His recently obtained brass key fit the lock on the front entrance and the door opened easily, rather to his surprise. He looked through the open doorway into the empty lobby. He now owned a hotel. He had closed on it yesterday with the shocked real estate agent and a representative from the title company. The previous owner was not present. He had moved far away from Cramer, Wyoming, many years ago when he had abandoned his failed hotel. The title papers said that Charles A. Hanford now owned the building together with the property and all of the contents. It had been a hard sale. Charles had had a lot of trouble convincing both the real estate agent and the title company represented that he was mentally competent and that his money was good.
As a professional, and not entirely unethical, the real estate agent had asked Charles what sort of property he was looking for. Charles had been very vague about that. Charles had then allowed the real estate agent to drive him around in Cramer for a whole afternoon looking at houses, big and small. The next day Charles had made it as plain as he could that he wanted the hotel listed for sale east of town. The real estate agent had difficulty believing his own ears. That property had been listed for several years, and no one, no one at all, had ever shown the slightest interest in it. No one had ever even mentioned it to him in all the time it had been listed. He simply couldn't imagine that Charles, or anyone, would actually go through the process of buying that hotel, or whatever was left of it.
It wasn't easy, but Charles eventually convinced the real estate agent of his seriousness and soundness of both mind and especially finances. The real estate agent worked up the necessary paperwork for the title transfer and Charles had appeared on the day and hour specified and signed them. He kept the shiny ball-point pen he got from the title company as a souvenir. In case he wanted a second abandoned hotel, he knew who to call. It was only at closing that Charles learned the official name of both the town and the hotel. According to the title papers, the hotel was named was named The Grand Hotel and the abandoned town was named Stranger. He was assured that the town of Stranger was no longer incorporated, which meant that it didn't exist, either legally or actually. The hotel didn't exist either, legally. Not as a hotel, anyway.
After Charles had signed the title papers and handed over his check, the agent had called the bank to confirm the check, then handed over what he hoped were the keys and the title papers with a puzzled grin instead of the happy smile he usually had when he did that with a client.
Once all the signatures had been affixed, and the check had been signed and handed over, and there was no chance of Charles backing out of the deal, the agent asked him politely, and he hoped innocently what he intended to do with the place. Charles told him he was planning to reopen the coffee shop at least, and possibly the entire hotel. The agent told him there weren't any people left out there to go to the coffee shop. Charles had just smiled. It was all lies, anyway. Charles had no idea what he wanted to do with the place. It was just a place. A place where he could be. It was his place.
Now he was walking carefully through the building with his flashlight, Trying his keys on all of the other doors, checking the cellar, opening all the blinds and the windows downstairs.
The hotel had a small restaurant area and a kitchen, he discovered, just to the left as you entered the hotel. The restaurant furniture was still there. There were seven chrome and Formica tables with four vinyl chairs upended on top of each of them. They were green, under the dirt.
He walked through the restaurant area back into the kitchen. All of the built-in equipment was still there, he noticed. He didn't know what all of it was, but there weren't any gaping holes in the row of metal counters and machines. A stove and griddle, followed by a refrigerator-freezer and two wall-mounted sinks lined one wall. The other side of the room had shelves which still had crockery stacked on them, plates and cups and saucers. There was a large wooden table in the center and a small desk next to the door in the back.
Charles supposed that the previous owner couldn't find a buyer willing to transport any of it. He thought he knew somehow why he had bought the place, but he wondered why the previous owner had. There couldn't be another person as goofy as he was. At least he didn't think so. The guy really thought he could operate a restaurant out here, it seemed.
A wooden staircase separated the restaurant and kitchen from the lobby and registration desk. Charles went upstairs. The second floor was fitted out as twenty small rooms, ten on either side of a parlor area at the head of the stairs. He opened each door and looked inside each room, left and right, using the pass key that was part of his newly-acquired keychain.
All but one, that is. The last room on the right on the second floor left corridor facing the back was locked from the inside. He would have to use tools he didn't have in his car for that one. He made a mental note to open that last room somehow. It didn't matter. There were 19 other rooms, none of which were usable in their present state. Well, he wasn't planning to spend the night here anyway, at least not at first.
With a whimsical grin he put the "Help Wanted" sign in the front window just beside the main entrance. He had bought it at the five and dime back in Cramer. He wrote his cell phone number on it, just in case he wasn't in the hotel when the call came. He hoped he wouldn't be swamped with calls. He didn't want company, but he knew he couldn't put the place in shape to live in much less run a coffee shop without help. The help could live in town, and would be temporary anyway. He admitted to himslf that the sign was mostly a joke.
The parlor area upstairs between the two corredors of guest rooms overlooked the lobby and restaurant from the front and had windows towards the rear as well. You could watch the street from the parlor through the front windows of the restaurant. The parlor would be an ideal place to sit and watch what was going on, back in the days when there had been something going on. It would be a pretty quiet view now. From the rear-facing windows you could see the prairie and the mountains in the far-distance. He would look out those windows whenever he wanted to feel alone.
A pair of bathrooms faced each other at each end of the two upstairs halls. They were marked with brass plates, "Men" and "Women". "Inside plumbing," Charles thought, "How modern. Maybe I didn't pay too much for this place after all."
Each guest room had a steel single bed frame, but no mattress, and no other furniture. This was a good thing, he thought. Less to get rid of. He put a mattress and a couple of chairs on his mental list of supplies to order. He would have to sleep somewhere. He didn't remember seeing any chairs in the lobby either. The lobby did have a big fireplace, however. That would be nice in the winter.
The rooms all needed paint. In fact, every surface in the building needed paint. He realized that making the hotel livable would be a huge project for him alone. His "Help Wanted" sign took on new significance. He wondered if maybe his desire to be completely alone wasn't going to have a few rough edges after all. He had thought he might have to do a bit of puttering around. He hadn't thought of all this.
The attic above the second floor held a cistern for water, which must come from a well somewhere. He would have to look into that, too. How much water did the cistern hold? And how long had it been since the pump had been turned on? And why hadn't the whole thing frozen and burst in the several winters since anyone had lived in the place?
He had finished looking around. he unloaded his small stash of cleaning supplies and tools, locked the front door and returned to Cramer to put the utilities under his name and buy more supplies. The lights didn't work, and he would have to find somebody to get the well back in operation. He couldn't see hauling enough water to live from Cramer. He never expected to be quite that primitive.
Taking a last look at his bright red and white "Help Wanted" sign with it's telephone number lettered on it, it occurred to him that there would be no cell service out here. He would have to remember to have a conversation with the telephone company while he was doing all those other things. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed. He had the rest of his life to do it, he told himself. He would just stay in Cramer until some things got arranged out here. It probably wouldn't take longer than a week or so.
He made for Cramer, then one block down the road he made a U-turn and parked across the street from his new hotel. What could he call it? Its name on the title papers was The Grand Hotel. He tried that out as a new address. Charles A. Hanford, The Grand Hotel, Stranger, Wyoming. He must get stationary printed, with a photo of the hotel. He took a photo with his cell phone out the window of his automobile.
But was it going to be a home? It didn't seem like a home, and it wasn't going to be anything like a business. It was a refuge from something. He wasn't sure exactly what he was running from, or hiding from, but he knew that he needed a refuge, and he didn't want to think about how long he would want it. So this was a refuge. It didn't look like much. It had a false front and needed paint. It needed a lot of paint. What was not faded was peeled off by the wind and the weather. He wondered idly when it had been painted last. He couldn't quite make out what the words on the false front said. He wondered what they would say once he finished painting it. He had made no plans at all, the idea of coming here and staying had only occurred to him a few days ago, on his way east from California. He knew for sure he was leaving California, but he hadn't thought much about where he was going. He also knew that he was getting tired of the sameness of hotel rooms, no matter how nice they were. Right now, he had a better idea of what he didn't want than what he did want. He wondered if he should be worried about that, too.
He looked at his hotel once more, then up and down the street. His building was the only one that looked like it might be sound enough to even consider fixing up. Beyond the buildings was the desert, or what looked like a desert to him, and the mountains in the far distance shining in the afternoon sun. He looked at all this through his open car window, noted with satisfaction that nothing, absolutely nothing, was moving. No sign of life, human or animal, could be seen. He started his car, made another U-turn and drove back to Cramer to register once more in the hotel he had checked out of this morning.
He was still spending his nights in the hotel in Crammer. By day, he visited all of the utility companies to set up accounts for his hotel.
He found out that he could have a phone out there if he wanted it, far a price. He knew by now that his cell phone wouldn't work from the abandoned town. He got a landline. It would be installed in a few weeks. There was no hurry.
A well-service company would do what was necessary to get the well back in operation, as soon as the electricity was turned back on.
But the day finally came when there was no more to do in Cramer. He would now begin his life in isolation in the ghostly coffee shop in the ghostly hotel in the ghost town.
He made it three days. He couldn't get used to the dirt, and he couldn't clean it all up. And the painting was clearly beyond him. He didn't know how to cook, and cooking for one just didn't seem like much fun. He was going to Cramer every day for meals and coffee. He had bought a coffee maker, and coffee, but he hadn't tried it out. It looked hopeless. The third night when he went to bed on his camp cot, in one of the rooms upstairs, he knew he would have to give up, at least for now.
He was going to have to go back to Cramer and really look for help. His cute little "Help Wanted" sign in the window was not getting him anywhere, his new phone was not ringing with applicants, or with anything else. He was reconsidering the whole idea of living out here.
The morning he was to admit defeat and return to Cramer started early, and with unaccustomed racket at an unaccustomed hour, just after dawn. He was dreaming of a mob of motorcycles with strangely dressed toughs riding them thundering down the highway. When he woke up, he learned that at least part of the dream was true. There was the sound, the very loud sound, of a motorcycle in front of his hotel. In fact, it was stopping in front of his hotel. He could tell that by the way the roaring noise slowed and then stopped, leaving a huge vacant silence behind.
Charles was wondering if he should be thinking of something to do about the arrival of the motorcycle when the doorbell rang. It was the very first time he had ever heard it and was surprised at how nicely bell-like it was. "Ding-dong Ding-dong" just like he remembered those things sounding, in the nicer places he had stayed in his past life.
Gradually it came over him that he, and he alone, should be thinking of what to do about the sound. No one else was going to answer it, he was pretty sure of that, and if he didn't, the motorcycle might just roar off leaving him forever wondering what it was all about. Being curious, as well as naturally agreeable, he went to answer it.
He got as far as the door to his bedroom on the second floor when he thought of clothes. He put on his bathrobe, shouted, "Just a minute. I'm coming," out the window and went down the stairs in bathrobe and slippers to answer the front door.
He opened it, and stood there blinking in the early morning light, trying to focus. The motorcyclist was dressed in leather, jacket, chaps, and boots. She was all black except for the very brown face and an abundance of the blackest hair he had ever seen. Just beyond her was a very large, very black, very serious-looking motorcycle with a helmet on the seat.
"Hello," the brown face said, smiling, "My name is Lucy Dupre and I came in answer to your ad."
All Charles could think of was, "What ad?" but he stepped out of the doorway out of habit and beckoned brown face to come in. Having no idea what to do then, he headed for the only place downstairs which had chairs, which was the restaurant. Lucy followed. He took two of the chairs down from the top of a table and offered one of them to Lucy. He sat down in the other one, facing her.
"I see I woke you up. I'm sorry. I can come back later."
Charles wondered what good that would do. She was already there, why would she leave and come again? He said, "I am going to try to make coffee. Would you like some?" He thought that he had completely ignored her suggestion to come back later, but he didn't care. He hoped she had also forgotten it. Apparently, she had.
"I would love some coffee. Sit down and I'll make it for us."
This seemed like a simply wonderful idea to Charles, who sat down again.
Once out of the motorcycle leather, Lucy spotted the new coffee maker with it's sample box of filters next to it, rinsed it out and filled it with water. She looked around the kitchen for coffee, first opening the doors to the cabinets one by one and then spotting the unopened can in one of the grocery bags on a counter. She made a face as she opened the can, but put a couple of handfuls of the stuff into a paper filter, closed the lid and switched the coffee maker on.
Charles watched all this through the kitchen door with admiration. Lucy was tall, and strong-looking. She moved fast around the kitchen. When she brought the coffee back to the table, he asked, blinking, "Tell me one more time why you are here." She sat down across from him at the Formica topped dinette table, looked at him carefully, and said that she would explain after he had had his coffee. He agreed, and enjoyed looking at her while he finished waking up. Lucy poured coffee into hotel cups and saucers, sat back down, and explained.
"You put an ad in the Cramer newspaper asking for housekeeping and handyman help at your hotel out here. I came to apply for the position."
Now he remembered. Now that he had an actual applicant, his mind raced. He hadn't hired anyone in a long time, and had never hired a housekeeper. What do you ask one? "Can you keep house?" That sounded trite. She wasn't any sort of man, handy or otherwise, and he wondered about that a little bit. "Can you paint?", he finally asked, somewhat pitifully.
"Mister, let's get something cleared up right away. I am so desperate for a job, any job, that I will claim to be anything from a painter to a brain surgeon to get this job."
"I don't think I need any brain surgery right now, but I do need a lot of help cleaning and then painting this place. Do you want to do that?"
"Yep." Lucy said. "I want to do that."
He couldn't think of anything else to say. He wondered how much he should pay her. He wondered if he should be making breakfast, or what. "When can you begin?"
"If it's all right with you, I already have. Breakfast in half an hour. Then we'll make plans. Can I stay around here somewhere? It's a long commute from Cramer, and I don't have anyplace to live there anyway."
"This is a hotel", he smiled at her, "Or used to be. You'd think we could take on a guest. I sleep in one of the rooms upstairs. There are at least ten more. You can have one, if that's OK?"
"Perfect," she smiled, "Best deal I've been offered in quite a while. Now you go upstairs and get dressed and I'll get breakfast for us in half an hour." Charles noticed that she had a gleam in her eye that might have been a tear. He wondered if it was, and if it was, why she wanted to cry. But he went upstairs instead of asking.
Charles had always planned to eat at the hotel, and had bought groceries, but had no meals planned. He had bought what seemed necessary at the time, milk, bread, butter, eggs, salt, pepper. All things of a general nature that he could think of while in the grocery store. But so far, meals for one, with him cooking, hadn't worked out at all. When he came back downstairs and walked into the kitchen, he was pleased to see that Lucy had turned some of his groceries into breakfast. A real breakfast. With plates and glasses and paper napkins and all the rest. He was actually going to have breakfast in his own hotel!
Charles had never bought furniture before, but he was quick to learn. There wasn't much furniture in Cramer to look at, but the one store had catalogs and could order from them.
As the days passed, furniture arrived from far-away places in vans and was distributed throughout the hotel. Occasional chairs appeared in the lobby, bedroom furniture populated Charles' and Lucy's rooms, and two more rooms, just in case.
"In case of what?" Charles wondered.
He saw the value in the upstairs lounge/conversation area just to the right of the stairs between the corridors. It faced both the street and the prairie and a beautiful view of the mountains in the distance to the front and back of the hotel. Charles made sure it had comfortable chairs and tables in it. He planned to spend time there, enjoying the view and the quiet, writing in his journal. He had always wanted to keep a journal but had never had the time or the place for it. Now, he thought to himself, he did.
He hoped the curtains were all right. The sales clerk in Cramer had told him that every pattern he looked at was much nicer than all the patterns he had looked at before, and always seemed to cost a little more than the other patterns as well, he noticed. He had tried to enlist Lucy in choosing the curtains but she was having nothing to do with it. She didn't have any feel for it, she said, and didn't care. She wouldn't pick anything from the books he brought from the store in Cramer.
Paint was chosen, with some discussion, and painting proceeded, some each day,beginning with the upstairs. They changed rooms as the painting progressed until they each had a newly painted room. Then the painting moved downstairs into the café, kitchen, and lobby.
The outside took a lot more work. Lucy proved to be handy with carpentry as well as painting. Day after day she was up the ladders replacing boards, re-nailing boards, sanding boards and finally painting boards. She worked basically from sun-up to sun-down, while there was light. She also cooked and cleaned as possible.
Charles actually had some of the quiet and solitude that he wished for. At times, he even wondered if he really should be wishing for it. He took walks throughout the ruined town, picking one direction after another and walking from the front porch of the hotel until all signs of human habitation had disappeared behind him. He noticed a few locked doors in structures where a locked door was absolutely ridiculous. He didn't see any evidence that anyone other than he and Lucy lived in the town.
He spent time in the new lounge chairs in the second floor lobby looking out the front windows at the empty street.
He did research on the abandoned town he now lived in. It's name was Stranger. It had been a boom town for a short time. The town formed, grew to several streets and maybe a hundred or so buildings, and then became deserted, all in the space of about ten years. Someone had discovered uranium nearby, back when that lwas the thing to do if you wanted to get rich quick. When the town was built, there was money, but not much of it was spent in any sort of permanent way, and almost everything had disintegrated over the last 40-something years since the boom ended and everyone left. It seems that no uranium was ever produced and the actual mine site could no longer be found. Charles was quite pleased with that information, and vowed not to look for it.
When he had reached the limits of habitation on his walk, he turned around and walked back to the hotel, following his steps in reverse so he wouldn't get lost. When he reached the hotel he would get a can of pop from the kitchen, sit in one of the parlor chairs upstairs and read. Lucy would find him there later and suggest diner. He always accepted her invitation and she would make sandwiches. They ate simply.
Lucy made a report of her day's activities after diner. She apparently felt she should account for herself every day. She presented him with lists of the things they needed to continue the work. The lists had everything from rags to vacuum cleaners on it and were detailed enough for him to use when he went shopping in Cramer. Somehow it was always he who went to town every second or third day, leaving in the morning to arrive in Cramer when the retail stores opened up and back in the afternoon. He usually brought the local newspaper back with him, giving Lucy the opportunity to read it if she wished. As for himself, he was getting used to the idea that Cramer and indeed the entire rest of the world could continue without his attention to the events of the day.
It was on returning from one of his shopping trips that Lucy asked to see him at an unusual hour for her, the middle of the afternoon.
"Charles, I've found something you should see. Would you mind? It's at the end of the hall on the second floor. Did you know that the last room on the right is locked?"
"I vaguely remember something like that. I remember I couldn't open one of the guest room doors. Don't we have a key for it? I thought we had a pass key for all the guest rooms."
"Not this time. The door is bolted from the inside."
Charles thought. "But that can't be. That would mean that there is somebody in there. But there isn't anyone here but us. And whoever is in there has been there for two months now, at least. And that would mean...."
"Hold on, boss, there might be another way in and out of the room. In fact, I already thought of that and looked around behind that wing of the building. I want to show you what I found."
They went outside and around to the back of the hotel. Lucy pointed to the wall leading up to the window of the locked room at the end of the building. At first Charles saw nothing, then Lucy pointed out a strong nail driven into the wooden siding so that an inch and a half stuck out. Above that there was a small piece of siding cut out, just about two inches across and an inch and a half high, then another nail above that. At first Charles still didn't see what it all meant. Lucy explained that someone had been using the room, getting into it from the outside.
Charles stared in amazement at the wall and then at Lucy. Then his head started working. He could see what Lucy saw, but how did Lucy see it? He asked her that.
"Boss, you've never asked me anything about my past. I still can't get over how utterly trusting you are. Anyway, my past includes experience in things like this. Now that you've seen this, do I go up there and see what's in that room?"
"Well, I'd never make it. If you don't think it's too dangerous. I mean, what if someone is in there right now? And it looks like a very scary climb up that wall. What can you hold on to?"
"Whoever did this is probably long gone, and if he got in this way, I can get in this way." Charles had never seen this side of Lucy before. He had never thought that of himself, even when he was much younger. The simple confidence that if it had been done, then Lucy could do it. He asked her to be very careful and gave permission.
Lucy stepped on the first nail with her outside booted foot, lifted herself up the side of the wall to her full height and looked around. "See, boss, here's a handhold. There's a piece of wire nailed to the wall here. I can put my other foot into the toe-hold in the siding."
And up she went, pausing after each move to plan the next. When she got to the window she pushed it open and climbed over the sill, disappearing for a time into the darkness of the interior. Then her face appeared in the window.
"It's empty, boss, there's nobody here. I'll unbolt the door to the hallway and you can come in."
Charles walked around to the front, up the stairs, down the hall and into the room. Lucy had turned on the ceiling light.
"What now, boss? Do we search the place?"
Charles stood in the doorway and nodded his assent. Lucy went methodically around the room, working from right to left, and looked at everything. There were clothes in the wardrobe, on hangers and piled on the floor. They were all dirty and all rags, with the deep-down dirty that doesn't wash out. She laid out a pair of the pants and shirt on the floor. From the lables, she learned that the pants had a 32 inch waist and 28 inch inseam. Whoever wore them was short. An equally filthy sleeping bag was unrolled on the wire springs of the bed frame with a blanket folded under it. She found $50 in small bills in a fold of the blanket.
"I can see that someone has been living here," Charles ventured timidly, "Man or woman?"
