My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Lauren and I had never been to Plebes Valley before. We knew it was prime wine country - most of the vineyards there boasted of reds and whites that rivaled the stuff you got from as far as Cru or Asti. The two of us had always been curious about trying one specific place's Pinot Noir, so we packed a weekend bag each, and I got a neighbor to take care of Lawrence, the restless old tabby who still liked to hang around my place. We planned to stay in a quaint little bed and breakfast on the edge of downtown. Not a bad choice of room, in my opinion: The beds were comfortable, and the floral curtains and wallpaper certainly reminded me of the guest room I got to be in whenever I visited my grandmother as a kid. Lauren immediately started gushing over the pillows, which had frilly pink slips and lacy doilies placed on top of them. "It's just precious," she cooed. "That's what I want to do when I'm in my sixties: Run a little bed and bre...

"Beg pardon, ma'am," intoned the older gentleman wearing a top hat and carrying a silver-topped cane. "But have you happened to glance a rogue cellular device around here?" The nineteen-year-old college student wrinkled her nose at the odd display. She had been settling down at her table with a large latte and a crumbly scone, and now some guy with an Edwardian era hard-on was asking her about a misplaced phone.