“Take a look down there, honey. That lane looks like a footpath. I doubt I could even get the car down there without getting the sides all scratched up by those trees. I’d hate to damage my new present.” He patted the dashboard gently, then touched Paige’s hair. “I know you said these places all look the same to you, but do you remember turning down a little lane like this when you were last here?”

“Teddy and I didn’t stay at this particular place,” Paige explained, “but it was near here.”

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. The rush of blood had made him feel hot. “Teddy…” he mumbled, though not so softly as to go unheard.

She reached to the steering wheel, placed her hand over his. “This can be our place.”

They made the turn.

He’d been correct about the narrowness of the lane but had underestimated its length, for by the time they came upon the white two-storey house, the main road was no longer visible. It was obvious that the photos they’d seen of the establishment online had been taken in fairer weather and during better times. The sloping lawn that had appeared so rich and manicured was now a sparse, brownish mat, interspersed with mud puddles and a birdbath of broken stone. Jon did his best to mask his feelings of having been swindled.

“I guess we just park over there.” He indicated an oval patch of the yard that was inlaid with white gravel. They drove up alongside the beige jeep that was parked there, and then Jon switched off the engine.

He stepped out and immediately gave the car, which Paige had given him as a spontaneous gift over the summer, an inspection for scratches.

“The paint is fine,” said Paige.

Jon nodded, collected their bags.

The only detail that distinguished the house as a business was a small placard beside the doorframe: GUESTS—PLEASE RING DOORBELL FOR SERVICE.

“This doesn’t look very…”

“Very what?” Paige asked.

Jon shrugged. “All I mean is, you can afford to holiday in places much nicer than this.”

“I think it’s perfect.”

Paige obeyed the sign and pressed the button. They stood in wait on the covered porch and Jon whispered to her that he hoped they would have enough privacy.

The woman who drew back the inner door was genial, energetic, and, Jon felt, very well put together for someone her age. Her hair, obviously dyed, was the colour of rusted tin. She extended her hand, introduced herself as Imogene, and then plucked both suitcases from Jon’s hands.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” he said.

“Nonsense,” replied Imogene, “come, come.”

The couple followed a wake of perfume that smelled of clean linen. Imogene led them to a handsome Edwardian desk and bade them to sit. Stationing herself behind the desk, she deftly collected file folders and confirmed the details of their stay.