"Man, probably. I don't see anything I would call feminine here yet."
Lucy emptied out a black plastic trash bag on the floor. There were cans and empty boxes of soup, black banana peels and bits of orange rind, used tea bags, used tissues and paper towels, and other not immediately identifiable bits of trash.
"Not much here, is there?" Charles asked.
"What isn't here is as important as what is," Lucy said. "For instance, boss, this guy didn't drink, didn't use drugs, didn't even smoke that I can see. He lived very quietly, it seems. He was almost certainly a tramp of some sort. Homeless, for sure, and jobless. No pay stubs, no envelopes, no bills, no receipts, and not one shred of identification. He didn't get mail, here or anywhere else that he brought here. And you know what else is missing?"
Charles didn't.
"A backpack. Nobody but nobody lives like this without a backpack. His backpack is gone, his sleeping bag is here. He might have abandoned the clothes, clothes are pretty easy to come by, especially as small as he was, but he didn't just move on, he intended to come back here. Nobody walks away from $50 hidden under a blanket. He left, and he didn't make it back."
"And he hasn't been here since we moved in," Lucy continued, "I don't know how good your hearing is, but I haven't heard anything, and I can't believe anyone could be that quiet, and besides, the place looks long-time empty."
"Lucy, I think you are right about everything you said. But how do you know about all this? I would never have seen half of what you saw."
"Boss, I guess we need to talk. Let's leave everything here exactly as it is and go downstairs. I'll make dinner and then we'll talk."
Lucy locked the door, this time with the room key, and they went downstairs.
This day, after dinner, they sat down in the newly furnished lobby, and Lucy told Charles the story of her life.
"Boss, do you realize that in all the time I've been here, you haven't ever asked me one thing about myself. I don't think you even know my whole name. Do you?"
"No, and that bothers me some from time to time, but I seemed to have forgotten to check up on you after you appeared on your motorcycle and made my breakfast. And I've been paying you in cash since then, so I didn't need to know your last name. Besides, there are only the two of us here. How many names do we need in a case like that?"
Charles was lying through his teeth. He had looked at her motorcycle under the tarp in the shed one day and written down the license number and the vehicle number. On one of his trips to town he had run down the license, found the title information, and looked Lucy up on the Internet. Along the way, he found out that she was in arrears paying for the motorcycle and the beast was actively being sought by a collection agency for repossession. He paid off the loan, so Lucy now owned the motorcycle, but so far as he was aware, she didn't know that. The thing itself had remained in the shed behind the hotel since the day she arrived.
Her name was Lucy Louise Dupre. She was born on February 15, 1968 in Chickasha, Oklahoma to Mary Louise and Fred Dupre of Chickasha. She went to high school and graduated in 1986. Her yearbook photograph showed a tall, thin, gangly, dark-complected adolescent. She had graduated without distinction. She had claimed to be a waitress when she took out the loan for the bike.
He had two thoughts after he found all this out. He was going to have to tell her what he had done someday, and he really hadn't learned anything of any importance. What part of all that information, even the intervening criminal record and prison sentence, faithfully recorded on the Internet, was going to tell him if she was going to murder him in his sleep one night and steal his worldly goods? It's amazing how much information you can get on someone without learning anything really important about them. He hoped she was going to tell him something important now. He really liked her.
Lucy started out very simply, "My name is Lucy Dupre. I was born in Oklahoma. I'm 45 years old. I graduated from High School. It wasn't my idea, but a couple of good teachers wouldn't let me quit. They said I was smart, and weren't going to let me do a dumb thing like that. Then I left home. I've never been back.
My mother hated my father, and I think both of them hated me. There was always something wrong with me. My parents seemed ashamed of me all of my life. I think I've figured it out. I'm awfully dark skinned for having such pale parents. I know who my mother is, we lived in a small town and everybody knew everything, but I wonder if I really know who my father is, if you know what I mean? My father isn't really my father, maybe.
That wouldn't have gone over very well with my parents. They were strict Christians. The strict part was more important than the Christian part. We went to church every Sunday, and again on Wednesday night. I got the devil beaten out of me many times. I wonder now if it wasn't the brown skin they would have liked to beat out of me." Lucy paused and stared into the empty fireplace. Charles didn't interrupt.
Lucy started again, her voice now cold and hard. "I know that the less anyone saw of me outside of my house the better my parents liked it. I know that my parents never once set foot in my school for any reason whatever. I know they were very happy to see me leave home. I know that my mother has never written, and never answered a letter or replied to a card since I left home."
"I went to the big city to seek my fortune. That turned into just trying to find a job, but I was successful at that at first. I even learned a couple of trades, more or less. A career is any job you hold for longer than one year. I ran cable for a while, for a communications company. I even had my own assigned truck. Then my supervisor got mouthy, and I got mouthy back, and I lost that job. For a while there was always another job, installing cable."
Lucy stopped again and looked at Charles. He was looking out the window, into the gathering darkness. Then she took a breath, lowered her head and started again.
"Then I got into men. Or they got into me, whichever way that went. The men I got into got me into drugs, and then into selling drugs, and eventually into selling myself to get the drugs. I went to prison for selling drugs. I did 13 months of a 4-year sentence and got out on parole. The time in prison stopped the drugs, which also stopped the prostitution, at least for the time being. When I got out of prison I had a lot of temporary jobs. I did a lot of waitressing, off and on. Once I worked on a road crew holding a stop sign. Being from Oklahoma, I never minded sunshine. The highway outfit thought I was an Indian. I might be. Who knows?
I've always been a loner, never getting along with anyone, never making friends. That didn't help me either.
The past year I haven't had a job, really. I became all the way homeless, lived in shelters, begged."
Still not looking at Charles, but with a tiny bit of irony, Lucy continued.
"Then I met a man who would take care of me if I would stay with him for a while. He was a biker who wanted me to go off with him on a bike. I was so desperate by then that I took him up on it. That's how I got the bike, and why. But he didn't exactly buy the bike, I found out, and wanted me back into drugs to pay for it, and I wasn't going to do that."
"So three payments into the bike loan I took off east from Washington state and made it as far as Cramer in three months. I don't really own the bike any more. The collection agency will take it if they ever find it. Now that you know that, maybe I can drop it off in Cramer and you can bring me back here. We don't have to announce it, do we? I don't want to go back to prison for violating parole. But maybe you don't want me around anymore at all?"
"No, I suppose not", Charles said vaguely, "about the bike, I mean. We can leave it somewhere, I suppose."
Now Charles was truly trapped. If he left the bike somewhere it would be quickly stolen, and there was no need for that. It wasn't going to be repossessed now. He would have to tell her that. He did. He didn't want to, but he did.
"I have to confess something to you. I haven't been completely honest with you, Lucy. I looked up the license number of your motorcycle. I paid off the loan. It's your bike, free and clear. Has been for several weeks now."
Lucy stared open mouthed at him for a long time. They listened to the wind together. Then she began to cry silently. Tears ran down both sides of her brown face. Neither of them moved to wipe them from her face. He had no idea what to say, and thankfully he said nothing. Eventually, Lucy said, "Why did you do that?" It was a voice he had never heard from her before, sort of quiet and little-girl, and simply inquisitive sounding.
"I honestly don't know. It just seemed like the thing to do at the time. I was planning to tell you but for some reason I just couldn't. I don't know why I couldn't tell you, either."
"Charles," she said softly, "the only money I earned between the time I ran away from the guy with the motorcycle and the time I showed up at your doorstep I earned whoring. That's the part of my story I didn't want to tell you, but you went and did this, and never even told me about it much, less ask for anything in return. I can't pay you back. Not ever. Not for the bike, not for my self-respect, not for anything."
Now it was Charles who didn't know what to think or what to feel.
"Lucy you work hard around here. You've done wonders with the place. I couldn't have stayed here this long if you hadn't come along when you did. I was planning to give it all up and leave the morning you arrived. You're honest and smart and responsible and hard-working. I like you. You've made my life here possible, even happy. I know now that I could never stand to live here alone through the winter."
"I thought about putting the motorcycle in my name, but I don't want to own a motorcycle. I just wanted to get you out from under your money problems. Even simpler, I didn't want to lose you. I need you. I didn't want to think about you being in trouble. But someone had to own the motorcycle. That leaves you. You are doing me a favor by taking the thing off my hands."
Lucy was silent for a moment, taking it all in. Then, looking at Charles squarely in the face, she said, "That is the most crack-brained piece of logic I think I ever heard in my whole life. And while we are on the subject of crack-brained ideas, why do you want to live in an abandoned hotel in an abandoned town in the exact middle of nowhere where it is going to be colder than either of us can ever imagine in about one month and we will be cut off from the entire world for maybe weeks at a time? And don't tell me that you don't know!"
"I don't know," Charles said. "I promise to try to tell you someday, once I get it figured out for myself. But now that the old Lucy has returned, can I ask why we are having this conversation?"
"I just thought I ought to tell you why I know so much about the guy who lived in the room upstairs, so you will believe me when I tell you he will come back one day, if he is still alive. If we just report him missing, the local law won't pay any attention to us, and they won't spend any time looking for him either. So I say we do nothing, leave his room as it is for now, and expect him back one day. Unless he's dead somewhere.
And there's a couple more things I'm wondering that I might as well share. How did he get here? He didn't walk, it's 30 miles to Cramer. I haven't seen an automobile around here that has moved in something like years. There aren't any buses going down this road. So how did he get here? And how did he live here? There isn't any food here. There aren't any people here except us and I'm pretty sure we're not missing anything he could have stolen. And last, but not least, how in Hell did he get away from here even if he could get here and stay here?
Boss, even if we could answer the first two questions, I'm afraid we're still looking for a dead body somewhere close by, unless there are things about this place that we don't know about."
The motorist received no warning that he or she was about to come upon a hotel. The road was straight and the landscape was almost flat on one's way to Cramer. In fact, the small highway sign that announced that the town of Stranger was coming up had been lost some years ago, so there was no longer any indication that anything at all lay ahead. Then just the hotel itself, would appear suddenly beside the road surrounded by rubble and ruins. It was a strange sight to see, in the brief moment it was in view. It was exactly what Charles wanted. He spent time most afternoons on the second floor in the lounge at the end of the hallway, looking out the now-clean windows and drinking his coffee. There wasn't a great deal to see, which also suited him. He read books, and wrote in his new journal, and even tinkered with the idea of writing a story of some sort.
Lucy made lists of supplies to buy in Cramer. Charles ordered oil for the furnace and for the oil lamps. He also bought a couple of gross of candles, for when the electricity went out. He hoped he was being foolish, but a very tiny hope remained that maybe he wasn't being entirely foolish. He wondered about that second hope. They bought blankets and warm clothes.
Lucy made the supply runs more often now that she felt safe riding her motorcycle to Cramer. Baked goods appeared prominently on the table for breakfast and tea.
Charles wanted tea. He couldn't have said why. Tea was held at four o'clock most days, in the café downstairs. He bought an entire tea service from a catalog, which Lucy was very careful to set out every day, without having any real feeling for it herself. She just managed to keep a straight face with all the pouring and serving and fancy little plates and spoons and cups and napkins. They sat across from each other and drank tea and ate cupcakes and made small talk for a half-hour or so and then Lucy excused herself and went back to work.
Charles enjoyed afternoon tea, although he didn't know exactly why. It did add a touch of formality and orderliness to an otherwise perfectly bizarre lifestyle. It answered the question, "What does one do when one lives in an abandoned hotel in an abandoned town?"
Then one day they had a guest for their café.
* * *
Sergeant Darren Spaulding of the Wyoming Highway Patrol took a road to Cramer that he didn't often take. He tried to make the run to Cramer on the County Road once or twice a week, just to say he had done it, but doing it usually took him a half-hour off his regular beat. Today was the day, he decided, to take the road anyway. He wasn't due in Cramer until shift-end. There wasn't much to see on the County Road. He knew about the ghost town, of course, but the hotel was a new sight. He drove past it first, and then had to turn around to go back for a second look. He parked his cruiser across the road, gave the hotel with the newly painted signs a cool, professional look, walked across the street, pushed the front door open and walked into the lobby. He saw the front desk, and to the left the dining room with it's square Formica tables and white tablecloths, and to his right there seemed to be a lobby with a fireplace and stuffed chairs. The lights were on but no one was in sight and the only sound he heard was of a vacuum cleaner somewhere upstairs.
He was about to say hello when Lucy appeared coming down the staircase. She looked terrorized, both by the sudden appearance of a stranger and by the fact that the stranger was a cop. She recovered her voice enough to say "Good Morning," in what she hoped was a normal tone of voice. She even tried to smile, as she looked around for Charles. Charles was probably upstairs in the lounge. She wished he would come down.
The cop asked, "Are you open?" in a not-unfriendly voice. He had seen the terror in Lucy's eyes.
"Yes," she blurted, "Of course. I mean, I guess we are, We've never had a customer before. This isn't really a café. I mean, it really is a café, but we never expected to have customers."
Now the cop was uncomfortable too. He very much wanted to know what was going on here, he didn't know anyone was living in the abandoned hotel. He didn't know why anyone would want to, nor how they could do it if they did. But if this was a private residence now, he really had no business here. There was certainly no reason to think any criminal activity was taking place, and his job did not include terrorizing the residents, no matter how odd the situation looked. He wished he had knocked before walking in, but who knocked on the front door of a hotel lobby? The lobby door is open or it isn't, but you don't knock on it. That left him with very little to say. He thought maybe his first question was not entirely inappropriate, given all the signs out front, and followed up on it. And the lady had said that they were open, even if she didn't seem to know what that meant. He asked very gently if he could order a cup of coffee.
Lucy froze for a second or two, then smiled a little. She would be happy to serve the cop a cup of coffee. It took her a moment to realize that the cop hadn't come to arrest her for parole violation, and that he was uncomfortable in this situation himself.
She did pretty well, considering that they had never had a guest before. Coffee in a cup with a saucer, milk and sugar and a spoon all appeared as though she did it all the time and was expecting the lunch rush to begin at any instant. She reminded herself that from time to time in her spotted past she had really been a waitress. It just took a few seconds to remember.
Once the coffee was served, the cop felt the need for small talk. "So you just live here, by yourself? Do you plan to spend the winter here? It gets pretty bad sometimes out here. Sometimes this road doesn't get plowed for a few days after a big storm."
"Oh, I'm not alone. The owner lives here too. I help take care of the place for him. And yes, we live here, and we are planning to spend the winter here."
Lucy couldn't explain why they were there. She had accepted the situation for herself, but had never thought of explaining it to someone else, especially a cop. The cop was looking more and more puzzled as Lucy stumbled on. She finally had to confess that the owner was "eccentric," not to say completely mad, and wanted a hotel and a café here whether there were customers or not, and that she, Lucy, didn't know why he wanted to do that. The cop made a mental note to look this place up in County Records. The coffee, however, was quite acceptable.
"Well, I'm glad I stopped by. I'll come by again, from time to time, if that's all right."
"Absolutely! We're open for business, I guess you'd say, from, say, 7 am until 5 or so. I never really thought about that before. We've never had a customer before. We don't even have a menu!"
The cop was getting into the spirit of the thing now. "So how much do I owe you for the coffee?"
"I haven't the foggiest idea." Lucy smiled again. "I guess nothing. But do come back, whenever you're in the neighborhood. You're always welcome. I'll talk to Charles about a menu. He's the owner. Maybe we could offer meals, if we had actual customers. If you call first, I know I can make you a sandwich or something. It's a whole new idea! We have a telephone. I could write the number down for you."
The cop seemed pleased at that. Lucy was friendly and wasn't at all hard to look at. He said his name was Darren Spaulding. Lucy handed him the scrap of paper with the hotel's new phone number on it. Officer Spaulding responded by writing his cell phone number on the back of his official Wyoming Highway Patrol business card. As he handed it to Lucy, he said, "It gets lonely out here. If anything strange happens, call me on my cell phone, or call the office phone." Then he walked out and across the road to his cruiser. He looked back at the hotel, rising neatly from the abandoned rubble on either side of it, shook his head, and got into his cruiser.
Charles smirked from his observation point on the staircase behind the cop. He had slipped quietly down the stairs when he heard the voices. He was amused to hear Lucy try to explain to the patrolman what he had gotten her in to. He especially liked being considered eccentric, in place of insane. Lucy was very polite, and had a kind heart. He joined Lucy in the café, taking the seat recently occupied by the officer, admitted that he had overheard their conversation, and agreed that they would have to work on a menu and offer sandwiches, at least to the Wyoming Highway Patrol.
The nights turned cooler, and the days became shorter. The Highway Patrol Officer showed up at least once a week, calling ahead for his sandwich. His favorite sandwich made it's way to the top of the single-page menu Charles typed up.
In the days that followed, Charles thought from time to time how alone they were out here, Lucy and he. He thought about their missing homeless guest from time to time, but didn't say anything more about him to Lucy. He listened to the wind in the darkness and imagined he heard sounds. He imagined the homeless guy trying to climb the wall back into his room. He worried if Lucy had left the window latched or unlatched. He wondered if the guy was still alive, somewhere out there.
At teatime it came out. "Boss, I guess we gotta talk," Lucy said with resignation. She had exhausted every other possibility and would be reluctantly reduced to speaking, Charles said nothing. Lucy had timed this very carefully. It was the time and the place to talk. What else does one do at tea?
"I don't know how to do this. I don't ask for much. I owe you a lot. But I won't feel right if I don't say anything. About this, I mean."
"Well?" Charles said, in the softest, most disarming way he could.
"It's just that she's a damn silly kid, and she doesn't deserve what's going to happen to her, even if she is being dumb as a cactus. She'll grow out of it, if she gets a chance to."
"Ok. It's about a girl. I got that much. What else?"
"She's a runaway." Lucy paused. "She's about 20. She's living on the streets, eating in the homeless shelter, and just about to get hurt. I mean really hurt. Kids like her don't last long. I know." Lucy stopped again.
"How did you meet her?" Charles asked. "What exactly happened when you went to Cramer today? I suppose it happened today."
"Honest to God, boss, she was begging in the street." "Please, ma'am, can you spare any change?" "You're too young for this, kid. Go home!" "Wish I could", wistfully, "Really wish I could sometimes." "Want to come inside? Warm up? I'll buy you a doughnut." Pause. Gratefully, "OK. Thanks. Thanks a lot."
"Sorry boss. I know I shouldn't do that. But I've been there." Long pause. Lucy explained that the kid had run away from home, such as it was, about three weeks ago. She was sleeping on the streets and eating at the shelter and it was cold. The little dummy didn't think of that. It wasn't cold three weeks ago in California. "Boss, I want to help her."
Charles was pretty sure he knew the answer already, at least in general terms. But he asked anyway, "How?"
"I want to bring her here. Just for a couple of days. Until I can find out who she is and where she is from so I can send her back there. I'll take the responsibility for her. If I leave her there she will be either dead or one of them in no time. She has even less street smarts than I did when I was out there, and that's pretty close to none."
Well, there it was, Charles thought sarcastically. The hotel had a new name "Homeless Haven". His happy isolation was to be overrun with hobos and bums. He did not like what he was about to do one little bit. He hardened his face.
"Go get her. I assume you can. Bring her here. Put her in one of the rooms. Don't show her to me until she is clean and fed and rested. Get her clothes if she needs them. Take money. Go."
That was on a Monday afternoon. On the following Wednesday morning, the newcomer was duly presented to Charles at breakfast. Lucy introduced her as Beatrice Gable. Charles rose and offered his hand. "Charles Hanford" he said. "Please sit down." Beatrice sat down. There was a pause. Beatrice began babbling. "I don't know what to say," she said, "Lucy has been so nice to me. But where am I? What is this place? I mean, it's like heaven compared with Cramer, but I don't understand. Why is this happening? Who are you? Why are you being so nice to me?"
Charles held up both hands to stop the flood of nervous chatter. "I'm not going to be able to answer all of your questions. Some of them I don't know the answer to myself. For right now, you need to know that I own this hotel and that Lucy and I live here. I'm not sure I know why I live here. Lucy, I'm afraid, lives here to take care of me. Now talk slowly, and tell us all you can about yourself. Lucy has made biscuits and there is coffee. Take your time. I'm not in a hurry. I'm rarely in a hurry anymore."
Beatrice took a deep breath and told Charles her story. Or at least some of it. She was 20 years old. Well, almost 20. She had most recently come from California. Her parents were awful. They drank. They fought. They abused her. Charles wondered what that meant, but he didn't want to ask. She couldn't take it any more and ran away. She found out that that didn't solve anything, it just made it all worse. She had no skills. No one would hire her. She had no money. She had no friends. She had no home. The Army wouldn't take people with no address. Nothing had gone the way she thought it would. She was desperate. She would not go home. She would rather die first. Lucy had told her that that was a real possibility, or worse, and then die. Beatrice had worked herself into a state of sobs and tears.
Charles waited patiently for it all to subside. Then he said quietly, "You can stay here for a little while, anyway. I will probably regret it. You can help Lucy. Lucy does the work of three around here. Maybe you can cut that down to just the work of two. Can you wait tables? Or whatever is involved in a café?"
