for the first time that there were heart shapes painted on the insides of the cupboards, embroidered on the pot holders and stenciled on the wainscoting. "Oh!" she yelped. "I forgot to give you your welcome gift! I paint them myself." We were standing, edging our way towards the door. I thought if I didn't get some real food, real soon I might pass out. Vera looked worse than I felt. Mrs. Dordogne pulled a box out of her pocket. "Open it right now. I insist!" She was smiling so hard I was afraid her face was going to open up like a clamshell. Vera looked at me desperately, took the box from Mrs. Dordogne and opened it. Inside was a flat oval stone with a heart painted on it. The heart had a smiling face. The smile might have come from the Cheshire cat ... or Linda Evangelista — lots of teeth. "Well?" Mrs. Dordogne said. Vera looked at me even more desperately. "You paint them yourself?" I quickly asked. "Been doing it for years!" Mrs. Dordogne replied. "It's so relaxing — very healing and nourishing! Washes away negative energy!" "Ahh ..." I said. Vera yanked my sleeve. "Let's not miss that reservation." "I'll get the video set up!" Mrs. Dordogne yelled as I nearly broke an ankle sprinting for the car. We were so relieved to be back in our freezing, dilapidated van and out of Mrs. Dordogne's clutches that for a moment we forgot about our hunger. Then we remembered. And then one of those things happened that makes you think maybe there is a God. We were driving aimlessly, getting weaker by the second. Everything was closed except a seedy dive near the pier. At very least we needed a drink, maybe several. We stopped in front and went in. There wasn't a customer anywhere, but behind the counter was a great rosy-cheeked woman who looked like she'd just walked out of a Franz Hals painting. "Don't tell me," she said, pointing directly at us with both hands. "You want my last bottle of red wine, my last two bowls of homemade cioppino loaded with clams and crab claws and my last half loaf of French bread. Am I psychic or am I psychic?" "I love you," I said. "So do I," Vera said. And the great woman let out a great cackle. "Name's Carrie — I 'm a miraculous Australian mind-reader and my cookin's so good it'll make you weep." Carrie was all that she claimed and more, but that's another story. Turns out she had two bottles of wine left, the second of which she helped us with. And then she pulled out the vodka. And turned up the stereo and put on some Brazilian music and her dog woke up. And the four of us danced our asses off until sunrise when Carrie made a pot of the best coffee I've ever had in my life and a lobster omelet I can still taste. The painted stone, by the way, fell to the floor while we were dancing and the dog picked it up and carried it outside. We never did see it again. Oh well. Douglas Cruickshank's articles have appeared regularly in Salon, Travel & Leisure and other magazines.