“Born to eat, born to cook,” Slav Czesny, astrologer, sighed as he looked up from his ephemeris. “Any road you take will lead you back to food. Sun, Venus and Mercury in Virgo at the midheaven.” Slav looked up at me from behind his bifocals, shrugging. “For better or worse, from now on, your life is a soup bone.”
A fat winter moon poured light over the old stone and brick of the inn on The Square. In its beams, the new porches and pickets glowed, and the bright-penny copper of the roof glinted. The old and new merged there—the past and the now—in a strong and happy marriage. Its windows stayed dark on this December night, prizing its secrets in shadows.