"I've never done that. But I can learn. I'm sure I can learn. Lucy can show me."
"Lucy doesn't know how to do it. And she hates it. She only does it to please me. You will be doing both of us a favor if you can learn to do it. Can you make a sandwich?"
"I'm sure I can! I mean, sure, I've done that. " Beatrice seemed very pleased to be able to answer a question with "yes".
"Good. We'll start there and work our way forward from that. Lucy can show you what she does. Can you run a cash register?"
Lucy broke in, "Boss, we don't have a cash register."
"Then get us one the next time you go to town. If they don't sell them there, let me know and I'll order one. We ought to have a cash register. Someone might want to pay for something sometime."
"Right, Boss," Lucy said laconically.
Charles did not take the bait. "When it gets here, read the manual. You can practice selling things to each other. Buy a book on how to run a café. Sell the hotel to each other. Can you play the piano?"
This last question was directed once more to Beatrice. She looked astounded, once again, and said "No", then changed her answer to "Maybe. A little."
"Just wondering." Charles said, pensively. He was sure Beatrice was too young to know about Casablanca with Sam, the black piano player, but he had some hope for Lucy. Apparently she had never heard of it either. He was too old for jokes like that, he told himself. No, he wasn't too old. They were just too young. He felt better, thinking that way.
Days passed. Lucy showed the new hire where things were and what to do with them, or rather, how to do what Lucy did with them.
One day Beatrice said, "Lucy, can we talk?" They sat down. "I ask you, please, to tell me what is going on around here? What is this place? And don't tell me it's a hotel with a coffee shop in it. I can see that. But its,... It's in the middle of nowhere. There are no people here? Does anybody besides me see that? There are no customers. There is no town here. We are out in the middle of Wyoming on a country road going nowhere in either direction in the winter time. We haven't had a customer since I got here. No one ever stops. Is everybody crazy?"
Lucy smiled. "Probably. Look, Beatrice, you've been here, what, five days altogether. I've been here almost 4 months. If it makes you feel any better, I don't know much more than you do. Charles, the boss, bought this place and was living here by himself when I applied for work. He wants it to be what it is. He needs help doing that. I help him, and in return I have a place to live. A nice, safe, comfortable place to live. I wasn't a whole hell of a lot better off than you were when I came here. I know it looks crazy to you. It looked crazy to me when I first came here. It probably is crazy. But it's also a damn sight better than what I had, and so I don't try very hard to make it make sense. It's quiet here. I can do a lot of thinking. I have good feelings about what's happening, even if I don't know what it all means. I'll tell you this much. Charles is OK. Crazy, but OK. Tell you what. If you get tired of the loneliness of it all, I'll take you back to town. You can have everything just like it was when you left it."
"So I get to choose between crazy, violent and sick and crazy, safe, and friendly." Beatrice paused. "I pick crazy, safe, and friendly. At least for a while. Do you need me for anything?" she asked, "I need to think."
Lucy smiled. "No, you go and think. Talk to me later. I'll have something for supper about six."
Beatrice got up. "Thanks." She walked out of the kitchen and up to her room. Her door closed quietly. The silence returned, which meant that only the wind could be heard, quietly, outside the hotel.
At supper, looking from Charles to Lucy and back, Beatrice asked what she was supposed to do, what her duties were to be. Charles looked at Lucy. Lucy told her that she, Lucy, started out about 6:30 with breakfast, and that Beatrice would be welcome at that time in the kitchen.
Beatrice had decided, at least for now, to take the situation for what it was. As the days passed, She got into the spirit of the thing. She asked for and received a waitress uniform, with cap and apron. She even had a plastic name tag to pin on the front. It said, "Brigitte".
Charles noticed it at breakfast. He was curious, and asked about it. "I've never liked my name. Since nobody here knows me, I can change my name if I want to, can't I?"
Charles said, "Of course you can. I think a waitress named Brigitte really adds class to the place."
Lucy said, "OK, Brigitte. Brigitte it is." She looked around the room, and out the window at the rubble with the prairie behind it. This place was Alice-in-Wonderland any way you look at it. Why not change your name? Of course, there might be some other reason for wanting to change your name, too, she thought.
As the days that followed turned into weeks, attitudes changed, and with them roles. In a way, life at the abandoned hotel became stranger by the day, but in a kind and gentle way. Brigitte took over the kitchen and became the hotel chef. Lucy, spared from that, became head of housekeeping. Charles drifted away from active participation in the daily routine and became the only guest as well as the owner. It was generally accepted that Lucy was the manager of the hotel. Brigitte was responsible for everything meal-related, and Charles took responsibility for admiring everything and adding a certain sense of class to the operation. He wore nice clothes, his shoes were polished, and he had on a coat and tie for all meals. He seemed to enjoy all of this very much, interfering with the operation as little as possible and then only to agree to some new expense or purchase.
Brigitte learned quickly, proved to be able to read a cookbook and follow the directions found therein. Meals were served now in the freshly starched dining room instead of the kitchen, and over time they improved in quality and variety. The café looked like a café at least two times a day and sometimes three, when Brigitte served breakfast and lunch.
Charles was pleased with the meals and the new atmosphere. He seldom went into the kitchen any more, preferring to think of himself as a patron of the establishment rather than as the owner. Lucy escaped the cooking, serving and cleaning up as quickly as possible, and was now engaged in installing an in-house telephone system at Charles' request with an automatic switchboard and phones all over the hotel. There was snow on the ground now. Show that didn't melt. The road was kept clear by the wind. There had not been a snowfall that required plowing yet.
They still had their single outside customer, the Highway Patrolman who dropped by once or twice a week for his complementary pie and coffee. He seemed amused by the uniformed waitress in a café with no customers, but did not say anything. He saw stranger things than that every day on his job, but nothing quite as innocent as this scene. There never was a car parked nearby. The hotel owned a white van they parked at the front but nothing else that moved or had moved in decades.
There was nobody staying at the hotel and no activity, recent or otherwise nearby. Charles was just some sort of rich eccentric who chose his lifestyle, as one could do if one had as much money as Charles had. The Patrolman had, as a matter of routine, run the plates on the van and looked at the tax papers on the hotel. They had all come up very clean indeed. Charles was not wanted by anyone, anywhere. The van was not missing from anywhere, and Charles owned the hotel in fee simple. End of story. And the pie was very good!
Then one cold and windy morning a dark colored sedan pulled up in front of the hotel and a smart-looking woman got out and went purposefully to the entrance. She went inside.
Brigitte had just cleared the breakfast dishes and was setting the table for lunch. The café looked very nice that day, now that it had a regular full-time waitress. There were flowers on each of the six tables. Each table had a white table cloth and folded napkins on it. The stainless steel place settings and crystal water glasses gleamed. Brigitte looked resplendent in her new uniform. The room looked like a real café. The newcomer thought so too, and took a table without any hesitation. Brigitte was about to explain that the café wasn't open, and that it wasn't a real café. The other woman spoke first.
"My name is Felicity Parker and I'm with the County Health Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."
Charles had just retired upstairs from breakfast and had seen the car pull up from his vantage point on the second floor lounge. He wondered what it was about, but thought he would let his new staff handle it, at least until he was called on his new phone system. It would give them something to do, he mused. Then he had a second thought and went down the hallway and down the back stairs out of the building, coming around to the front without being seen. He look ed more closely at the car and wrote down the license plate number. Then he went back inside the way he had come to wait for events. He did all this more out of habit than with any real plan in mind.
Whoever it was remained downstairs and apparently talked to Somebody, Lucy or Brigitte, for some time, then she left with the same purposeful demeanor she had worn when she arrived, driving off in the direction of Cramer. Her tracks looked lonely in the light snow cover.
"That was the County Health Department Investigator," bubbled Brigitte, when Charles came down the stairs a minute later. "She had a lot of questions. She wanted to see our license and our current inspection report. We told her we didn't have any thing like that. Then she wanted to look at our kitchen. She looked in all the cupboards and in the refrigerator. She even looked out the back door. She didn't say anything, but she seemed satisfied and went away."
"Yeah, she went away," confirmed Lucy, "But she was much too easy to satisfy. I know those people. They don't investigate without finding something. She may have acted satisfied, but I'm not."
"She sure had nice clothes. That outfit cost money."
"A very cool, confident woman, that was. But I still wonder what she wanted. Funny thing, she never asked to see the owner. She didn't do much inspecting. No papers to fill out. They always work from a list of things to check off. She didn't have one. She didn't ask nearly enough questions. She took everything we said at face value. That isn't like those guys. We stand there, in what is obviously a café, with Brigitte in her uniform, and say we have no menu, that we are not a business and don't sell anything, in spite of the cash register sitting on the counter. And she buys it with a nod and a smile and walks out. Not normal by a long shot. Where were you all this time, by the way, Charles?"
"Out front, writing down her license plate number." Charles said with a small smile. "I'll see what I can find out from that."
The incident had given Brigitte some good ideas, however. In the days that followed, she asked Charles if she could write up a menu. She used the argument that she had already made the place look a lot more like a café than it had when she first came, and that Charles seemed to like that, so why not have a menu, too? They didn't exactly need a menu, but it might come in handy sometimes in meal planning and it made the place look just that much more like a café. Charles went along with the scheme and soon there were a dozen menus in plastic and vinyl covers on the counter of the reception desk. They offered cold sandwiches and drinks, and the café now had a name.
Brigitte's first suggestion, "Charles' Place", with the apostrophe, just like her old English teacher had taught her, was turned down flatly by the Charles for whom it was to be named. "Think of something else," was his only and final word on the subject.
So it became just "The Tea Shop" until a better name came along. Since it wasn't a real café, it could have a different name every week, and did for several weeks. Charles and Lucy looked at the menu every morning at breakfast, not to select their meal, but to see what the name of the café was that morning. Along with a new name, the menu items now sported prices. Charles asked what that was about, since they really weren't a business. He wanted them taken off. Brigitte said that since they had menus and a cash register, they might just as well have prices, just in case a real customer came in. She chose the prices to go with the latest title of the café. If it had a ritzy looking name, it ought to have higher prices, she said.
Charles told them that a business required a license. They had been getting by with it since they didn't charge anything, but if they started taking money they would have to have not only a license but a real health department inspection and that might cost a lot of money. And whatever was the point, since they didn't have customers, and he, for one, was pretty sure he didn't want any.
But Brigitte was bored with an empty dining room and only three meals to make for lunch, and said so. And why couldn't they be a real café? Could Charles at least find out what a license would cost? And see just how hard it would be to pass a health department inspection? And Besides, she said with a certain new-found pride, her café wasn't dirty and her food was top quality. She wanted to know just why her café wouldn't pass an inspection. She had seen far worse ones that had.
Charles wasn't nearly so sure of it. He had seen more of the world than young Brigitte had. He asked Lucy what she thought about the idea.
"Boss, I kinda agree with Brigitte on this one. Why can't we give it a try as a real restaurant? I'm sure I can do whatever it takes to bring the place up to code, and I feel silly telling our suppliers that we are only playing restaurant. Our suppliers all think I'm crazy, and they only play along because I'm paying cash. I don't tell them about you, so they think I'm the one who's nuts. Can't you at least see what we would need to do to get legit?"
Charles saw he was outvoted, and that faced with such enthusiasm what could he do except find out? And in the space of a few weeks the place had a license to do business in the state and in the county. The health inspection was another matter, but since they only made sandwiches, that too proved not to be too difficult. The real inspector came in a suitable county-plated car. As Lucy had predicted, she had a list. She inspected, found faults, gave instructions as to how things were to be the next time she came, made everyone aware that she would be returning to be sure the things she had required had been done, and left a copy of her report, which had to be posted in a public place. They would be billed by the Office of the Treasurer in due course. Charles thought that the part about the public place was funny. They decided the back of the swinging door to the kitchen was public enough. "There is more of the public in the kitchen than there is in the lobby," he said.
On the matter of the inspection by the other County Health Department, a funny thing happened. Charles asked if they would be sending Felicity Parker to do the inspection, as she had been there once before. It seemed that no one named Felicity Parker was or had ever been employed by the County in any capacity. Charles almost knew that already, the sedan had been rented. Since when do county vehicles have non-exempt licenses, and since when does the county rent cars? He could have pursued the matter a bit further by visiting with the rental agency, but hadn't. He could always do that later if he needed to. "So who was Felicity Parker, and why did she want to look at his kitchen?" Charles mused.
"Lucy, I know that guy. I can't go back in there. I met him when I first got to Cramer. He asked for me just now. He asked if Beatrice was here. I don't want to see him. I can't go back in there."
Lucy peeked through the window in the swinging doors at the customer. He was a tanned, blond young man with the build of a swimmer. He had already seated himself at one of the tables. She put both hands on the handle of her vacuum cleaner and looked directly at Brigitte. Then she smiled. "Sure you can. The guy doesn't recognize you. He's looking for someone else. He's looking for the girl you used to look like. You don't look like that anymore. Besides, your name is Brigitte. It says so on your name tag. I think it's funny."
"How can you be so sure he won't recognize me? He talked to me one time. He has to remember that. You don't know him. He's a creep."
Lucy looked at Brigitte. "I know men. I remember what you looked like when you came here. He won't recognize you. Now go back in there and play restaurant with him. I'll keep an eye on the situation from here. I think I'll even invite Charles down. We could use a little larger crowd."
Brigitte took a breath, turned around, and walked back into the café.
The handsome young man spoke first. "Funny, having a restaurant out here in Nowhere, Wyoming. With a pretty girl like you here, you'd think there would be more customers."
Her voice under careful control, Brigitte responded. "We're just starting out. Would you like to see a menu?" She wondered which menu to show him. Did she even have one that was completely sane?
"No, thanks. Not necessary. I'll just have coffee."
Brigitte turned and walked to the coffee service by the kitchen door. She made up a tray and looked to see if Lucy was still there. She was. Brigitte felt better. She returned with the coffee.
Lucy called Charles on the intercom phone. "Boss, I think you ought to drop in down stairs for a cup of coffee. There's a guy in the café we don't like the looks of, and Brigitte could use some company."
"Gee, I don't know. Thanks for the invitation, but I left my wallet in my other trousers and besides, I've had all the coffee I need for a while."
"Boss, this might be serious."
"Be right down, Lucy."
The gentleman, now with coffee in hand, wanted a little more information. "So, who else is here besides you?"
"Oh, I'm not alone," Brigitte answered quickly, taking a step back. "The owner is upstairs. He might be coming down any minute." She glanced quickly at the staircase. "He usually does when we have a customer."
And right on cue, Charles ambled in, taking a seat across the room at a window. A relieved Brigitte went to his table, smiled a thank-you at him, and brought him a coffee. She turned to go back to the kitchen, but it didn't work. The gentleman called her over once again.
"Are you the only help? That must make for long hours. You live in Cramer? We could get together on your day off."
Brigitte faced him squarely from across the table. Coldly, she told him, "I don't live in Cramer. I live here. I seldom go anywhere. And I don't date the customers."
Apparently not put off by the rebuff, he nodded and asked, "Who else lives here? I think I saw a colored woman when I came in. Does she live here too?"
Brigitte thought quickly. "No. She comes in days only to clean. Charles, the owner, and I live here. Why do you want to know all this?"
He looked at her. Smiled. "So it's just you and, who is it? Charles, all by yourselves out here. Now isn't that cozy?"
On that note, the handsome young man got up, left a bill on the table and walked out the door.
The Waitress, the Owner and the Colored Woman watched the handsome man's car drive off towards Cramer. Charles asked, "What was that about?"
Brigitte answered quickly and not convincingly, "He was just a guy. All he wanted was a cup of coffee. I don't know."
Charles looked at her quizzically. "He looked like a swimming pool salesman to me. Did he try to sell us a swimming pool?" Charles smiled.
Brigitte looked from Lucy to Charles and back to Lucy, but didn't speak.
Lucy said, "Brigitte, you told me you'd seen the guy before. From the look on your face, I think you ought to tell us where that was and what happened. We're all friends here. It can't be that bad."
"It's a long story."
"Lucky for us, we have all night for it." Charles said. "In fact, we have all winter for it if we need it. So take your time. Go slow. Stretch it out as long as you can. How did you meet the handsome swimming pool salesman?"
"Why do you think he's a swimming pool salesman? He's a creep. I'm afraid of him. I just didn't want him to recognize me, OK?. I met him, sort of, at a truck stop in Cramer or just outside of Cramer."
She sighed.
"OK, so I got a ride to Cramer with a very nice truck driver in Los Angeles, who was going east and would take me as far as he went in one day. He also called the cops and reported me as a runaway, I found out. That's how I found out that nobody was looking for me. Nobody at all."
"That's sad," Charles said, "but do go on."
"The truck driver made it as far as Cramer. Then he threw me out and checked into the motel. He gave me money for a ride to Cramer and called a taxi for me. He really was a nice man."
"So where does the swimming pool salesman fit in?" asked Lucy.
"He was coming out of the convenience store when he saw me. I was waiting for the taxi at the curb. He wanted to know my name, and where I was going. Then he wanted me to spend the night with him at the truck stop motel. Just like that! He didn't even tell me his name! He said he would take me anywhere I wanted to go the next day. I've never been so scared in my whole life. I didn't know what to say. I was just frozen. I was even going with him to the registration desk when the cab pulled up. I ran to the cab and jumped in. The taxi drove off. I saw the creep looking at me as the cab drove off."
"But that's not quite all, is it Brigitte?" Lucy said in her firm voice. "That's not the only time we saw him."
"No. I guess not. We saw him again, Lucy and I, in a coffee shop in Cramer. He came in and sat behind me. Lucy could see him, but I couldn't. I recognized him when he walked past our table, and I think he may have recognized me, but he didn't act like it. In fact, I don't think he wanted me to see him. He looked sort of surprised. I didn't want to tell you, Lucy, that I had met him before, because of what happened."
" And then when he showed up here today, I recognized him again, but Lucy said that he wouldn't recognize me. You were right, Lucy, he didn't know me. He looked right at me and asked if Beatrice was here. I told him no." Brigitte said that with a small smile.
"So that's the big secret," Lucy said to herself, "The little one didn't want to tell me that some guy hit on her. Why do women think like that? A pervert hits on her and of course, she decides it's her fault. That explained some of the story," she thought, "but not all."
"Why do you call him a swimming pool salesman?" Brigitte asked Charles.
"He's a tall and handsome young man, with the bleached blond hair and athletic build that suggests long days on the beach. The blue eyes really add to it. A guy like that tried to sell me a swimming pool one time."
Both women looked at him silently, and waited. There had to be more. There was.
"I was working one day, and I walked into a business across the street from a house I was interested in. I wanted to know if the salesman had ever seen a real estate sign in the yard across the street. He managed to turn that question into an opening for a pitch for swimming pools. A real fast talker, he was. Not the same guy, of course, just the same looks."
"Boss, I don't like this." Lucy said darkly, "We keep bumping into this guy. He sees us in a coffee shop when we go to Cramer. He comes all the way out here to proposition a kid named Beatrice, then tries it out on Brigitte. But is that the only reason he stopped here? To proposition a waitress?"
Charles didn't know, and said so. He also thought of the woman from the Health Department, who wasn't from the Health Department. His little attempt at isolation was very interesting to somebody, it seemed.
After dark, the three sat in the overstuffed chairs looking at the fire in the lamplight and listening to the wind howl outside. Brigitte, who was from sunny California and had never been in such a situation before, looked from one face to another expecting to see anxiety to match her own. She found none, Lucy from Oklahoma had seen much worse and Charles seemed to be enjoying the evening hugely. They didn't talk much, just listened to the wind and watched the flames in the fireplace twitch and flutter with the draft the wind made in the chimney. After an hour of this, they went upstairs to their rooms and to bed.
By the next morning the radio told them that the county road that served the hotel was blocked at the Cramer end, and impassable for fifty miles in either direction. The road in front of the hotel couldn't be seen at all. Snow covered all indications of the roadway. All they could make out was an open gap between the heaps of rubble on either side of the front of the hotel.
The effect was spectacular. Everywhere you looked there was white silence. Not a mark, not a footprint, not a tire track. The quiet could be felt. Lucy stood on the front porch in her fur trimmed parka and soaked in the feeling. She was warm and comfortable and absolutely alone for as far as she could see. Everything was still. The wind had stopped sometime in the early hours of the morning and the sky was now clear. The horizon dazzled in the morning sun.
Before breakfast, the hotel got a telephone call from the County Sheriff. Charles took it. The Sheriff told Charles that the county road which went by the hotel was blocked by drifts in many places, and would remain so for several days. The County plows were very busy clearing more necessary roads. Charles assured the Sheriff that the three people living in the hotel had made ample preparations for this event and that they would be fine for at least a week, and longer if necessary. Charles seemed quite surprised that anyone would worry about them The Sheriff said he was responding to a request from the Highway Department. Charles thanked the sheriff. The highway patrolman who came for lunch once a week was very considerate, he mused.
