"Sorry," he answered. He turned his back to the stairs and spoke in almost a whisper. "We don't have an Edith Shipton registered here."
"Are you sure?" asked a doubting voice.
"Yup. Bird Song is a small inn and I'd know." There followed a long pause, followed by an abrupt thank-you and a dial tone.
Dean took a deep breath and tried to consider the implications of his answer to the caller as he made his way to his bedroom. He considered not telling Cynthia about the call, but no, they didn't have secrets between them. He undressed while his wife was still in the bathroom and was in bed when she entered the room.
Six months of marriage had not diminished an iota the awe in which he held this woman he so loved. The long flannel nightgown, while perhaps frumpy in someone's eyes, was perfect for the time and season. His mind was, at least for the moment, clear of all thoughts except this beautiful petite woman. He smiled up at her and delayed telling her about the call.
"I'm a flannel kind of guy."
"As opposed to?" she answered as she switched off the light and slipped in beside him.
"Oh, there are silk guys, and cotton guys and lots of slinky guys. And there are 'teddy' guys, you know, guys who drool over those short little outfits that leave nothing to the imagination."
"And you're a flannel guy?" She snuggled closer.
"Yup."
"And if I wore one of those, 'leaves-nothing-to-the-imagination outfits' you wouldn't drool?"
Dean shook his head in mock seriousness. "You have to understand. What we're talking about here is the packaging. The most important item remains the contents. Now your 'contents' are something extra special so regardless of the packaging, you're still first class to me. It all comes down to levels of excitement."
She kissed him and smiled. "But flannel is still special?" He nodded in agreement and she continued, "Being a flannel gal is nice, too. It makes you feel all warm and cuddly, especially on a winter nights when it's snowing and especially when you're with a special flannel guy." Then she kissed him and asked, "Who was on the phone, flannel guy?" The spell was broken like a dropped mirror on a marble floor.
He told her. She pulled back and at first said nothing.
"You lied to the bastard. Thank you."
"I didn't lie," he said with feigned indignance. "Our guest registered as Edith Jones. I told him we didn't have an Edith Shipton registered here. I was a hundred percent truthful-same as always, almost." It was too dark to see the smile he was sure was there. "Maybe I was a bit misleading," he added.