She talked him through the details of the place as she showed him upstairs in what looked to him like a typical American house, lots of space but willfully harking back to some indistinct past. Within a few minutes she’d left him in the homely clutter of his room, no ceremony, an offer still hanging in the air that he could have his breakfast as late as he liked, and that was it, the imagined significance of their meeting lost in the informal detail.
He sat there then with the world hushed around him, a deep peace that was almost unsettling, like no one else was there in the inn, like the fine mist of idiots’ rain had smothered everything beyond. And it quickly began to work on him too, a calming blanket to set against the meatless sleep of the previous days, a secure comfortable peace in which to recover his senses.
He slept and no dreams came to him, his mind sinking into emptiness, the night devoid of shocks, of the heaving fishhook pulls on his heart, like lines tautening sharply against distant catches. He left himself at ease, becalmed, here of all places.
It was something he thought of when he woke the next morning, the strangeness of finding such peace in this house, a restorative sleep, a feeling that he’d slept for as many days as he’d been awake beforehand. It was completely at odds with the unease he’d had about coming here, this air of benignity around everything, from the first meeting with Susan Bostridge to the room he found himself in, filter-lit by the sun through chintzy curtains, as quiet as it had been the night before.
He checked his watch and saw that despite the offer he was in good time for breakfast, the perfect opportunity to break cover with Holden. Despite the restful atmosphere, he needed to know quickly what Holden could do for him, and what he wanted JJ to do in return; he wasn’t intending to hang around on someone else’s territory if there was nothing in it for him.
There were about a dozen guests at the inn, most of them sitting around a long table when he got to the breakfast room, two young couples, the rest middle-aged. They responded to the sight of him with a communal hello as if they were used to him coming in at that time, and an older woman serving them put down the coffeepot in her hand and said, “Ah, Mr. Hoffman, did you sleep well?”
“Yes thanks,” he replied, recognizing her voice as that of the woman he’d spoken to on the phone.
“Good. Now why don’t you sit right here and I’ll introduce you to everyone?” He took the seat she offered him at the head of the table and went along with the strangely chummy ritual of being introduced, each couple responding like he was someone marrying into the family. They were all American but at the end the woman said, “You’ve missed our Scottish guests, the McCowans, already out walking, and of course Mr. Lassiter had to leave yesterday. But I think that’s everyone.”
One of the younger men up the table said, “Except you, Kathryn.” His partner smiled approvingly at him, a couple not long together.
She responded as though to a bout of forgetfulness. “Of course, what am I thinking of? I’m Kathryn and this is William Hoffman. You like to be called William?”
“Actually, friends call me JJ.”
Nods of acknowledgment were given around the table, people discreetly carrying on their conversations then as Kathryn said, “Now what can I get you for breakfast, JJ?”
“I don’t really eat breakfast,” he said apologetically, adding, “Just some tea please, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh but you have to eat something,” she countered like it was an undeniable truth. “How about some blueberry pancakes? Once you’ve tried them there’s no turning back.” He gave in, accepting the offer rather than being cajoled into it like someone spoiling the party, and she went off into the kitchen looking pleased with herself. Another convert.
The couple to either side looked at him and smiled. The man, introduced as Steve, looked like an off-duty mobster: balding, a solid neck that looked as wide as his head, a body that seemed to keep him away from the table.
He flicked his eyebrows in the direction of the disappearing Kathryn and said, “I never eat breakfast, only when I’m here. Any other time I’m in the office at eight-thirty, nothing but coffee.”
His wife smiled benevolently and said, “As you can see, he makes up for it in lunches.” Steve shrugged in response, a New Yorker’s shrug, like there was nothing he could do about it so no point worrying. JJ smiled, unused to this kind of thing but going along with it, not wanting to stand out from the happy crowd.
They kept talking to him then, Steve the mobster turning out to be a lawyer, talking about the Copley Inn, about their grown-up kids, about the state of America, the last subject bringing agreement from people farther up the table. JJ listened for the most part, giving away only that he worked in venture capital, that he lived in Switzerland, that a friend had recommended the Copley.