So there it was, Charles mused, isolation at last. Now that it had arrived, it was just a little frightening to think about. What if someone got hurt or sick? They wouldn't freeze, and they certainly wouldn't starve. It was hard to say exactly what he was feeling. It would be very difficult for anyone with evil intent to get to them, or at them, depending on how one meant it. That was what snowbound meant, didn't it?
Charles decided the appropriate behavior in these circumstances was to begin a good book. A book that one has meant to read for a long time but never quite got around to. He looked in the library in his lounge at the top of the stairs and found such a book. In fact, he found several such books. He chose one, sat down in a chair facing the snowy landscape out the back window and thought about being snowbound and reading a good book, between naps.
Brigitte was not napping. Brigitte was uncomfortable. It was time to do something. It was, more specifically, time for her to do something. She had been happy just being in the hotel.
When she arrived the whole setup was so completely unbelievable that she just took it as it came, did what was in front of her that she could do, and slowly noted as the days passed that she wasn't being hurt any more. She was gradually getting over the idea that she had to be afraid of everyone and everything. She was getting used to the idea that this place, strange as it certainly was, didn't have any malice in it. And the people, although certainly not like any she had ever had any contact with before in her admittedly short life, were not scary and meant her no harm. She wasn't entirely there yet, but it was coming.
It was just easier to respond to the other people talking to her as though those things that she saw and heard were exactly as they appeared. No matter what went on in her fearful mind, a request for two fried eggs was nothing more than a request for two fried eggs. It didn't have any secret connection to yesterday's order of eggs, and it didn't have a secret comment on whatever else was on the menu. In fact, there was never any sort of verbal violence in what the people said to her at all. They simply said things. The things they said were simple and real. There was no harm in what they said, and no evil in the people who said them.
Having decided that there was no danger in their currently confined situation, she took the occasion for her first attempt at organizing the kitchen. It seemed to her that everything in the kitchen was exactly where it had been set down when it first came through the doorway, with no thought at all for how things ought to be arranged. So she arranged it, bit by bit, vaguely expecting someone to come in and tell her not to do it that way. But nobody did, she noticed. In two hours, she had moved almost everything she could move by herself to somewhere else. Once finished, she looked around at the now organized kitchen with great pride. She had done it, she thought. She knew where things were.
Meanwhile, Lucy had put on her parka and taken a walk around the building, stopping from time to time to admire her own footprints in the snow. She lifted her head and looked at the snowy desolation that was the ghost town. "We really are isolated out here," she thought. "Anybody out there now is in deep trouble."
She thought of the homeless man who had lived in the upstairs room, but he was surely long gone, and likely dead. She and Charles had looked through the rubble of the ghost town pretty thoroughly, finding no sign of any other human being living there, past or present. She wondered how he had ever lived in that room. There was no way to stay alive here without transportation to Cramer, or somewhere, and money. You couldn't subsist on public charity in Cramer and live in an abandoned hotel 30 miles away. So how had he done it? What was missing, that used to be here, that could explain how, and why, he had lived in that room? She didn't suppose it mattered, but all the same, she was curious, and she kept looking around. This place had a lot of the past, she thought, even abandoned vehicles, parked here and there now almost buried in the snow. She looked from one to the other of them, stepping in the deep snow in front of each one. Then she found one car a little different from the others. It was newer than most of them. On closer inspection, it looked like someone was still in the car.
There was someone in it! She opened the rear door against the snow and found a man laying on the rear seat. He was unconscious and it was all she could do to pull him out of the car. She dragged and carried him back to the road and then back to the hotel. He was cold. He was very cold, but he was still breathing. When she got to the hotel, she was exhausted. She yelled as loud as she could for help and Brigitte came running. The two of them carried the unconscious man up the last few steps into the hotel.
"Go get Charles," Lucy said, "He'll warm up on the couch, I hope."
Charles came, but said nothing. He sat in one of the leather chairs across from the couch and watched Lucy try to keep the frozen newcomer alive. She covered him in blankets from one of the bedrooms upstairs.
Lucy said, "He'll come to when he warms up, I hope. Then I'll try to give him a little water. Then we'll see."
"Where did you learn how to do all that?" Brigitte asked with wonder in her voice.
"What gives you the idea that I know what I'm doing?" Lucy responded. "I have no idea whether I'm doing the right thing or not. I'm just trying to warm him up and hoping for the best."
They waited. More than an hour passed without the man moving. When his eyes opened, he looked around him at the three faces and said so quietly he could hardly be heard, "I'm cold."
"I'll bet you are." Lucy said. She put her face directly in front of his and said, "You'll feel better now. You are with friends in a safe place. Would you like some water?"
Without waiting for a reply, Lucy held a coffee cup filled half way with warm water to the man's lips and got a little bit down his throat. He caught on quick and drank more, emptying the cup. Lucy handed it to Brigitte to refill.
After the second coffee cup of water, the man fell back asleep. Lucy and Brigitte took turns with him all night long.
"Get a plastic chair from the front porch,"
Brigitte disappeared instantly, reappearing in less than a minute with one of the plastic chairs and after a quick and professional job of removing his clothing, they sat the man on the chair in the shower stall. "I've never seen anybody that dirty," Brigitte said, "Or smell that bad. Not in my whole life."
"I have," Lucy said in a low voice, "But I'll admit not often. That's why we have to clean him up. Can you do it? Can you help me do it?"
"Yeah, I can do it." Brigitte replied, not sounding the least little bit like Southern California.
The water revived the man, but only slightly. He allowed the women to soap him up and clean him. When they had finished, he stood up so they could rinse him off. That accomplished, Lucy put him back into the chair.
"He really isn't much bigger than I am." Lucy said. "You dry him off while I go get some clothes. His clothes go into a garbage bag and somewhere far away from the hotel as soon as we get him in bed."
A pair of jeans and a flannel shirt made him look more presentable. Socks completed the ensemble and the man was led back downstairs to breakfast.
Charles met the three in the dining room. He had succeeded in making coffee, but had not attempted anything further. Brigitte went to work and in half an hour, the four of them were eating. For the new man, it was the first real food he had eaten in weeks, he said. He said he couldn't really remember how long it had been. Since before the storm for sure, but he had run out of food before that.
After breakfast, Lucy and Brigitte led him back upstairs. "Your room, I believe," she said quietly, when they reached the last room on the right.
"Yeah," he admitted.
"We left it just as it was when we found it. I think you will be a little more comfortable in this one." She turned him around to the room across from his hideaway. "It has a bed in it, with covers and blankets. We'll be checking on you from time to time, and we'll talk after you have rested some. You must have quite a story to tell."
"Yeah," he said again. He fell on the bed, exhausted. The women made sure he was comfortable and would be warm. As the women were leaving, he mumbled, "Thank you."
Brigitte looked in on the new arrival a couple of times in the morning and again in the afternoon. She went upstairs to see if he wanted lunch, but he was still asleep. At dinner time, she went to get him. She knocked softly on the door. No answer. She knocked again, then said softly, "Harry? Are you awake?"
"Yes."
"Can I come in?" She pushed open the door and stuck her head in the doorway.
Harry looked better, if a little strange in Lucy's clothes. He had gotten out of bed and was sitting in the chair, watching the snow fall outside the window in the light from the porch.
The man stared at Brigitte. He looked confused. She waited for him to answer. Finally, "Sure, Yeah. Come in."
Brigitte opened the door and walked in, "You're up! It's time for dinner. I made spaghetti. Do you like spaghetti?"
He paused again, apparently unsure of what to say. "I like anything. I'm hungry. But what.... Where am I? What's going on?"
"You don't remember? Lucy found you yesterday, almost dead, almost frozen to death, in an abandoned car. I don't know how she knew to look there, or how she knew to look for you at all, but she did, and it's lucky for you she did, because you wouldn't have been alive much longer. She carried you to the hotel and we've been taking care of you since then. And now it's time for dinner, so let's go. I can help you if you can't make the stairs."
Harry made it, with Brigitte's help, slowly and carefully down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, Brigitte steered him into the dining room. He seemed surprised to be sitting with the other people, but didn't say anything.
Brigitte went for the spaghetti and then everyone began. After a time, Charles asked Harry what his name was.
"Harry," he answered, "Really, Harry Smith, but everyone calls me Harry." Harry seemed surprised that anyone who didn't know his name would want to know it. Charles, having had such good luck with the first question, tried another.
"We know you were living in one of the rooms upstairs. How long have you been living in the car?"
"I don't know. Since before the snow came. I was afraid you would catch me in the house. I slept in the house for a while, but when you came I got afraid I would get caught, so I stayed outside almost all the time. Then the snow came and I had to stay in the car. Then I ran out of food and water. I don't remember much after that. I don't even remember how I got here from the car."
"Well, that's the end of our ghost!" Brigitte said, with a distinct note of dramatic tragedy. "What are we going to do now? I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I'm sure you are much better than a ghost, and besides, I'm sure we can find another ghost."
Harry just stared at Brigitte. Lucy and Charles smiled. Charles explained that when they discovered the locked and empty room, they thought they had a ghost, and that they pretended that maybe the hotel was haunted, and that they had been enjoying that idea.
Harry just stared, uncomprehending. "Is this a real hotel? But the town is empty. There aren't any people at all. Who stays in the hotel?"
"Well, we do," Charles said, smiling.
"And now, you do." piped Brigitte happily. "Doesn't he?" she looked at Charles.
"Well, we're certainly not going to throw you out in a snowstorm, but as for the rest, we'll have to see. Can you do anything? I mean, after you get a little stronger. Will you help out around the place?"
"Sure he will!" Brigitte almost shouted. "I'll bet he can do lots of things! Can't you Harry?"
"Yeah, sure. I can do things. I'll work hard." Then he remembered to be afraid and said, "But I can't stay here. They'll come back. They'll kill me. I have to go." Harry stopped. There was silence.
Charles asked, "Who will come back? Who will kill you? And how did you get here in the first place?"
But Harry was no longer talking. He looked from one to another of the people at the table, fear showing in his eyes, and wouldn't say another word.
Charles said, "Well, I guess that's enough for one evening. Nobody's going anywhere until some time after the storm passes. Please be our guest for that long at least."
"I've got to, I guess. I'll die out there. I can't go anywhere until it warms up. And then I don't know how to get anywhere. I'll stay here. I'll work."
Charles said, "Not for a day or so. You've had rather a rough time of it just lately, and will need a day or two of rest before you can do anything. Just relax and let Brigitte feed you and we'll talk again in a couple of days. And whomever you are afraid of can't get here either. The road is blocked in both directions and will stay that way for several days, maybe a week. Perhaps by that time we can think of something. Until then, you rest up and catch up on your eating. Brigitte is our cook now, and she'll get you back in good health for sure."
So Harry stayed. The first day, he didn't go out of his room except for meals. He sat for hours in the chair looking out the window at the winter outside, and inside the room at the walls and ceiling and floor. He tried to remember how to make his bed. He couldn't clearly remember the last time he had ever done that, but it looked better, somehow, once he had finished.
The second morning, after she had cleared away breakfast, Brigitte coaxed Harry out of his room. She wanted to show him the hotel, and he couldn't just stay in his room all day. She took him downstairs to the kitchen to show him where she worked, and made a huge discovery. Harry had washed dishes in a restaurant. He could even work the dishwasher. And what's more, he wanted to. He was very pleased to find something he could do. Both Brigitte and Lucy had identified the commercial dish washer installed in the kitchen, but neither had any idea how to operate it, and had washed everything by hand since they arrived. Harry said he would be happy to wash all the dishes.
Harry looked admiringly at the lobby with its large fireplace. "That's real nice." he said. "Not like it was."
Brigitte almost said something. Then remembering the conversation the first evening Harry ate with them, she remained silent.
On the fourth morning the plow came through, opening the road to Cramer. Brigitte immediately announced that they needed supplies and that she and Harry would go to town for them. She had another mission as well. Harry needed clothes. Brigitte loved clothes. It was a marriage made in heaven.
Charles watched the two leaving in the van for Cramer. He wondered if they would ever see Harry again. He would probably run away once he got to town. He wondered what Harry was frightened of, and whether his fears were real or not. He hoped Brigitte wouldn't be too disappointed when Harry escaped back into his world.
Harry didn't escape. When the pair returned from Cramer, Charles had a somewhat smaller fortune and Harry had an entirely new wardrobe, quite suitable for someone who worked in one of your nicer hotels. He also had a haircut and a shave and looked very different than he had when he left a few hours earlier. He was now quite presentable in his new attire.
The others wondered if they should take him a bit more seriously, since he now looked like one of them, and he, noticing the new attitude, took himself a bit more seriously. Harry had apparently decided that he would try to be one of them, at least for a while.
This occurred to the staff one by one, during the first week of November. It occurred to Charles first. He hoped that it would occur to someone else, and didn't want to make a request himself if he could help it. If the weather held, he could always invite the gang to a restaurant in Cramer, he supposed. He even hinted that to the staff, with reluctance. It wasn't what he wanted, but it might well be what he could get.
It then occurred to Lucy, but she was afraid that if she proposed it, she would become responsible for it, and she knew she would make a real mess of a big dinner even with Brigitte's help.
It occurred to Brigitte, too. The thought of it absolutely terrified her. She was the obvious staff member to attempt such a dinner. She had been doing meals for the staff almost since she arrived, but they had been simple, sandwiches and soup, mostly canned. She had cookbooks, but had avoided actually following recipes. But as the days passed, she became more interested in cooking. And then, one fatal day, she had organized the kitchen.
Lucy had many responsibilities already in the operation of the hotel. Charles certainly wasn't going to do it. He had already hinted that he would take everyone to dinner in Cramer on Thanksgiving. In desperation, she thought of Harry, for the merest second. No, Brigitte old thing, there isn't anybody else around here to do this but good old you. She concluded.
The really terrifying part of this conclusion was that she wanted to cook Thanksgiving dinner. But she knew, deep down inside, she had absolutely no idea how to do it, how to even start to do it, and neither did anyone else in the hotel. The only possible source of experience about anything like a dinner of this size was Lucy, and she knew Lucy hated cooking, and didn't think that much about eating, and wasn't going to help. If put on the spot, Lucy would elect to accept Charles's invitation. And that led straight back to the terror. Because, she, Brigitte, actually wanted to try making Thanksgiving dinner. The terror remained with her for the rest of the day.
After supper, at staff meeting in the lobby, while they were still drinking their coffee, she broached the subject to Charles, "Charles, I know you've offered to take us to dinner for Thanksgiving, but could I, I mean, do you think I could try to cook it here instead? You'd have to promise not to throw me out if it's awful, but I'll do my best." She paused, "Oh my God! That means bake a turkey! I can't do that! I've never even seen a turkey. I mean, to cook." She sputtered to a stop. The closest she had ever come to roasting a turkey was frozen turkey TV dinner.
"Excellent idea!" Charles chortled. "And you will most certainly roast a turkey. I've been hoping someone would step forward and volunteer. Lucy has been hiding from me for days, for fear I would suggest it to her."
"I have not been hiding from you, boss, but I admit I'm glad Brigitte has offered. I'm happy you are taking her up on her kind offer. And I wasn't planning to offer myself. I admit that."
Brigitte sat in shock, pale face even whiter with the realization of what she had just done. She looked from face to face, hoping for some extenuating circumstance, some limitation on her responsibilities, some hint at an alternative solution. She found none. She said, into the silence, "I'll do my best. We'll need a turkey, and potatoes, and God knows what else."
She sounded like a gladiator standing in the arena facing the emperor. "We who are about to die salute you."
After the staff meeting, Brigitte went alone into the kitchen. She sat at the small desk and looked over her domain, soon to become a battle ground. Tomorrow, she and she supposed Harry, would go to Cramer while the weather was good. She had better get out the cookbooks and start making lists of ingredients.
* * *
Tradition is an essential ingredient of a Thanksgiving dinner. The favorite dish, passed down through the generations must be prepared and served exactly as it was in the time of one's great grandmother. However, The staff at the hotel was made from cast off bits and pieces of other families. There were no honored traditions for Thanksgiving dinner. This was a blessing for Brigitte, for it meant that she could follow the cookbook without offending anyone. No one had any expectations. So she followed best practices as explained in the cookbook exactly as though they had been family tradition for at least the past hundred years.
Armed with a long list, Brigitte and Harry took the hotel van to Cramer. Once inside the largest supermarket in town, she glanced briefly at the frozen TV dinners, then marched resolutely towards the frozen turkeys at the back of the store.
She stared at each of them hiding her fear behind a look of fierce resolution. Which was the right turkey? How big a turkey should she take on? She was relieved to see instructions on the side of each of her frozen adversaries. The instructions explained how to cook the turkey and even went on to say what size turkey was appropriate for a given number of guests.
Feigning an indifference she did not feel, and glancing quickly to see if anyone was watching, she lifted one of the white monsters into her shopping cart. The weight so surprised her that she almost fell forward into the open freezer bin.
The next half hour filled the cart with vegetables, spices, an aluminum roasting pan, a thermometer, ingredients for pies, cans of cranberry sauce and the rest of the list. The list was long and she only hoped it was complete. The cart bulged out the top with everything. She almost burst into tears when Harry asked timidly if they were going to eat all that in one meal. She thought of putting everything back and revisiting the frozen TV dinner section, but something in the admiring look in Harry's face and the simple confidence in his voice stopped her. She had come this far. She could not turn back now. Harry trusted her. Onward! Victory or death!
Charles's money went into the cash register, the turkey went into the van, and the two culinary adventurers went back to the hotel.
* * *
Actual combat began early Thanksgiving morning. Some of what took place in the hours to follow is too ghastly to relate even now. But Brigitte fought bravely and well and in due course, the turkey was dressed, stuffed, and ultimately cooked and served. The gang reacted to the meal with loud praise for the new chef and her assistant, far out of proportion to the actual results. Brigitte's own feelings were much more conservative. She was really grateful, this Thanksgiving, that the meal had turned out as well as it had, and was very glad that it was all over. Harry showed his stuff with the dishwasher. He was turning into a real asset in the kitchen. Lucy thanked whatever gods she knew that she didn't have to cook. She had signed on to cook, she remembered, but only out of desperation and with the greatest reluctance.
Later that evening, after everyone else had gone upstairs to bed, Brigitte walked into the kitchen, her kitchen now, and turned on the lights. It was clean again and ready for the next adventure. She looked at the trash bin holding the skeletal remains of the turkey ready for disposal in the morning. With a small smile she lifted a fist over her head and gave it one pump. "Yes!" Then she turned out the lights and went to bed.
Lucy was close to a panic. "Boss, what do I do? We never had a guest before. We don't take actual guests. How much do we charge? I don't know how to do any of this!"
Charles spoke quietly but firmly, "Lucy, they are trapped by the storm. I watched them go by a half-hour ago towards Cramer. They got turned back, either by the Highway Patrol or by snow drifts. They are going to have to stay here in the hotel or freeze to death in their car. We have a room for them, don't we?"
"Of course we have rooms! We have five rooms ready, not counting Harry's," Lucy said proudly.
"So get $50 from them for each night. I think that's about right. It's cheap enough so we can't be accused of gouging them, taking advantage of the weather. I hope it isn't too cheap. Tell them it's the winter storm discount. Improvise."
Lucy walked behind the registration counter, trying to remember what the registration person had said and done the last time she had stayed in a hotel. The only thing she could remember clearly is that they always smiled. She hoped she could do that. She had no experience meeting the public, and this wasn't the way to start, she thought to herself.
The lady was short and maybe 60 years old. She had a permanent scowl on her face, as though she hadn't seen anything she liked in decades and didn't expect to see anything she liked today, either. She was expensively dressed, Lucy could see, and wore a pearl necklace that couldn't possibly be real. "Who drives through a Wyoming snowstorm wearing pearls the size of robin eggs?" thought Lucy. The earrings matched. They were large and looked glued to her ears. The effect produced by the whole arrangement was that of a frog in expensive clothes with a blue permanent wave. To Lucy, it seemed comical. It helped her keep her smile.
The man stayed back about one pace as they approached the counter. He wore a brown suit, with a brown tie with narrow gold bands. He had a brown, inexpressive face and very little hair. Lucy expected his name to be "Mr. Brown." She didn't expect him to have much to say. She turned her attention to the woman.
"Hello," she said through her smile, "Can I help you?"
The woman spoke accusingly. "The Highway Patrol blocked the road from here to Cramer. I suppose we will have to spend the night here. It's too far back to the last town. And it's dark and snowing. You do have a room?" It was more of a statement than it was a question.
Lucy forgot to pretend to look at anything to see if they had a room. There wasn't anything to look at anyway. She tried her best with the smile again and said, "Yes, we do. That will be fifty dollars." She immediately thought of a better response: "Do you have a reservation?" But she hadn't thought of it in time.
"May we see the room?", the woman asked in a firm, no nonsense voice.
May I see your fifty dollars? Lucy wanted very much to say that in her own very firm voice.
