Not quite Bates Motel material, but not too appealing.
'OK,' Heather said. 'Is there a cafe of some kind? We're starving.'
The woman just stared and smiled. The man said nothing. 'There's a diner,' she said eventually. 'Just follow the road to the left and you can't miss it, just off the square.
I recommend the omelette.'
'Thank you,' Heather said. 'I'll take you up on that recommendation. And when we're done, we'll pop back and buy some of the bread. It smells terrific'
The woman nodded, the painted-on smile even wider.
'Have a nice day.'
They left, blinking in the whiteness. Both Nigel and Heather shared the feeling the town wires would soon be humming with the news that lost, alcoholic English tourists had landed. They followed the directions to a simple diner called 'Orson's'. Inside there were a few beaten leather chairs and banquettes, and -- a rare sight -- ordinary people. They entered and made straight for a table by the window to one side, watched by those eating breakfast, the air heavy with the smell of fried food. A waitress came over and tossed two menus on the table, the dishes typed out crudely and protected from stains by clear plastic. Nigel glanced around. They were still being watched.
'Can I get a mushroom omelette and some orange juice?'
Heather asked immediately.
Nigel was momentarily startled, not just by Heather's adroit adaptation of the American vernacular. He'd not even had a chance to look at the options. 'The same,' he said, handing back his menu.
The waitress turned away without a word. Nigel continued to look. The regulars' attention returned to the contents of their plates, bar a few who continued to stare.
A young, pretty blonde came over with a coffee percolator jug. Her hair was tied back to reveal a proud, handsome face spoilt only by a toothy smile. The jug's contents weren't coffee. For a start, it was green.
'Herbal tea?' she said haltingly.
Yes, please,' Heather replied eagerly, pushing her cup forward.
The young woman was about to pour but stopped. She looked at Heather in a state of shock.
'Yes, we're not from round here,' Heather added by way of explanation. We're English.'
The girl continued to stare. Eventually, she poured, hand visibly shaking. Then without saying anything, or offering Nigel any of the tea, she turned on her heels and returned swiftly to the counter.
'Now I know what it might be like to be a little green man from Mars,' Heather said, taking a sip of the tea and wincing. 'Hmm. Not sure about that.'
Nigel watched the girl disappear into the kitchen. She didn't come back. Instead the older waitress who took their order came over a few minutes later with their food. She set it down. It looked and smelled good but he didn't have much of an appetite. He made a polite effort and realized he was hungrier than he thought and the food was good.
Watching them eat seemed to loosen up the waitress. She came over when they'd finished.
'You people were hungry,' she said softly, smiling at last.
Nigel couldn't help but be cynical. Treat us like weirdos initially, he thought, but now you want your tip.
'Seems very quiet in town,' Heather said.
The woman nodded. 'It usually is. We're a very quiet town. But today in particular. Yesterday was a public holiday here in Liberty'
'Is there anything to see here in town?'
What do you mean?' She looked apprehensive.
'Any sights. We've got a bit lost. But seeing as we're here, we were wondering if there was anything of any historical interest.'
The waitress looked blank. 'No, I don't think there is,' she said and laughed nervously. The temple, I suppose, but...'
A portly man appeared at her shoulder and she stopped.
He was wearing an apron. Nigel assumed he was the cook.
'Can I be of assistance?' he said, looking directly at Nigel, putting hands with fingers like sausages on his hips.
He was breathing heavily through his mouth.
The waitress did not resume her sentence. She gave them a tight smile and cleared the table before scurrying back to her post.
Your waitress was just being of great assistance,'
Heather replied.
Nigel could sense the irritation in her voice. The man ignored her and continued to look coldly at Nigel.
He knew it was best to speak before Heather flipped.
We're a bit lost and looking for some recommendations what to do here in Liberty,' he said simply.
'The best thing you can do is get in your car and head out of town,' came the response. The cook rubbed his chin. 'There ain't nothing here for you people.'
'Oh,' Nigel said. 'Fair enough.'
'And quit diverting my staff,' he added. 'Now, that meal was on the house. Just be on your way' He wiped his hands on his apron, fixed Nigel with another stare and headed back to his kitchen.
They got up and left without speaking. Nigel tried to smile at their waitress but she avoided eye contact. No one spoke. Outside in the gleaming white light, they shared a look.
What did we expect?' Nigel said.
'There must be someone in this place who doesn't bear a pathological distrust of outsiders. The waitress mentioned the temple, before Guy the Gorilla intervened.
Let's go there. Maybe there's a vicar or priest of some sort we can speak to. A man of the cloth might be less insular.'
Nigel had reservations. For a start, he wasn't sure the Mormon faith, fundamentalist or not, had people like vicars.
Heather was having nothing of it; he recognized the defiant cut of her jaw as she strode across the square to the temple that loomed over it.
The portico was supported by three white pillars. At either side of the building was a pair of smooth cylindrical towers with turrets at the top, studded with arched windows. A semicircle of white stone steps swept up to double doors, one of which appeared to be slightly ajar.
Without stopping to knock or call out, Heather walked through into a cool, dark vestibule.
It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust from the bright light outside. The temple was silent. In front of them was a wall, with open arches either side. To the right and left were doors, both locked.
Heather looked at Nigel and shrugged. 'Maybe there's some kind of office where we can find someone,' she suggested.
They
went through one of the arches that opened into the main part of the temple. In front of them were rows and rows of pews and a carpeted floor. There were precious few religious adornments, save an inscription on the back wall that read 'the lord has seen our sacrifice'
and a single cross. They looked around but saw no one. In the corner to their left was a door that Heather tried, and which was also locked.
Wait here,' Heather said, and started wandering towards the front, where there were more doors.
Nigel felt a cold chill down his spine. The fact the temple was open but as deserted as the rest of the town made him uneasy. He glanced round and saw behind him, at the back wall to his right, a small table, draped in white cloth, complete with a couple of books. Above it, on the wall, was a large notice or message board, listing forthcoming events and other community arcana. Nigel perused them -- they ranged from the profound, a service celebrating the anniversary of the town's founding, to the trivial, someone advertising a crochet group for ladies. There was little to distinguish it from the day-to-day activities of any small church in any religion.
He looked at the books on the table. The first, the smaller book, was the Book of Mormon. The second was a larger book, thick and bound like a ledger. He opened it up. It appeared to be a handwritten register of the Church's ceremonies. Baptisms, weddings, searings, endowments, going back at least three or four years. He flicked through the heavy pages until he reached the last used page, only a few before the end. He looked down absentmindedly, wondering how they archived the information for future generations. He stopped at the last entry.