Since 1983, the Inn has been owned and casually operated by a man named Sammy Merritt, who imagines that he is a sculptor, but he is not. He is, I sometimes think, a psychopath with hammer and chisel who pulverizes stone out of an antediluvian urge for destruction. He escaped New York City, he once told me, because it stifled his creative growth; I have always thought he was thrown out in a conspiracy of annoyed art dealers. Yet, Sammy is not easily discouraged. He is always eager to exhibit his recent work for me, explaining with juvenile enthusiasm the deeper meaning of each piece. I offer exaggerated praise, which sends him leaping back to hammer and chisel. It is unfair of me to lie so blatantly, but it is the only way to stop Sammy from lingering and blithering. Often, at night, after I had examined his pieces, I would hear him at work and I would imagine him puffing like bellows to keep the flames of inspiration burning at blue heat.

Sammy’s wife, Lila, is pretty and thin-bodied, but with great, protruding breasts, the kind that heave like water buoys in romance novels. She wears tight clothing and excessive makeup and a perfume that is almost offensively sweet. Still, there is an eloquence about Lila that is like an instinct. She has a soft voice, but she uses profanity easily and often—at least in my presence—and I think her greatest pleasure, when I am visiting, is in teasing me. “Just once, Bobo,” she will say. “Just once, let me ball a real artist.”

There is one cook and one chambermaid (never the same from year to year) at the Inn. If any other services are required, Sammy and Lila may, or may not, provide them.

For years, the hotel has needed painting and repair. It is crowded with the junk of cheap collectibles and with Sammy’s sculpture. There is a stale, musty cigarette odor in every room. Even with the windows open, the air refuses to circulate.

Once, there were more than a hundred guests at the Inn during the summer season. Now, Lila told me as I signed the register, there were seven, counting me. “We’re getting crowded, Bobo,” she said flippantly. She looked at me and winked. “But we’re glad you’re back. I know that I am. Gives me another chance.”

I asked her about the winter ski season.

“It was a bitch,” she said casually. “Sammy was working on a piece—big, fucking deal; he’s always working on a piece—and he left me holding the bag, as usual. I brought in a couple of kids from the city to pretend to be waiters. Before it was over, we made out like bandits.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I told her. “Still, it feels strange not seeing people around in the summer. The place used to be full.”