The hotel had room keys. Charles had found them in a drawer behind the registration counter. They had the old-fashioned plastic fobs that included the instructions "Drop in any mail box. We guarantee postage" with the address of the hotel on it. The address was "Grand Hotel, Stranger, Wyoming." Since neither the Grand Hotel nor Stranger, Wyoming legally existed, Lucy had idly wondered what, if anything, would happen if someone actually tried this, since neither the Grand Hotel or the town of Stranger, Wyoming existed any more. She, herself, had never used the keys, always using the one pass key that she had gotten from Charles.
Lucy took the key for room 5 from its hook on the wall behind the registration counter and invited the couple to walk upstairs to the room, hoping to see Charles on the way. She didn't. She opened the door to room 5 and stepped back. The couple stepped carefully into the room, woman first, Mr. Brown following, maintaining his one pace behind.
"Oh, God, why did we leave the Interstate," the woman said in a voice that would certainly move the Almighty to make some sort of arrangement immediately. Lucy poked her head into the room to see what was wrong with the room. It was clean, and painted, and didn't smell of the paint any more. It had a bed large enough for two people, and a chair and a little table with a lamp on it. There was even a picture on the wall. It was small, of course. All the rooms in this old hotel were small, but Lucy had worked long and hard on these rooms and if there was something wrong with one of them she didn't see what it was. This room was a lot nicer than some of the rooms she had stayed in. It even had a red rug on the floor next to the bed.
The horrified lady's husband, until then silent, said quietly, "I think, however, that we'll have to take it, my dear. There doesn't seem to be any place else to go."
Lucy stepped back into the hall to wait for her reluctant charges to make up their minds. She hadn't been raised in polite society by any means, but she never expected quite this from anyone. The couple walked back into the hallway and then they all silently walked back down to the reception desk. Lucy once more suggested a payment of fifty dollars. The man opened his wallet and handed over a credit card.
Now Lucy had used credit cards before, but she had never been called upon to take one for payment from someone else. She frantically tried to remember what happened when she handed her credit card to a cashier somewhere. They pulled it through a slot somewhere. Sometimes they typed numbers into a little box. Lucy knew she was stopped. They had no such slot. They had no little box. Improvise, Charles had said. Lucy looked under the counter and found a stack of three by five index cards. She picked up the top one and very carefully wrote down everything she thought would be important from the proffered credit card onto her index card. The couple looked at each other without speaking.
"Credit card machine won't work in a snowstorm." Lucy lied lamely. She found that it was very difficult to figure out what to do while one was lying one's head off about everything. She had forgotten how difficult dishonesty is in practice. She handed the copied credit card back to the gentleman and asked, "Would you like some help with your bags?"
"No, thank you," the woman said, "Fred can manage."
And Fred did. The woman took the key Lucy handed her and followed Fred and the bags up the staircase yet again. The lack of an elevator produced another appeal to the Almighty from the lady, seeking this time to know why this was happening to her. Having no option, they did manage the stairs, and apparently made it into their room. At least, that was where the call came to the desk from about one minute later. Lucy answered.
"There is no bathroom in this room!" a horrified female voice shrieked into the phone.
"It's down the hall, gentlemen on the right, ladies on the left." Lucy replied evenly. "The doors are marked. Let me know if you need towels or soap or something. I think everything you need is in your room."
The first deity having obviously failed in his duties towards his subjects, an appeal was now made to a second one, this time through Lucy's phone. "Oh, sweet Jesus why? Why me? Why now?" Lucy, sensing that the appeal was not being addressed to her, did not respond directly. "Don't hesitate to call again if we can be of any further service."
The phone went abruptly dead. Lucy smiled to herself, then laughed out loud. She couldn't wait to tell Charles and the others what had happened. Not having the faintest idea what to do with the index card laying on the counter in front of her, she simply left it there. It was just about supper time. She walked into the kitchen to tell Brigitte that there might be a couple of extra guests for dinner.
The Evansons did not come down for dinner. By eight o'clock dinner was over and all four of the staff were gathered in the lobby lounge in front of the fire. They could see the snow blowing past the windows in the light from the porch fixture, left on now in case some other lost soul was out there on the road in the storm. The oil lamps were burning in the four corners of the room and the fire looked especially inviting in the dim light. Each face stood out in the firelight from its leather chair. Lucy told her story of the Evansons, the heartbreak and the tears of having to stay in this hotel.
"They will probably be down for breakfast. I don't see them going without meals for very long, despite their disgust with having to stay here." Charles said, "By the way, just in case they ask," he looked at Lucy and Brigitte in turn, "we don't offer room service, Brigitte. They can come into the dining room with the rest of us. If this weather goes like the last spell, they will be here another two days at least. I wouldn't want them to starve to death waiting on a suitable restaurant to appear. Not much, anyway, I wouldn't."
"Charles," Lucy asked, "how do we take their money. We don't have a credit card account. At least, I don't know about it if we do."
"No, we don't. And I don't especially want one. We do have a bank account, however. I'll go to see the bank people when the road opens up and we'll see what we can do. I greatly fear that we are now really in the hotel business." Charles sighed. "I hope you guys don't mind. I see a lot of work coming our way, if this business thing catches on."
"I don't know anything about the hotel business," a worried-looking Brigitte said. "I don't know anything about being a waitress, or a cook, or anything. It didn't seem to matter when it was just us. But now..."
Charles interrupted. "We're all the same as you. We have no idea what we're doing. That doesn't bother me in the least. We'll learn. I think you guys are doing fine. Lucy, you were very good at the desk. You impressed me. You didn't seem to impress the Evansons very much, but I must say, impressing the Evansons isn't high on my list of priorities. Every time they say something critical, I'm going to look out the window and point to the weather. They'll get the idea sooner or later. And I intend to make a serious effort to get paid, just because I think it's the right thing to do."
Charles looked over at Harry. "Harry, are you finding anything you can do around here to help out?"
Brigitte piped up immediately in his defense. "Harry helps me in the kitchen, doing the dishes. Did you know we had a dish washing machine? Harry found it, and hooked it up. It even works! Harry washes the dishes in it."
"No, I certainly didn't know that." Charles responded, "I haven't thought much of the kitchen. I'm glad that somebody does, though. Good for you, Harry. Where did you learn about dish washers?"
"Everybody knows how to run those things. Everybody from the streets, anyway. I would work a day or so washing dishes in a restaurant sometimes. Just day money. I can help with the fireplace, too," Harry added. "I want to help out."
"Maybe you can help with the laundry. It's not difficult, but it does take time." Lucy suggested.
"Ever done any gardening?" Charles asked, laconically. The question sounded innocent, even vague. It wasn't.
"No." Harry replied emphatically.
"Good," Charles said, "We need plants inside and outside. Growing things, green and red and yellow things. In big pots, like a hotel. You can start with the inside as soon as the weather clears, and in the spring you can build some boxes and put plants in them for the outside."
"Mr. Charles, I don't know how to do any of that!" Harry looked terrified.
"Neither do I," Charles responded, "So I won't be giving you any bad advice, or trying to tell you how to do it. You have half of Wyoming to practice in. Make a few mistakes. We have lots of water. I think that's what you need. At least, that's part of what you need. That and dirt."
Harry looked at the two women. "Is he crazy?"
Lucy spoke quietly and confidently. "Very likely. I've thought that for some time now. But he means what he says. We'll get a plant and a book about how to grow them when we go to Cramer next. A book with picture,." she added.
"On another subject," Charles went on, disregarding Lucy's comment, "Brigitte, you were absolutely phenomenal this morning at breakfast with the Evanson's. Where did you learn how to do that? I was really impressed with your performance."
"I wish I could say acting school, but I never got that far. I was in the high school play, and that might have helped. I've been watching you and Lucy dealing with the Evansons and it just came to me to try something out on them myself. It was all an act."
"Well, it sure looked real to me."
Harry decided that it was time to poke up the fire, and everyone silently watched him do it. Once he had finished to his satisfaction, Charles spoke again into the refreshed firelight.
"I never wanted to own a hotel. What I thought I wanted was someplace to be alone. But that seems to be changing. The hotel seems to be growing up around me. Now that we've had a real guest, I'd like to know what you guys think of a real hotel, with a real café? It wouldn't be anything like an ordinary business, but if you want to, we could be a hotel and a café, even if it isn't a real business, in a business sort of way, I mean. What do you think?"
"Boss," Lucy said, "This hotel is the wrong hotel in the wrong place. It would cost more to make it modern that it would to build a new one from scratch. It isn't really a hotel at all. It's a used-to-be hotel that wasn't very successful when it was brand new. It was fun telling the Evansons about the bathroom down the hall, but it won't work for a real hotel. It makes the place into a flop house. And it isn't anywhere people would want to stop anyway."
"But I like it." Brigitte said. "An old, run-down hotel with bathrooms down the hall might be a flop, in more ways than just the one, a spiffy clean, freshly painted, well stocked, comfortable hotel with a really cheerful, fun-loving staff might be an entirely different thing. It might become cute, or even modish. People might come from everywhere just to stay in the hotel in the ghost town with the bathrooms down the hall. It would be exciting, and deliciously terrifying, maybe."
That brought on a new spell of silence. Charles looked from face to face. "They really want to do this." He thought. "Even Lucy, she is just trying to be honest about the problems we'll have."
"I could go along with that, Brigitte, but with a few provisos. I want to be careful here."
"The only reason anyone would come to the hotel would be if there were an attraction nearby. The main attraction here would be the complete absence of an attraction. No crowds of tourists, no souvenir shops, no bus tours. Just a lot of nothing at all for as long as you like. A new experience for those who have been everywhere and done everything. They could come here and do nothing."
"If this thing is to become the latest thing in innovative getaways, it will have to cost a lot more than $50 per night. Nobody would accept that small a price for the latest style in a vacation destination out in the exact middle of a deserted nowhere." Lucy said.
Charles put his foot down on that idea, however.
"Nope, we don't cater to the very rich, even it we think it might work. I have dealt with the very rich in my past life, and I won't do it again. I like being quirky. I insist on being very selective. I won't be a target for kids from Cramer looking for someplace to do drugs and underage drinking on weekends. I don't want to cater to sudden urges and whimsy, either. I want to select the clients before they invade my solitude. They must apply in writing to come here. Not on the internet. Not with a phone call. They write and we write back. Then they come. I don't mean to be impossible, but I don't want mayhem either."
"Boss, it's your hotel. But I don't see how we're going to do any of that. How do you let anyone know who we are and why they want to come here? Especially if they can't even stop in on their way to somewhere?"
"OK, they can stop. But they can't stay. They look the place over, we give them a brochure, and they make arrangements for later."
"What about the Evansons?" Brigitte asked.
"Except during snowstorms," Charles amended.
"We might need some more help," Lucy said.
Now Charles might have balked at that, except that everyone currently on board, himself excepted, was working pretty hard every day, and they might, indeed, need more help if there were actual clients. Isolation in an abandoned hotel in a ghost town was turning into a labor-intensive operation, it seemed.
Then Brigitte had an idea. Not a new idea, but an idea nevertheless. "Shouldn't we at least be haunted? It wouldn't interfere with Charles's requirements. We used to be haunted, and I thought that was fun. An old time hotel with the bathrooms down the hall in a ghost town ought to be haunted, don't you think?"
"Oh, but it is haunted. It has always been haunted. Remember?" Lucy paused for effect, then slowly turned her head to look at Harry.
"That's right," Charles said, "Harry made a pretty good ghost, until he showed up for real." Charles put his hands in front of him about 12 inches apart, exactly as though he were explaining a football play to the team in a huddle. His eyes took everybody in. "We don't have to include that part of the story. We leave the room Harry stayed in locked. We tell some of the story of finding the room. We say we are afraid to open the room up. We put a big shiny brass padlock on the door."
"I think we are going back to having no guests," Brigitte sighed, "That's a little scary, even for me, and I know the whole story."
Charles went on. "We all make up stories about having seen the ghost ourselves, or seen evidence of it. We can sit around the fire in the evening telling our stories to each other and the guests. I'll just bet if we lock that room, people will try everything from a court order to dynamite to get it open so they can look inside."
"I had a cat that was just like that one time," Brigitte said dreamily, looking into the fire.
"Your car is fine where it is," Lucy replied, "we don't exactly have a parking problem. There isn't a car wash anywhere within reach until the storm passes and the road gets plowed. Then you can take it to Cramer."
"You mean nowhere in town? Not at all?"
"We're the only business in town, I guess you could say, except that there really isn't a town and we aren't really a business."
This last statement, coming from the colored housekeeper, of all people, was simply too much for Mrs. Evanson. Lucy could hear her breathing into the phone. After a time, she requested to be put through to the Manager.
"That's another service I'm afraid we can't provide." Lucy responded. "A manager, I mean. We haven't got one. You can talk to Charles if you want to. He's probably either downstairs in the café or soon will be. It's almost time for breakfast. Then he usually goes upstairs to the lounge for a while after breakfast."
With pure venom in her voice, Mrs. Evanson asked. "Who is Charles, may I ask?" Mrs. Evanson couldn't believe she was having this discussion with the colored housekeeper.
"You may. He is the owner. That is to say, he owns the hotel," Lucy explained, with the tiniest of smiles right at the very corners of her lips. She knew she shouldn't wish Mary Evanson off on Charles. I guess you could say the devil made her do it. Besides, Charles needed something to do sometimes, especially when he couldn't go out for a walk. "You can't miss him, he will be the only gentleman in the restaurant right now. I don't think he washes cars, but you might ask. You never can be completely sure of anyone these days, can you? I've never asked him to wash my car, but then, I don't have a car."
Mary Evanson performed the practiced pause for several seconds, then hung up the phone without another word.
* * *
"Fire the Housekeeper? Fire Lucy?" Charles looked up from his coffee cup startled. "I should say not. I couldn't live here if it weren't for Lucy. No, Mrs. Evanson, I'm afraid we are all going to have to get along with Lucy. I certainly have to. When you notice that your room is warm, and clean, or even painted for that matter, thank Lucy. What did you ask Lucy to do? Maybe I can help." "I simply wanted information," Mrs. Evanson lied, "Where can I get my car washed?"
Charles raised his head very slightly to get a better look at Mrs. Evanson. He thought for a few seconds, then smiled. "Oh, that's easy. We have a guy that I'm sure can do that for you. Harry. He's new here, but I'll just bet he can do that. Once it warms up some. Say around May or June." Charles looked at Mrs. Evanson with blank innocence. He was now enjoying this. He was going to speak to Lucy about it, though. He hadn't come here all the way from California to deal with the Evansons of the world.
Mrs. Evanson's voice went up a few notes. "Do you realize that that's six months from now? I wanted to be in Cramer yesterday. I'm expected in Oregon at my daughter's house in three days." Mrs. Evanson just couldn't seem to absorb the enormity of what was being proposed. Remain in the hotel, this hotel, for six months? She would never have stopped here at all if she had had any other choice. This Charles, whoever he was, was clearly insane. She took a different approach.
"When will the road to Cramer open up?" she demanded.
"I can't say, really. We got a snowstorm like this earlier this year, and he county plowi made it from Cramer about the third day after the snow stopped. We'll probably know more in a day or so. We could call the sheriff right now and ask, I suppose. I don't think the phone lines are down, yet, but they wouldn't know anything. The snow hasn't even stopped coming down yet."
"Are you telling me we are trapped here, you say, for days? Days?"
"I guess that's one way of putting it. I like it here, so I don't feel trapped. It's warm and dry, the food is good and the people are real nice. You won't mind. You might even like it."
"I can't believe this. I can't believe this is happening to me. Where is Fred? I have to check on Fred. He must be terrified." Without waiting for a reply, she turned around and marched back up the stairs the way she had come.
"Don't miss breakfast," Charles called out after her, "it's really going to be good today, now that we have guests." Charles chuckled to himself. "Why do people always want to be somewhere else," he wondered?
He knew he should appreciate all that lust for movement now that he was in the hotel business. Then he reminded himself that he never expected to be in the hotel business. The whole process of thinking about it made him hungry and he had already been thinking about breakfast before Mrs. Evanson had exploded on the scene.
Lucy joined Charles at their usual table next to the front window. When Brigitte brought out their coffee, Charles asked, "Have you seen Harry this morning? Why isn't he eating breakfast with us?"
Brigitte sighed and looked down. "I haven't seen him this morning. When I do, I'll try to get him to eat breakfast. It probably won't be today. He's still a little bit lost, I'm afraid. I'll work on him."
Just then the Evansons walked into the dining room. Brigitte escorted them to the one of the other tables. She handed them what she hoped was the least insane of the menus she had been experimenting with in the weeks past and told them she would be right back with coffee and water, just exactly as if they had been the hundredth guests she had served this morning instead of the first actual customers she had ever served in her life. Two glasses of water and two cups of coffee came forth on a tray and orders were taken, from the menu, mind you, for eggs and toast. Apparently the Evansons were too hungry to be rude and disagreeable, at least temporarily.
Mary Evanson would like her egg poached, please. For three minutes exactly, please. Brigitte looked at her, with a slightly concerned look on her pretty face. Her cute little nose rose imperceptibly. She said smoothly, "At this altitude, I find that 3-1/2 minutes is best." She said that quietly but firmly.
"Oh, whatever." Mary Evanson said. She stared at Brigitte with a look that wanted to be argumentative but was too hungry to carry it off. There was a small uncertainty in her look as well. Could this infant actually cook an egg? Mary Evanson asked herself.
The two regulars looked on in silent amazement from the next table, Lucy with happy eyes and her hand actually over her mouth to keep from laughing. Charles looked similarly amazed, but for an entirely different reason. Brigitte looked absolutely stunning in her crisp uniform with her hair neatly done up in a bun and her blue eyes sparkling. She looked like she had done this all her life. Charles remembered what Brigitte had looked like such a very few days earlier.
Brigitte served breakfast to the staff, and then to the Evansons. They seemed satisfied. Brigitte brought them the ticket. Mrs. Evanson requested that the meal be put on their room bill, probably hoping that the ridiculous index-card credit card charge wouldn't be honored.
Brigitte paper-clipped a copy of the cash register receipt to the back of the index card and laid it back down on the counter. Since there was no regular restaurant type cash register tape with a place on it for a tip, there was, of course, no tip. Brigitte was just as glad for that. One more thing that didn't have to be decided by the make-believe hotel staff. Acting without a script was a lot more difficult than acting with a script, she was learning.
After their breakfast, the Evansons walked to the front window and looked out very carefully in both directions up and down the road. They saw no tracks in the snow. No tracks at all. They saw no edge to the road even. They saw their car buried in snow to just above the tires. They looked at each other, silently, and Mary Evanson led the way back up the stairs to their room.
Once the Evansons were out of sight, Harry hopped to the kitchen to wash the breakfast dishes. Charles made a silent bet with himself about how long it would be before he heard from the Evansons on the subject of no TV and no Internet connection. He noted from the lights on the switchboard console on the registration counter that they had found the phone, dialed "9" for an outside line and gone to it.
A couple of hours worth, the meter showed him later in the morning. Charles did not expect to be told about the phone calls. The Evansons did not intend to pay for something they had not been told about I should have put out a sign saying local calls were free. Charles thought. Tongue in cheek, of course, since local calls were not possible. There weren't any local phones to call. He smiled, and made a mental note to add something into the bill for the long distance charges. <Italics>Collecting this hotel bill could turn out to be fun after all,</Italics> he mused.
"Our car is covered in snow!" Mrs. Evanson shrieked.
"Well, that's Wyoming in the wintertime for you." Charles answered in a friendly, unassuming sort of way.
"So someone will have to dig it out." Mrs. Evanson enunciated, in a voice dripping with cold fury at the necessity of explaining a very simple thing to a dunce. Her words came out separately with a pause between each one.
"Or you could wait until it warms up," Charles said, "but that probably won't be for several months. Of course, if you do wait, we can get it washed for you at the same time. If you need it sooner than that, maybe Harry would be willing to help you out with it. I think he takes on odd jobs now and then for twenty dollars an hour, with a one-hour minimum, of course."
Charles maintained a friendly smile looking directly at Mrs. Evanson. His eyes said, That's all you're getting from me. "Shall I ask Harry to come over?"
Mary Evanson stared back. She looked like she had a lot more to say on the subject. Mr. Evanson put a hand gently on her arm. "I think we had better do that, my dear. There doesn't seem to be any other solution. And we do want to leave right away."
Mary Evanson dropped her gaze. "Very well, Fred. I suppose you're right. We really don't have a choice. But I'll remember this place, believe me I will."
Charles said, "Gratified to hear that. You are just about the only people who have ever heard of it."
Charles called Harry to the counter. Before he could say anything, Charles told him of the Evansons' offer of twenty dollars an hour for preparing their car for travel, with a one-hour minimum, of course, as usual. Harry just stared at Charles. He would have cheerfully done it for free, just for the feeling of being useful, and Charles wanted to head that off. Charles turned to the Evansons and asked, "Harry only takes cash. I hope that isn't a problem?"
A long silence ensued as the Evansons, or rather Mary Evanson, mentally went through every possible response, finally deciding that if she absolutely must pay, she must. It didn't look like something Fred should be seen doing, and she herself was most certainly not going to get wet, cold, and dirty. So with her nose as high as it would go, she agreed to the extortion. Harry went for a brush and a snow shovel. The Evansons sat at a table in the dining room where they could watch their beautiful, snow-covered car, presumably to make sure Harry didn't scratch it, or steal it, or search it.
Harry went right to work, and in twenty minutes he had the car brushed off and the snow removed from behind the wheels and from the parking area to the roadway. He stood by as the Evansons' loaded their bags into the trunk and got into their car. Mr. Evanson started the engine. Harry continued to wait. The rest of the crew was watching the scene through the front windows, each betting silently that the Evansons' were not going to pay Harry after all, and wondering what Charles would do about that.
At the exact moment the Evansons' began to back out of the parking slot, windows rolled up and not looking at Harry or the hotel windows, a very dirty Wyoming Highway Patrol car pulled up and parked next to them. A tired looking Highway Patrol Officer got out and by force of training reinforced by habit, looked around.
"Hi, Harry," Darren said. "A little cold to be out this morning, isn't it?"
"I just did a little work for these people, and they're going to pay me. Then I sure will go back inside. It's cold."
Darren turned around and looked at the expensive car. Apparently, that's all it took. The window on the driver's side rolled down and a twenty dollar bill fluttered in the cold morning breeze. Harry walked over to the window, took the bill, thanked the hand holding it, and stepped back. The Evansons took off, wheels spinning on the ice, towards Cramer, and presumably Oregon.
Harry put the twenty dollar bill into his pants pocked. He couldn't remember the last time he actually got paid, in cash, for work. It felt good. Really good. And it was also just about the first time in his life that anything good had come from the sudden appearance of a cop.
The Patrolman didn't appear to notice anything at all. Not the Evansons spinning away, not Harry's twenty, not the way he had been paid, not the look on Harry's face. There didn't seem to be anything to notice. And besides, he was at the end of his shift, he was tired, and had come to see Lucy.
They walked up the steps and into the hotel. He met Lucy in the dining room and they sat down at a table by themselves. Charles and Harry had things to do that took them out of the dining room. Brigitte disappeared into the kitchen to make another breakfast and more coffee.
With no one but themselves at the table, Lucy and Darren had exactly nothing to say to each other.
"I hope I'm not too late for breakfast." Darren said. "I've been on shift all night and couldn't get here until the plow came through. Is everyone all right?"
The last question sounded very serious.
"Oh, yeah, we're fine. We even had a guest this time. Good thing we have a license, isn't it? Can you believe it? A paying guest. At least, Charles thinks he can get them to pay. I'll believe it when I see it. And your breakfast is coming up. It's never too late around here. We aren't in a hurry. I have a room to clean, but there's no hurry about that either. It isn't like we have guests. But I guess I can't say that anymore. We had a guest. A very unpleasant guest, too."
Lucy spoke quickly and nervously. For some reason, it was important to get it all out, and say the right things in the right way. The part of her mind that wasn't in love wondered why this was so. The cool, reasoning part that remembered how she used to be, when there were drugs, easy money, excitement, and men. So what was Darren? He was a man. Why was this different?
Darren conversational skills weren't any improvement over Lucy's. He said he was glad they were all right. He was impressed that they had had guests. He was dismayed that the guests weren't nice. He had had an uneventful night. Long, but uneventful. Nobody much on the roads, and certainly nobody speeding. Sliding off the right-of-way and getting stuck in the snow, but not speeding. It had been a long three days for the tow trucks and emergency vehicles, not to mention the patrol, but nobody was hurt, and nobody was missing that he knew about, and that was a good thing.
He didn't mention that he had followed the plow all the way from the Ranch Road Turnoff and had planned on being at the hotel as soon after the plow came through as he possibly could. He had planned that for his entire shift.
"I'm tired," Darren said after breakfast, "I guess it's time to go home. It's been a long snowstorm."
"Where is home, Darren?" Lucy asked.
"On a farm, about 50 miles east of here. I work out of Cramer. It isn't much of a farm anymore, just my dad and mom and me. I help around the place on my days off."
The leave taking was as awkward as the rest of the conversation had been.
"I get the day off tomorrow. I'll be by around Wednesday, if I can swing it. Tell Brigitte it was a fine breakfast."
"Sure thing. See you on Wednesday, maybe. And, Darren. Thanks for stopping by."
"Wouldn't miss it. Gotta check up on you folks now and then. Free breakfast. Bye, Lucy." He looked at her for just a second or two too long, then turned and walked out the door and got into his patrol car. It was a scene right out of an old western, John Wayne walking slowly into the sunset.
That evening, at the informal meeting in the lounge, Lucy ventured to ask Charles if he thought the Evansons were going to pay their hotel bill.
"I don't know. I expect not. At least, not at first. But I know some things the Evansons don't know, yet. I'm going to use this opportunity to find out what happens when I really try to get paid. I don't intend to write it off. I know where they live, and if I need to, I'll hire legal help and whatever other help I need to pursue the claim in court, if necessary. I'm not going to get angry, but I am going to find out what happens when I really insist on being paid. I ought to do something to help out around the hotel, don't you think? Besides, I think it might be fun. I'll keep you posted on everything that happens."
Lucy looked at Charles and smiled. It was a very pretty smile, full of teeth.
It started quite innocently in Charles' upstairs lounge, where he often went after breakfast. He was sitting in his chair looking out his back window at a lot of snowy Wyoming. He had no premonition of what was to come. In his innocence he ignored the steps on the stairs. He looked up at a discrete knock on the door frame. It was Brigitte. Quietly and respectfully, she came into the room. And there she was, in his lounge, under his puzzled gaze.
Brigitte looked at him with what she hoped were soft blue eyes. Soft brown eyes would have been better, she thought, but she knew that was impossible. Her eyes were inescapably blue. "Charles," she started out, in a questioning tone.
"Whatever it is, go talk to Lucy about it. I know your little games." Charles replied firmly. There was no malice in his voice, but there was resolution. It had not the slightest effect on Brigitte.
She hardened her voice just the tiniest bit. "You know Lucy is much harder to seduce than you are. I never get anywhere with her."
"Exactly why I am sending you to her," Charles explained patiently. "When I get seduced it always costs me money and usually I feel like an idiot afterwards." He paused, looked away, waited, looked back. She was still looking at him. Her face was not moving. It looked quiet and confident, and very lovely. "OK, I give up. What do you want?"
"Oh, Nothing, Charles." She smiled reassuringly. "I'm just practicing. Did you know I was an actress in the school play when I was in high school? I love the theater." She looked vaguely off into the middle distance and sighed wistfully.
"No, I didn't know that. In fact, I know very little about you. Sometimes I wonder if that is at all wise."
Brigitte looked from the middle distance back to Charles. Changing her face to serious while maintaining calm and beautiful, she said, "Oh wait! There is something. Shall I go on, or do I need to start over with the seduction?"
"Please go right ahead, and consider me sufficiently seduced to listen to you at least."
"Well, don't you think we ought to decorate the hotel for Christmas? Harry and I can do it, and it won't cost very much, I'm sure."
Charles agreed with some of that. That was often the case when talking to Brigitte. He really had to. He would have never thought of it himself, but it would be nice to decorate the place for the season. He was far less sure about Brigitte's estimate of the cost. Brigitte was often vague about the cost of things. Nevertheless he agreed to the project. How could he do otherwise?
The timing of the request was, quite accidentally of course, just perfect. Brigitte and Harry immediately set forth in the hotel van to Cramer to buy decorations along with the other stuff they always seemed to need. Brigitte sneaked in two twenty pound bags of flour and a couple of other small items she thought she might need for another experiment she had planned.
They spent the afternoon and evening putting all the decorations up. Garlands laced with strings of tiny lights circled the lobby. Harry moved the ladder from place to place and handed things up to Brigitte. Harry was quite concerned about putting nails, even small ones, into the walls. Brigitte assured him that Charles wouldn't mind. Then she made a discovery. There were already tiny nail holes in the wood very close to the ceiling. "Besides," she called down to him, "there are already holes here. Someone in the past put decorations up just like we're doing. It must have been the original people who lived here, before it was abandoned. It's kind of nice to think that they wanted it to look nice like we do, don't you think?"
Harry remembered something very different about some people who had lived here, and his face darkened. He remembered the fear. "Sure, Brigitte, sure thing." he said.
Brigitte didn't seem to notice the strangeness in his voice, and carried on, replacing nails in old holes and hanging garland and lights.
By evening, the hotel had a tree, and lights, and a juniper wreath on the front door. She stuffed a string of lights in a chimney borrowed from the oil lamp on the table across from the fireplace, then discovered that she had no way to plug in that string, or several of the other strings of lights either. Lucy was summoned and produced the necessary electrical cables left over from the hotel renovation of the past summer.
Decorations were not limited to just the lobby. Brigitte had purchased wreathes for every door in the hotel. Christmas figurines graced the top of each Formica table top in the café. Ropes of lights wound around the columns on the porch and a small silver tree lighted the surface of the registration counter. A huge artificial Christmas tree dominated the entrance way between the café and the lobby. Brigitte expressed concern that there was no room for the lines of people waiting their turn to register at the hotel. The line would have to bend around the tree and through the café and from there to the front door.
Lucy smiled at that when she heard it. "You could offer complementary coffee and cookies to them while they wait."
"Oh yeah," she said, "That reminds me. I have to bake cookies. Christmas isn't Christmas without cookies. Lots of cookies." She hadn't baked cookies since she was very little, and then not by herself. And not at home, either. She was invited to a cookie baking at a school friend's house. She remembered it as a lot of fun, but had no memory of exactly what was involved. "Oh, well," she thought, "That's what cookbooks are for."
We didn't do much decorating when I was a child. Nobody ever came to the house, and we never went anywhere, so why decorate? I don't know what to tell you about my childhood. I had one, and it wasn't much fun. I was born in a farmhouse just outside a little town in Oklahoma. My father, or his father, I forget which, sold all the farm land during the depression and eventually quit farming. I think he worked his own land as a sharecropper for a while, then got a job in town. We read the bible a lot, and went to church on Sunday and Wednesday.
There was always something wrong with me, and I never knew what it was. Say, do you really want to hear all this? I don't know why I'm going on about my childhood.i"
Charles answered her question, "Yes, please go on. I would like to hear anything you want to tell."
So Lucy went on. "I never really fit in, with the family I mean. I know, lots of kids say that, but in my case I think it was true. My mother was ashamed of me. I don't mean just sometimes. I mean all the time. I thought it was just me, not acting right. But looking back, I think it was more than that. My father didn't ever want to have anything to do with me. Of course, I still thought it was me. It was a long time before I ever thought anything else.
Lucy paused, as though she wasn't sure how to go on, or even if she would. But she did.
I went to school for 12 years. In all that time my mother never once went to the school. Not to talk to a teacher, not to see anything put on at the schoolhouse. Never. I finally guessed why. She didn't want to be seen with me. I stayed at home a lot. I never had a school-mate visit, and never went to a school-mate's house. Not one time.
Once when I was older, I asked my mother why she never went to the school. She said she was too busy. It was such an obvious lie that I just dropped it. I never asked again. I was probably the only kid in the history of the school to do graduation without any family at all. But by that time, I didn't care. I just wanted out of there. I wouldn't have graduated at all if it hadn't been for one teacher who wouldn't take no for an answer. I'll never forget what she told me after the ceremony."
"You've graduated from high school. Thank God for that. Now go, go far, and go quick. Make a life for yourself somewhere very far away. Write to me. I care about you. But go, and go quickly."
"I think that's when I really started thinking about who I was, and what I was. I don't look like my parents. My skin is darker than theirs, and they both have blue eyes and light colored hair. Mine is almost black and my eyes are brown. My face doesn't look like theirs either. I might be an Indian, who knows?
So right now, what I can say is that I know I am the daughter of my mother, but I'm pretty sure I'm not the daughter of my father, if you get my drift. That must have been quite a strain on his religious beliefs. I wondered why he didn't just leave her? Get a divorce? Why hate me? I didn't do anything."
Charles said, "Maybe he got more mileage hating her and hating you, than he would have gotten divorcing her. There are people who enjoy hating."
"Maybe so. I know now he hated her, and me, for my whole life. I've never heard a word from either of them since I left. I sent a few letters at first, on holidays and birthdays, and when I changed my address, but I never got a letter back. I gave that up years ago. Just like I've mostly given up wondering who I am."
"You are Lucy." Charles said, "Anything else is secondary. And we are all very lucky you are living here with us. I've been thinking about all this, and we really don't know much of anyone's background. Brigitte, I wonder where you and Harry learned how to do all this decorating. You start first, Brigitte, you are the youngest. Your story might be the shortest. Where have you been in your life?"
Brigitte looked quite solemn in the half-lit room.
"So, how did I get here? The usual story. My father was into drugs, somehow. He sold them, or made them, or something. He certainly used them. Anyway, he disappeared when I was 13 and things got pretty rough after that. My mother worked, off and on, but she didn't make much, and I was by myself a lot. We lived in an apartment with another sort of family. They were weird. Like, really weird.
Then when I was 17 my mother met a man. Same old story. Just like on TV. He became her boyfriend. Pretty soon, he was coming on to me. 'Two for the price of one.'", he said. "Yeah, he actually said that. My mother caught on, blamed me, and life became impossible. Like, she really wanted me out of there. Didn't like the competition, I suppose.
So I went. Didn't finish high school. I think it's called 'Running away from home.' That may have solved my mother's problem, but it didn't help me. I went to Los Angeles, city of dreams. That didn't solve anything either, it just made it all worse. I had no skills. No one would hire me. I ran out of money. I had no friends. I had no place to stay. The Army wouldn't take me without a high school diploma. Nothing had gone the way I thought it would. I got desperate. I couldn't go home. There wasn't one, really. Not for me, anyway.
Then some other things happened, and after that, I took to hanging out in a truck stop near L.A., looking for a ride, anywhere. I met a truck driver going east. He offered me a ride, bought my lunch, and then called the cops and reported me as a runaway. Guess what? No report of a runaway matched. Nobody was looking for me. So I guess he thought he was stuck with me. I rode with him as far as Cramer. He stopped to sleep there, and I took off for downtown.
There was no work in Cramer either. At least, nothing I could find out about. After a day of looking for a job I found the homeless shelter. I tried it out for a meal. It was awful. Everybody there was crazy, or drunk, or sick, or crippled, or all of that at once. I'll never forget the smell of the place. I never smelled anything like that before. I couldn't eat. I just couldn't. That was the day Lucy found me.
Now I don't even really know where I am, and I can't go home, and I've never been happier in my life!
When I was little, Christmas was never much, I mean, we didn't have ornaments or a Christmas tree or anything like that. I just always sort of knew that Christmas was for other people, not me. I vaguely remember, like before my dad left, that mom tried to do something, but that was a really long time ago. What I know about Christmas decorations I learned in school of all places.
You know, people talk about going home for Christmas. Like I don't even know what home is. My mother and father never lived anywhere for very long. Neither did my mother and I, after my father disappeared. If we were in any kind of home at all it was somebody else's home. It always felt like that, anyway. I hope I'm not scaring anybody, but right here is as close to home as I have ever been in my whole life.
And that's all I want to tell you right now."
"All right. Thank you." Charles said, "Harry, you must have a very interesting story. Will you tell us something about your life, please, Harry?"
Harry seemed startled in the dim lamplight. He stared around the room. Nobody had ever before asked him about himself, or, at least, not in that way. He was used to confrontation, accusation, criticism, and humiliation, but not this. He looked around the room at the three faces, each looking at him. Faces that were calm, and friendly, and inquisitive. Faces without anger. Faces without malice. They actually wanted to know about him. About his life. He just stared. The silence grew in importance.
"Come on, Harry. You must have a really interesting story to tell. I want to hear how you got here." Brigitte was doing winsome with all she had.
"You mean like when I was a kid?"
"Yeah, start there. We don't know anything at all about you." Lucy said.
"I don't know why you want to know anything about me. I'm just Harry. My whole name is Harold F. Smith. I've always been called Harry." He stopped and looked around, apparently hoping that he had said enough and would be excused from further comment.
Charles softly asked, "Where were you born, Harry?"
"Los Angeles."
Harry stopped cold again. This was going to take some time, it seemed. Charles made another attempt to get the story going, "Tell us something about your family when you were little."
"There were a lot of us kids. I had four brothers and three sisters. I was the youngest. My mother didn't stay around long after I came along. At least, I don't remember her. I had a step-mother. Sometimes I can remember her name, but not right now. She never paid much attention to me."
"Where did you go to school?"
Harry brightened a little, "Public School 161. I remember the sign on the door. I went through 9th grade. Then I dropped out and went to work for a roofer my dad knew. That went on, I don't know, a couple of years, I guess." Harry paused, thinking of that time so long ago and so seldom remembered.
"Then what, Harry?" Charles prompted.
"Then I got a job working for a guy who installed carpet. We worked for a while in LA, and then he got a big job out of town and took me along as helper. When he got paid, he skipped with the money and I got ditched." Harry paused, expecting some reaction to this.
"Go on." Charles said.
"I hitched back to LA and worked installing carpet for a lot of years, but never could put enough money together to get my own truck and tools, and couldn't have found jobs anyway. Didn't know how. Then that dried up and I couldn't get another job. I've been living on the streets mostly since then. I've done everything there is to do, but only for a week or so at a time. I've washed dishes in a hotel. Matter of fact, I did that for quite a few hotels, but only for a few days at a time. When I didn't have work and ran out of money, I hustled, I'm sorry to say."
"What's hustling?" Charles asked.
"You know, begging. Make a sign on a piece of cardboard that says 'Will Work For Food'. Sit on the street where people go by. Like that. That's what I was doing when I got mixed up in..."
Harry stopped abruptly. He looked around the room from face to face, terrified. "I can't talk about that. I can't."
Brigitte coaxed him in her impulsive way, "Come on, Harry. Tell us how you got to the hotel. I was almost on the streets myself when Lucy found me. You can tell us how you got here. We're your friends, Harry."
But Harry couldn't. "No, I can't talk about that. I can't tell anyone about that. Nobody at all. Never."
Charles spoke next. "Well, we know you spent some time in the hotel before we got here. Can you tell us anything about that part? What did you do after you got to the hotel."
"Well, I was staying in the room when you came. You know, the room you got padlocked now. Then, when you came here, I couldn't come out of the room when you were here. But you went off every night and while you were gone, I made myself a new way in and out of the room up the back wall. I thought I could stay in the room for a while longer, until I could figure out a way to get out of here. I didn't want to be here, Mr. Charles, after you got here, but I didn't have anywhere to go or any way to get anywhere. So I hid here."
"How did you eat?" Charles asked, "You didn't take any food from the kitchen. I think I would have noticed that, at least at first."
"I'm not a thief, Mr. Charles. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a thief," Harry said, then added, "There was some food in the car. Not much, but I don't need much. I could get water when you were gone, which was every day, almost, until Lucy came. Then it got a lot harder. But I managed. I always manage. Then Lucy got suspicious and I had to move out. I hid in the ruins, sleeping rough and hiding and waiting for some way to get out of here."
Charles wanted to ask Harry about the food and the car, but he guessed that had something to do with the part Harry wouldn't talk about, so he asked instead, "Why didn't you want to let us know you were here, Harry? You hadn't done anything wrong. Why not come out and tell us you were here? We could have helped you. If all you wanted was a trip to Cramer, we could easily have done that."
Harry responded defensively, "I didn't know who you were. I thought you might be part of them. I didn't want to be caught. How was I to know you were different? Then more and more people came to the hotel, and it got harder and harder to stay hidden, and it got cold, and I didn't know what to do, and the food ran out, and I just stayed in the car after the snow came. And Lucy found me, I guess, and that's all I know."
Harry seemed quite agitated now. It was all coming back, and he looked like he was going to run away again. He looked around the room and at the door. He stared out the window at the snow falling beyond the porch light.
Charles spoke again, calmly. "All right, Harry. You've told us enough. Thank you for telling us what you could. I'm sorry it upset you. It doesn't change anything. You are part of us now, whatever that is, and you can stay here for as long as you want."
Lucy said quietly, "Yeah, Harry, you belong here just like the rest of us. And whoever we are, we aren't them, whoever they are. We're us, whoever that is. And it looks like we're going to have Christmas, for the first time in a long time, for some of us, at least."
"And you don't have to tell us how you got here, if you don't want to," Brigitte said. But she looked like she really wanted to know. It sounded like a real adventure. She smiled her best smile at Harry.
From the leather armchair next to the fire, Lucy looked across the room at Charles. Her pretty brown face was smiling in the lamplight, but her eyes were very serious. "Charles, it's your turn," she said quietly, "you get to tell us how you got here. And why you came. And what came before."
Charles looked across the room at Lucy. "Yes, I suppose I must. There are things you should know. And I don't want to tell all of them, but I must, some of them anyway. Some of them don't speak very well of our fellow humans.
Believe it or not, I was a private investigator for a long time, based in southern California." He paused a moment for effect, then smiled, "Not like anything in books or movies, but I did investigate and did so privately. I sort of fell into it. I investigated the ownership of abandoned property. Usually that meant finding the owners and trying to meet with them. I worked on assignment from the City, and sometimes for private individuals. A property owner would leave his property without selling it. The property might be rented or leased for a time, and then just forgotten. It would fall into disrepair, be vandalized, and the taxes would not be paid. I would be hired to find the owner. If I could do that the city would encourage the owner to pay taxes, sell the property, or reactivate it in some other way.
Finding the owner could be very interesting. Typically, the owner retired and moved away. Typically, the property changed hands one or more times, through inheritance, property or asset management and the actual owner sometimes didn't even know he or she owned the property. Sounds strange, I know, but sometimes the person I'm looking for has considerable financial assets and doesn't need the income from a far-removed house that he or she has possibly never visited. I did pretty well at it. I was making a living.
I would usually start my search at a courthouse, looking up titles and tax records to see if I could find any of the individuals concerned. That's how I met Carmen. Carmen was a young pretty clerk in the records department of the courthouse. She found the records I asked for. I liked her. She was cheerful. Worse yet, she seemed to like me. I asked her to lunch one day. We were both single, and only 35 years apart in age. We got along fine. She moved in with me. We lived together for two years."
Charles looked around the room at each of them with a semi-comical look on his face, as if expecting a reaction. At his second pass without further comment, Lucy spoke.
"OK, boss, we get it. Young pretty woman marries rich elderly gentleman for his money, hoping she will get it when he passes on, and not have to wait too long for that to happen. In the story books, the woman often helps the idea along with a little something in his bourbon one evening. OK, I took the bait." She smiled. "Now tell us what really happened."
"Your take on things is pretty close, except that it was she who had all the money, not me. She wouldn't marry me, she said, because she had legal problems that getting married would make much worse. All that money was the source of her legal problems.
It seems that the money was inherited from her grandfather. He didn't like either of his children, or their spouses, and his will gave everything he had to his one granddaughter, Carmen. The son and daughter didn't like that one bit and Carmen had a very bad couple of years in the courts. Fortunately, Grandfather had a good lawyer write that will, and in the fullness of time and the lawyer's pockets, Carmen did indeed inherit grandfather's very large estate.
We had two more years together after the courts finally settled things, and then Carmen was diagnosed with cancer. She lived another year and a half. In her will she left everything to me.
I didn't want it! I told her I didn't want it. She said it didn't matter what I wanted, that I was doing this for her. She said she hadn't fought her relatives in court for two years to see them get it all anyway just because she died before she could spend it. If she didn't have a will, her next of kin would get it all share and share alike. If her grandfather had wanted them to get it he would have given it to them. He wanted her, Carmen, to have it, and he would not want it to go to his the family just because she died. I had to promise her that I would do whatever was necessary to get the money and keep the money. I wasn't to compromise anything. The family wasn't to get one dime. I didn't like that, but I did it. Because Carmen asked me to."
Charles paused again. A log in the fireplace broke and Harry rearranged the pieces with the fireplace poker. Nobody spoke. Charles waited until he had finished, then continued.
"That brought on another two years in court and in other ways outside of the legal system. It wasn't nice. Everything possible was done to ruin me. One of them had influence downtown and I lost my job. But the same lawyer who wrote her grandfather's will also wrote Carmen's, and it held up. I won. I had a lot of money and absolutely nothing else in my life.
I was pretty much disgusted with humanity in general. I just looked at the money and said, 'Let's go'.
And I went. I wandered vaguely east, staying in hotels. I would stay two days in one place, a week in another, in big cities and small towns, always alone. As time went by, my mind turned to solitude. I wanted to be alone. No people. I had had it with people.
Then one day I drove past this place. Somehow, a ghost town, completely deserted, in the exact middle of nowhere, struck my fancy. No people is a given in a ghost town. The only thing still standing was this hotel, and I bought it. I thought I was going to live here in lonely solitude for the rest of my life, or at least until I changed my mind again.
That didn't turn out to be possible. It was a silly idea. I couldn't live out here alone. The darkest day of my life since Carmen's death came the day before Lucy arrived."
Charles looked from face to face in the dim light.
"You guys think I'm helping you. You even think, possibly, that I have rescued you in some way. Let me tell you it's just the opposite. You have rescued me. You have rescued me from my own foolishness and despair over humanity"
He paused again, and smiled again.
"Now, at least you know that I didn't rob a bank to get all the mysterious money. And that's my story."
The evening closed on that note. Harry put the screen in front of the fireplace and everyone went upstairs to bed. Lucy was the last to go.
After the others had gone, Lucy walked out the front door and across the road to have a last look around before going to bed. There hadn't been much more snow and the sky was clear again. She looked back at the hotel. The Christmas lights were still on and you could see the wreath in the porch light.
Lucy wondered about the missing part of Harry's story. People don't just appear out here. They get here somehow. Why not explain how he got here? What could be so terrifying about it? She thought of asking Charles what he thought. He might even know. He had secrets of his own, going off to Cramer to look things up as he did. She thought of his past. He ought to be as curious as she was about Harry. But for some reason, she wouldn't ask. Not right now, at least. Just watch and wait. Lucy thought she could do that.
"I don't know how to make bread. I've never done it. I've never even seen it done. I've looked at the recipes in the cookbook. That's it. From this point on, we're guessing. But we have two weeks until Christmas and 40 lbs of flour. We can make mistakes. We'll bury the mistakes in the snow if we have to."
Brigitte entertained thoughts of herself, shovel in hand, behind the shed in the dark of night burying the blackened corpses of bread loaves while Harry held up an oil hurricane lantern, his face grim in the yellow lamplight. She had seen that somewhere in an old Frankenstein movie, or something like it.
It didn't come to that. The very first loaves were OK. According to Harry, they were great, but Brigitte could see much room for improvement. The bread looked OK, but it was undercooked in the middle. It took a lot of courage to leave the bread in the hot oven after the tops of the loaves had begun to turn brown. The second attempt was even worse. That's how Brigitte realized You really did have to follow the instructions very closely. The bread was still not quite cooked in the middle.
The third attempt, made the next day, was much better. She followed the instructions closely and made up her mind to bake it strictly by the clock. "You are staying in there for another 5 minutes even if you catch on fire! I will watch, but not touch." She spoke firmly, addressing the loaves in the oven through the glass window.
It worked. It was cooked in the middle. She sliced some up and offered samples of her third batch at lunch that day. It was received with praise bordering on astonishment by one and all.
That was the day she learned something else. The time to serve bread is at breakfast. Breakfast is at 7:30 or thereabouts. It takes six hours from start to finish to bake a loaf of bread. Brigitte subtracted six hours from 7:30 in the morning and got a really disgusting answer. But, cookbook to the rescue, she discovered that she could do most of the work the evening before.
She only had to get up at six to get bread out of the oven by 7:30. She could manage that. Just barely. The alarm goes off at six. Brigitte gets up, throws on a robe, patters quietly downstairs to kitchen, takes the bread dough prepared the evening before out of refrigerator and puts it on the wooden work table to warm up, then scampers back up the stairs and back to bed. She gets up again one hour later to report once more to the kitchen where she divides the dough into loaves and puts them in to the oven to bake. Then she starts breakfast.
Repeated attempts had their usual effect. The bread improved and started to appear at staff breakfast. It was warmly received, and should have been, being still warm.
With success came confidence. She got so confident at bread making that by the second week she was expanding into dinner rolls. That worked too, after a few tweaks to the process. Harry was absolutely astounded that a real person, that he himself knew by name, could do something like that.
* * *
"Brigitte, the home made bread is wonderful, but it will be hard on my waistline." Charles complained at breakfast. "It isn't any more fattening than the store bread." Brigitte responded.
"Yes, but I eat more of it."
"Bread isn't that bad for you. Tell you what. I promise not to bake cakes except on special occasions, like birthdays, and to never, never, never try to make doughnuts. How's that?"
Brigitte smiled at Charles. Charles smiled back. It was a rather weak smile.
Lucy said, with exaggerated sorrow in her voice, "I don't know, boss, that might be going a little too far. No doughnuts is kind of a serious setback, don't you think?"
"Serious, yes. My eating them would be even more serious. Especially if they turn out like the bread."
"Tomorrow, I'll start making Christmas cookies, all different kinds, to make up for the doughnuts." Brigitte offered as a compromise.
That turned out to be true, and not just for men, she noticed. Around here, meals were the most exciting parts of the day. Eventually, she knew, she would lose her beginner's status. She planned to hold on to it for as long as she could. Baking from scratch would help with that, she guessed. Experimenting produced unpredicted results. Unpredicted results were the hallmark of the novice cook, she reasoned. Novice cooks are generally forgiven, especially when fresh homemade bread is part of the equation. No one asked her to quit trying, she noticed.
But the best part about being the cook is that you had a place to be that was actually yours. It wasn't that everybody stayed out of her kitchen, but it surely was her domain. She even had a little desk in the back where she kept recipes and notes. In fact, everything in the kitchen was where she put it. Harry was very careful to put things back where she had said they should go. Every pot, every spoon, every cup had it's place in her kitchen after he had washed and dried them. Harry did almost all of the washing up. He would drop by now and then to see if there were dishes in the sink. He was even learning to peel and chop vegetables. It's funny, she thought, teaching Harry things she herself was guessing at.
Brigitte felt very important in her kitchen. For the very first time in her life she felt like a real person, a real grown-up, doing real things. Important things. People relied on her. She was very proud of that. Charles and Lucy had learned not to come into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. They knew that Brigitte would be much happier if they sat down in the dining area and let her serve them.
She would throw off her apron, pat down her uniform, and walk up to their table exactly as if they were guests. "Just coffee, please." And then, when it was served, "Thanks, Brigitte." It was Brigitte that did the most to keep up the pretense that they were an actual hotel. She always wore her uniform, always with the name badge. She always looked the part, even though Darren was the only visitor from outside, and he was becoming less and less "from outside" as the weeks went by.
"Hadn't thought to. Probably should. Got an idea?"
"I think we ought to. After all, it is Christmas, and you're supposed to buy people presents at Christmas. But I don't want to be the only one, so maybe we could go together? You and me and Harry, I mean. If we go separately, Harry will get left out for sure."
"I see what you mean, Brigitte, about Harry. Yes, we ought to buy Charles a present for Christmas. And believe it or not, I, Lucy the misfit, know what to get Charles for Christmas."
"Speak, mysterious one." Brigitte adopted the sober pose of a tinfoil-dressed queen of a tribe in a very bad sci-fi flick of the fifties to Merlin the magician who just walked into the cave. If you closed your eyes, you could smell the kerosene torches mounted on the walls. Then in her normal voice, "I haven't got a clue myself."
"A shirt, Brigitte, old thing, a shirt. The obvious choice is the right one this time. I happen to know, because I do the laundry, that Charles has exactly three shirts, and that one of them is not appropriate for winter time. He really, truly, needs a shirt."
"A shirt. Exactly! Can we get it monogrammed? C for Charles? C-what, Lucy? What's Charles's last name?"
Lucy paused before responding. "I don't know. I wonder if I've ever known it. But I think it's a good idea to monogram the shirt. We could do it with his first initial, I suppose. Now on to more serious stuff. What are we going to use for money? I haven't got any. We've been spending Charles's money for everything."
Now it was Brigitte's turn to pause and think. With a seriousness beyond her years and almost all of the roles she played, she said "And we'll keep right on spending it, for his present. He won't mind, I'm sure. Will he?"
Lucy looked at the new Brigitte thoughtfully. "You know, Bridge, there's something very unusual going on around here about the money. Yeah, it's all Charles's money, but I don't think he cares much about it. In a funny way, I think he'd rather have the shirt as a present from us than the money. I really do. I'd feel really stupid doing it anywhere else, but this place isn't like anywhere else. It would be OK to do it here, I think, including the monogram."
"How do we do the monogram? I've seen them, but I don't know how they get on the shirt."
Lucy smiled. "I'll just bet, Miss Brigitte, that if we buy a fancy shirt at a fancy store in fancy old Cramer, the fancy store will be able to manage the monogram. Just chalk it up to all the time I've spent hobnobbing with the rich and careless, but I'll bet it won't turn out to be much of a problem."
"Oh, gee, Miss Lucy, I'm so impressed!" Brigitte said using her southern-most accent with her head tilted slightly to one side and a new look of wonder and respect on her pretty face. And it wasn't acting. She was impressed. "But we have to get Harry into it before we go any farther."
And so the next meeting was arranged for after lunch when Harry and Brigitte would be in the kitchen. Lucy would drop by and the scene would be replayed, this time with Harry's participation. He agreed wholeheartedly with the plan because Brigitte liked it if for no other reason.
The next day a new set of tire tracks were laid from the hotel to Cramer and back. When the women returned in the evening, Harry was brought in to the kitchen in great secrecy to see the shirt. He was sworn to silence and his opinion was requested. He seemed very pleased at the whole operation, and especially pleased that he was to be some part of it.
Then Brigitte wrapped the present in foil paper, the Christmas card was signed by all three conspirators.
Hiding the package and the card from Charles wasn't really a problem in the old hotel. Almost anywhere at all would be hidden from him. Nevertheless, the conspirators took the task quite seriously. After much discussion, they eventually chose the padlocked bedroom as the hiding place. Charles didn't even have a key to that room. Lucy smiled at the intense seriousness of the problem of concealment, pretended by Brigitte and believed by Harry.
* * *
* * *
Christmas morning began as any other morning. Artificial calm reigned supreme. It was is though there were no such thing as Christmas. The three conspirators were very polite and avoided looking at each other, or at Charles for that matter. Breakfast took place, exactly as on any other day. Orders were taken, prepared, and served exactly as on any other day. Compliments were exchanged. The weather was even considered. Breakfast and small talk completed, Brigitte stood up to take the dishes back to the kitchen. Harry got up to go to the kitchen to wash them, but Lucy motioned him back to his seat. Everyone waited silently for Brigitte to return. When she did, she had the present for Charles in her hands. "It's for you, from all of us." Brigitte said.
"But why?" Charles looked stunned.
"It's Christmas, Charles." Brigitte said uselessly, as though the other character in her dialog had fluffed his lines.
"But I didn't get you anything. I didn't know you were going to do this."
In a voice that was angry, Lucy said. "Charles, that is about the most astoundingly naive statement you have ever made. You've given us our whole lives. Both figuratively and literally. Harry would almost certainly be dead if it weren't for you, and Brigitte and I could be too. Instead we have a whole life here that I, for one, never could have imagined. So please shut up and just wear the damn shirt. Please?"
Without another word, Charles opened the box, was suitably surprised that it was indeed a shirt, marvelled at the silver monogram on the cuff, read the card out loud and said, "Thank you, one and all". Not one word was said then or ever about how the three purchased the shirt. Charles took the box with the shirt upstairs to his room, Brigitte and Harry went to the kitchen and Lucy went down the hall to the laundry room.
* * *
Christmas dinner came and went. Darren was their only outside guest. He had arranged for a night shift to get the afternoon off and would be patrolling from midnight Christmas until morning. The turkey, Brigitte's second, was very well received and turkey sandwiches would be the daily special on the lunch menu for some days to come. Darren was invited to the staff meeting in the lounge. After a short while, Brigitte, Harry, and Charles felt the need to go upstairs to bed, leaving Lucy downstairs with Darren waiting for his shift to start.
"Sure was a good dinner." Darren said, "Thanks for inviting me."
"Sure was. Brigitte really is getting into cooking, thank God. I was afraid for a while that I was going to have to do it."
"I don't cook much either." After a pause, "The decorations look awful nice."
"Yeah, Brigitte and Harry did a good job on that."
"You didn't help?"
"Not much. I don't have any talent for decorating."
"If I didn't know better, I'd say this was a real hotel. Strange, but only because there's no people checked in."
"That might change. You're right about strange. The whole operation revolves around Charles, but he does just about nothing to lead it. Brigitte has him wrapped around her little finger but the funny thing is he knows it, and she knows he knows it."
"And what about you?"
"Charles has me wrapped around his little finger, but he doesn't want anything. I've invented my job out here. And it's an easy job, since we have no guests except Charles."
"Nice of you to let me stay here until my shift starts."
"What were we supposed to do? Send you away?"
"I could have gone to Cramer, I guess, but it's much nicer here. You've really fixed the place up. It feels comfortable, being here. And..."
"And what?" Lucy asked, before realizing that she shouldn't have. She looked at Darren in the firelight.
"I guess I want to say that being here is a lot better than anywhere I could be in Cramer." He wanted to say, "Being here with you." But he couldn't. They both stared into the fire for a few seconds.
"Yeah, I feel the same way." She wanted to ask him to tell her all about himself, what he liked and didn't like, what he did in his spare time, what he believed in, but she couldn't.
He couldn't ask her any of that either, so they watched the fire for a long time.
"Well, guess I'd better get going. Shift starts in a little less than an hour, and I ought to be near Cramer when that happens. The officer coming off shift might want to talk to me about something."
"I wish you a quiet night and of course, a merry Christmas."
"Same to you, Lucy."
They looked at each other for a short time, standing next to the door, then Darren turned and walked out to his cruiser.
Lucy watched his patrol car disappear in the mist of the evening, then she walked to the other side of the road and looked back at the hotel. It did look like a hotel. She would have to remember to turn off the porch light and the small spot that illuminated the sign when she went back in. Then she walked for a little while the other way, along the side of the road, towards Cramer
There was exactly one set of tire tracks going past the hotel. No one except Darren had stopped. She wondered, idly, if anyone ever would. Still, it was Christmas and they had all done their duty. And, she had to admit to herself, it was a good thing. She couldn't exactly say why it was such a good thing, but she knew that it was. After a while she turned around and walked back. She left the porch light on, in case Darren passed this way during his shift. "Stupid", she thought, "He won't stop."
The staff were very aware of this.
"Charles," Brigitte spoke very quietly, "Have you ever thought about coffee?"
Charles looked slowly around the room, pausing at each face. Brigitte's was smiling attentively at him, Harry was looking slightly away, towards the fire, as though he might at any moment jump up and re-arrange it with a poker. Lucy's brown face looked calm and very beautiful in the lamplight. She might have been smiling, just a little. No one spoke.
Charles made up his mind to be completely innocent. He said, "No, not very much, have I been missing something?"
"Have you ever thought of having a better grade of coffee here at the hotel? Now that we're a real hotel, we ought to have real coffee, don't you think?"
Charles now had a rough idea of where this was going, and was interested to find out more. Once again, slowly, he looked at each face in the lamplight. He tried to guess which of the others already knew what was coming. He guessed that both of them did.
He sighed. "What have we been serving?" he asked innocently, "Isn't it coffee? What more do we need?" He waited, with innocent question written all over his face.
"Well, we decided to make this a real special, especially cool, like awesome, get-away for people to come to for a vacation in nowhere, like haunted even, sort of."
She paused. Charles wondered why she suddenly thought she ought to switch to valley-girl speak. She didn't do that much any more, trying to be what she thought of as an adult most of the time. Nerves, he guessed.
She continued, speaking faster, "All the really awesome places serve espresso, so I think we should too, and I know where we can get a really cool machine for sale used for really cheap, and I could learn how to work it, I'm sure I could."
She finished in a rush, then looked at the stairs as though she might take flight any second.
Charles put on a very stern face, which probably wouldn't show up much in the dim light. He wasn't that good at stern faces anyway.
"Which of you others know of this mad scheme?"
He slowly looked from one to the other. Harry quickly said that he didn't know anything at all. He was most certainly lying. Lucy didn't say anything, but her smile revealed that she was enjoying this very much, and surely did know about it.
Charles pinned her down. "Lucy, what, exactly, do you know about this, and what do you think of it?"
"OK boss, I confess. Brigitte talked to me about it a couple of days ago. I told her she would have to talk to you about it. For myself, I was raised to drink anything and I don't speak Italian, but Brigitte is right. The kind of place we talked about having here would probably have an espresso menu. We do want to be cute. Brewed coffee from a commercial coffee maker isn't really all that cute."
Charles turned back to Brigitte, still with what he hoped was a stern face.
"I suppose you will need a complete new uniform wardrobe. What does the well-dressed barista wear this season? I haven't been to Paris in simply ages."
"Oh just the same as the waitresses, I don't need anything new to wear....". She trailed off into silence when she saw that she was being teased.
"How much is this new used machine going to cost, without the new wardrobe?"
"I found one on the Internet for only 1,500 dollars, almost new."
Charles nodded his head. The silence in the room was deep and prolonged. You could hear the wood crackling in the fireplace. Lucy had pulled her face back into the shadows. Harry was still staring intently into the fireplace, as though he still expected to be blamed for whatever was now happening.
"OK," Charles said after a pause of several seconds, "You can show me your almost new espresso machine web page tomorrow. You and I will go to Cramer to visit the library and use their computers and Internet connection. Lucy, don't think you can escape this, you are as guilty as Brigitte. You encouraged her. You have to make the sign advertising espresso. With Harry. Then next spring you and Harry can hang the thing up."
"Brigitte and I talked about that yesterday, boss. I will make a sign and Brigitte will paint it. Somehow, I think that will be one of the smaller problems."
The statement turned out to be prophetic. The espresso machine project did indeed turn out to be much larger than anyone imagined.
First there was the location. The machine was large and shiny and not to be kept in the kitchen. Espresso machines, it seems, must be in view of the public with all of their shiny levers, pipes, and gages with the barista moving furiously behind it like an organist playing a pipe organ, although it looked and acted more like a steam calliope from a 19th century circus. The machine would have to take up space in the café.
Charles mentioned that it would take up a third of the dining space and that tables would have to be moved and that inevitably there would be less space for customers.
Brigitte had the answer for that one. "We don't have any customers, so what does it matter?"
Charles yielded to the inescapable logic of this. The espresso machine would be located in the café.
The machine was duly purchased. It arrived two weeks later, between snowstorms, crated, on a flat bed truck. Brigitte took charge of the unloading. "In the café, next to the kitchen wall, with space behind it for shelves on the wall and a place to work."
The delivery crew uncrated the machine exactly where Brigitte said it should go, removed the packing materials, and left. Alone once again, the four stood in a half circle in front of the suddenly huge and imposing machine. With a quick look at Lucy, Charles broke the silence. "Well, Brigitte, how about a cup of coffee, or however you say that in Italian."
Brigitte flew into action, ran into the kitchen to get a cup and saucer, moved smartly and professionally behind the shiny machine and stopped cold. She looked at Charles.
"I think it needs to be plugged in, or something." she said.
Lucy and Charles looked at each other. Lucy nodded her head slowly, "Or something. It needs plumbing and electrical connections, and maybe ventilation. I can probably do the electrical, but it wouldn't be licensed. I can't do the plumbing."
"No, we'll let the professionals handle it." Charles said evenly, "Lucy, can you get us some bids and hire an outfit or two to do the installation? You have worked around these folks and your opinion will be better than mine. There won't be any building code required out here, but tell them we want code anyway. OK?"
"Sure thing, boss, and thanks for letting me off the hook."
Eyes large and panic written on her pretty face, Brigitte shuddered, "I didn't know we would be getting into all this! I'm so sorry. How much is it going to cost?"
Charles reassured her, "I knew it, vaguely. I knew the thing was going to be a lot more than an exaggerated coffee maker. It's OK, Brigitte. It'll give us something to do from now until spring, watching all the work. I love watching people work. It fascinates me. I can watch it for hours at a time."
"But the money?"
"Yes, well, don't lets worry too much about that. I can pay for it. As I said, the extra cost isn't a complete surprise."
Yes, the money. Once he had finally realized that he had all that money, he wondered what he would do with it. He never wanted money. He always had as much as he needed, and never wanted to be rich. Once he had become rich, against his own wishes, all he had wanted to do was escape, not from the money exactly, but from what all that money represented. He had come here thinking that money wouldn't make any difference in the desert, and he had been partly right. Nothing like blocked roads and isolation to bring down the value of money. He had always wondered what he would spend his money on, and now, it seemed, he was finding out. And it wasn't so bad, he thought. Money's no use unless you spend it on something.
Lucy did find contractors in Cramer willing to come out to the hotel in the ghost town. Contracts were signed. Work crews arrived. The workers removed much of the flooring downstairs for water lines, sewer lines, and electrical conduits. They piled material on the porch, out of the snow. They installed a bewildering assortment of pipes and cables, and in only several short weeks, about twice the time that was estimated, the floor was replaced and the day finally arrived when Charles could, once again, with great ceremony, request his cup of coffee.
This time Brigitte was ready. She and Lucy had taken the van to Cramer and spent hours in the two coffee shops. They sat at the ends of the counter wherever possible and observed the baristas in action. Brigitte took notes, and after several visits she thought she had the procedure pretty well figured out. Additional accessory equipment had to be purchased, of course, and supplies of coffee and the tools to make cups of it arrived in boxes during the construction.
Brigitte served her first cup of coffee to Charles with some little ceremony. He was seated at one of the three tables remaining in the smaller café dining area. He took a sip, then looked up in embarrassment to see three pairs of eyes intent on his slightest hint of an expression.
"It's very good," he exclaimed, "really it is! I've never tasted a fourteen thousand dollar cup of coffee that was any better."
"Is that what it cost?" Brigitte asked, genuine surprise in her voice.
"So far as I know. That's what I've paid so far."
"There are still some things that haven't arrived yet," Brigitte said, sounding apologetic, "bottles of flavors and napkins, at least."
Charles smiled. He was really enjoying this now. "Brigitte, ring up one cup of coffee at fourteen thousand dollars in the cash register and we'll start over. Harry gets the next cup, at the regular price. Have you made a menu for your coffee yet? Don't we need some of those blackboards with the fancy writing on them saying what everything is and what it costs?. Harry gets the employee discount, of course."
"How much is that, boss?"
Charles laughed. "Whatever the price is, that's the employee discount. Nobody gets anything for free around here. Careful record keeping, that's the ticket. I love high finance. Take a business-like approach to everything you do, that's what I say."
"Brigitte, what did you put into the coffee. The boss is even crazier than usual."
Brigitte made Harry an espresso. A real one, in the little cup and saucer. Harry had never had one in his whole life. He had never even seen one up close. He took a sip, and grimaced.
"Put sugar in it." Brigitte suggested.
He did, and that seemed to improve it a lot.
"Boy, that's strong!" was Harry's only comment.
Then came the little things. A lot of little things. Small square napkins and little spoons and coffee and cups in all sizes and little saucers had to be chosen and purchased and in some cases imported. Coffee in the really upscale cafés must be served with individually wrapped sugar cubes and little cookies, also individually wrapped, unavailable in Cramer and probably unknown in most of Wyoming.
The blackboards suggested by Charles arrived. Brigitte very carefully lettered them with the names and prices of all the espresso combinations she had learned to make. Then there were a dozen bottles of syrups called "flavors" that had to be present on a shelf behind the machine. Charles finally held the line at monogrammed china. "First sell an actual cup of espresso to somebody, then we'll talk about monogrammed china."
It was not immediately obvious just how much of a success the espresso project was. The staff all said that the coffee thus produced was very good, and quite different from what they had had before. Everyone was drinking more coffee than they had been. Brigitte had a lot of fun showing off her new skills, spending hours drawing pictures in the foam.
They still didn't have any customers, unless you counted Darren. He praised the new coffee to the sky. But then, he would. And of course he got the Public Service discount.
It was an evening, and dinner time. The sun would be setting except that an overcast sky had hidden any view of the sun for several days now.
Dinner for the staff was set at a single table set for four in the café. Brigitte served. After the main course, Brigitte offered dessert, always something, and occasionally something special. She had gotten rather good at pies. Once everyone had finished dinner and dessert, Brigitte cleared the table to the kitchen. The others went into the lobby area.
The lobby area was illuminated by four oil lamps and the light from the fire in the fireplace. Harry maintained the fireplace and the oil lamps. Brigitte had specified the lighting arrangement some time ago. She felt that low level yellow light would lead to relaxed postprandial conversation at the end of the day and thus a better preparation for sleep.
They called this the staff meeting. It was anything but a business meeting but it helped with the pretense that they were an actual business. Brigitte would soon join them, taking her usual seat in the leather covered arm chair at the right end of the fireplace, across the fireplace from Harry.
A recessed ceiling light over the reception area provided light for anyone leaving the lobby area for somewhere else in the hotel. The porch light was also on, to welcome any possible guest brave enough or eccentric enough to stop at the hotel after dark. Leaving that light on at least admitted the possibility, however remote, of an actual guest for the night.
Charles took his usual position at the right end of the sofa facing the fireplace. Momentarily alone, he wondered how things would be different if they had actual guests in the hotel on a regular basis. Would they still be able to have dinner together and then meet in the lobby afterwards? It was so nice to be able to do that. Would the guests want to join them, perhaps? Or would they want excitement, bright lights, noise, loud conversation, and the idiocy of a big-screen TV? They weren't going to get it if they did.
Brigitte and Harry returned from the kitchen and took their places. Brigitte looked around the room and asked, "Where's Lucy?"
"I think she went upstairs when we got up from dinner." Charles answered. "She'll probably be down in a minute or so. Very good dinner, by the way, Brigitte."
Brigitte was smiling her thank-you when the front door opened with it's seldom-heard ding and a large black revolver preceded two men and a woman into the reception area. The first man through the door held the revolver. The three looked around the room, quickly spotting the three in the lobby. The man holding the revolver spoke.
"Good evening. Sorry to intrude on your quiet evening, but I'm afraid I must. My name is Brown. These are my associates, Felicity and Clyde."
Mr. Brown spoke quietly. No one was looking at him. All eyes were focused on the revolver, gleaming in the ceiling light in the reception area. It was pointed, vaguely, at the group in the lobby. Mr. Brown continued.
"I want everyone down here, right now."
There was a silence, then Charles spoke.
"Everyone who lives here is here. What do you want from us? Who are you?"
"Just let me do this my way." Mr. Brown replied. "It won't take long and we will leave immediately afterwards."
Charles watched Mr. Brown and the other man, Clyde by inference, turn and walk to the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. Clyde began prying the top off of the newel post with what looked like a large screw driver while Mr. Brown and the revolver continued to face the group in the lobby.
Charles remembered where he had seen Clyde before. He was the swimming pool salesman who had come looking for Beatrice. What was his name then? Did he even have one? He looked back at the woman. Yeah, he had seen her before too. She was the health inspector who had visited the hotel some months ago. The first health inspector. The fake one. This business has been cooking for some time, he thought. He looked again at the revolver. This could be bad, very bad.
The swimming pool salesman had the top of the newel post off now, and Mr. Brown looked down into the exposed cavity with his flashlight. He reached into the newel post, came up empty handed, and swore.
"God dammit why can't things ever be easy?" He turned around and walked back into the lobby. Charles looked at him blank faced. Brigitte became very small and still at her end of the couch. Harry did the same from his seat next to the fire.
"Clyde, go outside and disable all their vehicles. I don't want anyone leaving this place for a day or two. Cut the phone wires too. I notice the place has a phone now. I'm still trying not to kill everybody."
"Felix, search the place. Somebody come up with keys to all the doors in the building. Make sure there isn't anyone else here. Seems to me there was a second woman living here at one time. An Indian. I guess she moved on, didn't she?"
"Yes, she left us some weeks ago," Charles said quickly. Anything to help out, he thought. He wondered where Lucy was. He hoped she was safe and would realize what was happening before she walked into it.
Clyde pulled a wire-cutter out of his coat pocket, smiled, and left by the front door. The Health Inspector, now renamed Felix, went upstairs with Brigitte's key ring. She took Brigitte with her.
The revolver still pointing in the general direction of the two remaining staff, Mr. Brown moved to the chair next to the fireplace across from the sofa. Once seated, he said, "We'll just wait here quietly until my associates complete their missions. Who knows? I might be talking to more people then, and I will feel much more secure knowing that nobody is going anywhere after we leave."
He was quiet for a minute or two, the large revolver now resting on the arm of the chair, pointing vaguely across the room. It gleamed in the lamplight.
Twenty minutes passed in unsuccessful attempts at conversation. What were they looking for? How did they know where it was? How did they know it was in the newel post? Where did they come from, originally? Mr. Brown made no response to any of the questions. He did seem to have a question of his own, however.
"What is everybody's name?" Mr. Brown asked politely.
"My name is Charles," responded Charles. "This is Harry, and the young woman who went upstairs with Felicity is Brigitte."
"Just you and the young woman, all by yourselves out here. Sounds like a pretty good arrangement. I suppose the extra man is just visiting. Surely you aren't taking turns with the girl, are you? No matter. In any case, that means that you know where the jewels are."
Charles didn't answer. He knew that he didn't know. He didn't know anything at all about jewels. He wondered not only where they were but what they were. He hoped that whatever they were, they wouldn't stay missing very long. These guys were dangerous. And where was Lucy? He didn't dare to move his head to look.
Clyde returned, then Felix with Brigitte. Felix assured Mr. Brown that there were no other people in the hotel, and yes, she had searched all the rooms, including the one with the padlock at the end of the hall on the right. Neither was there anyone hiding in the cellar, or the kitchen, or the storerooms, or anywhere downstairs. Yes, she had checked the bathrooms. And all the windows were locked from the inside. She had checked that too, just to be thorough.
Clyde reported that he had found and disabled the van. He had also found a motorcycle in a shed. It wasn't going anywhere for a while either. He seemed quite pleased with himself.
"Well, now that everyone has returned, let's get down to business. I want this over with as soon as possible. We have places to go and time is important." Mr. Brown paused, picked up the revolver, looked directly at Charles, and demanded, "Where are the jewels?"
Charles responded immediately, "I don't know. I don't know what you're talking about. I really don't."
"And I really don't have the patience for much of this. I'm going to start shooting people if someone doesn't come up with the bag of jewels right now. I mean it. I don't want to, but I will." He pointed the gun vaguely at Harry. "Him first, since he is the least likely to know anything. Watching him die might make an impression on whoever does know."
In the deadly silence that followed that statement, Lucy walked through the front door and into the room. She said cheerfully, "Hi, everybody!" She watched the revolver move from Charles to her.
"Take a seat over there with the others." Mr. Brown said. "We were just in the middle of a conversation, my friends and I, about some of our property we left here a few months ago. The hotel wasn't occupied at the time. We have come back for it. I had hoped we could retrieve our property without disturbing any of you but that was not possible."
"And just what might that property be?" Lucy said brightly, tilting her head slightly to one side and smiling at Mr. Brown and the revolver. It was the first time Charles had ever seen her show the slightest inclination towards the coquette. She actually did smile at Mr. Brown. Then slowly and with great ceremony, she removed her coat, hung it on one of the pegs next to the front door, walked slowly across the lobby area and took a seat in the center of the couch between Charles and Brigitte. The revolver followed her all the way through this. Once seated, she looked at Mr. Brown and his revolver and smiled again, waiting for his answer.
"You don't know what it is?", Mr. Brown asked.
"It's jewels." Brigitte blurted. "They were hidden in the newel post, under the cap. But they aren't there now."
"And that means somebody moved them," Mr. Brown said slowly and emphatically, "and that means somebody knows where they are now. And that somebody is going to tell us. Aren't you?" He looked slowly from face to face moving the gun as he did so from target to target.
"If any of you know where the contents of the newel post are now," Charles spoke firmly into the silence, "please tell the gentleman immediately. We don't want trouble over stolen property. It isn't worth anyone's life."
"Tell him, Harry. Tell him right now." Lucy's voice was cold and authoritative. Her face matched her voice. She looked directly at Harry.
"How would I know?" Harry whined. "I never knew nothing about no jewels."
"Yes, you do. You really are hopeless as a liar." Lucy was relentless. "You were staying here in the hotel when these guys hid the jewels. You were here before I came. You were living here before Charles came. You've always known where they were. And you are the only one of us who knew where they were. If they were moved, you moved them. So where are they, Harry?"
After a second or two of tense silence while Harry stared at the gun, then at back at Lucy. Then he said, "OK, I'll show you. They're buried behind the wheel of one of the junk cars. I know where it is. I'll go get them."
"We'll all go together and get them." Mr.Brown corrected him.
Harry led the way across the road to where all the abandoned vehicles were parked. It looked like a white graveyard with the starlight reflecting off the snow on the roofs of the cars. Harry walked to one of them, not far from the one he had lived out of earlier in the year. He scraped the snow from a rock behind the rear wheel of one of the wrecks, moved it aside, and pulled out a cloth bag. Mr. Brown, closely watched by the other two, looked into the bag very carefully with his flashlight and seemed satisfied. He put the bag in his pocket.
"We've got what we want. We leave now. Good evening. By the time you can talk to anyone we'll be out of the country."
"I've got an idea." Clyde said. "Let's take little cutie here with us, in case we need someone." He looked at Brigitte, standing partially behind Charles in the darkness, as far from Clyde as she could get.
Charles looked at Mr. Brown, ignoring Clyde. "So far, as I understand it, your crimes haven't gone beyond possible jewel robbery. If you take hostages, all that changes. The cops will be looking a lot harder for you for kidnapping than they will for jewels possibly stolen several months ago maybe from another state."
Felix added coldly, "I have a pretty good idea what Clyde wants with little cutie here and it doesn't fit our plans at all. We'll get him something to play with when we get out of the country."
"You're right Felix." Mr. Brown said. "We won't take a hostage. We have no use for one and this job has become complicated enough as it is."
The three robbers walked around the hotel to their car and got in. The car roared off into the darkness towards Cramer and the west coast.
As the four walked back to the hotel, Charles wondered how Lucy had figured all that out, and whether Harry was more afraid of the revolver or of Lucy. Anyway, they had made out all right. Many of the questions that he had in the back of his mind were answered. But now there were some more, he thought. He wondered how long they would be stranded before anyone came. This was more isolation than he had expected. But he supposed Darren would drop by to see Lucy in a day or so. He wouldn't worry about it just yet. He just hoped he had seen the last of Mr. Brown and his bunch.
"Yeah," said Lucy, "I already called Darren. With luck the gang will be picked up before they get to Cramer. He might already have them. He's had about 15 minutes. He'll come here as soon as he can after that. I'll stay up for him."
The other three looked at Lucy in dumb amazement.
Brigitte spoke, "You couldn't have called him. The robber named Clyde cut the phone wires!"
Lucy looked at Brigitte, her pretty face calm and a bit disdainful. "That only works in the movies. I called Darren from the pole, where the drop goes to the building. I didn't want to be right next to the building making my phone call. I mean, it was a private conversation, you know. I didn't want Clyde to come around the corner and see me."
Brigitte looked wide-eyed at Lucy. "You climbed a telephone pole? You climbed the pole? How did you do that? You did that? Just now?"
"I used to be in the business. I still have my climbing spikes and belt. I was on the pole when Clyde walked back into the house. That's how I knew when to make my grand entrance. I wanted to slow things down for a little while to give Darren and his crowd time to get in position. Then I wanted to hand them the stolen loot and wave goodbye as they drove off into the trap."
Brigitte still couldn't quite get it. "You climbed the telephone pole. I didn't know you could do that."
Lucy smiled, "Piece of cake. Like a steel-toed squirrel. I'll show you how to do it once it warms up. It's good for your legs. Makes them sexy."
Brigitte looked down at her legs, then back up at Lucy. "But how did you get out of the hotel? They were watching the front door. You couldn't have gotten past them. How did you escape?"
"I guess you don't know about Harry's secret hideout. You ought to get him to tell you about that someday. It seems Harry put in hidden climbing supports on the outside back wall. He used to go into and out of his room that way, up the wall and in the window, without coming through the hotel. I had just come in the back door and was standing in the kitchen when I heard enough to know that I had to stay loose. When the head jerk sent his thugs on expeditions, I knew I had to disappear and I thought of Harry's old room. I went back out the kitchen door and up the wall into the room, then back down the wall when the sophisticated Felix got to my end of the hall. On the way around the side of the building I saw the cut wires and thought of calling Darren. I got my climbing spikes and tools from the shed. Avoiding Clyde wasn't very difficult. By the way, I'm not going to forget what he did to my motorcycle.
Anyway, then it was up the pole to call Darren."
Brigitte was still amazed. She asked one last question. "But there isn't a phone at the top of the pole. Don't tell me you just shouted down the wires. But I'll believe it if you do." She added respectfully.
Lucy pulled her utility phone out of her leather tool pouch, showed Brigitte the dial and the two alligator clips on the ends of the leads. "Just clip these on the ends of the line and dial out. Simple, huh?"
"By the way, boss, I'll fix the phone tomorrow morning. I work better in the daytime. Clyde actually cut part of the phone company's cable. They'll want to replace it, but in the meantime I'll patch it together so you can talk to all the reporters who'll want to call you on the phone."
Charles said, "Thanks, I think."
* * *
Darren arrived about two hours later. After receiving the required cup of tea, he settled down in his copy of the leather chairs in the lounge and told his story. "Lucy called me and told me about your visitors this evening. She said something about threats with a gun, so I got everybody going on a pretty serious basis. Lucy said that there were three of them, one with a pistol, and that they were headed for Cramer in an automobile, which made it easy for us. We just blockaded one lane of the road with a cruiser with it's lights flashing and put down a couple spike strips across the other lane.
That way, the oncoming car gets to see the flashing lights and knows he is supposed to stop. He can choose several things.
He can stop in front of the flashing lights. Then we walk up to the vehicle and arrest everybody. That's the simplest thing, and it actually works sometimes.
He can ram the unit. That's his worst choice. Almost nobody makes that choice, but just in case we make sure we are not close to the unit with the flashing lights parked across the lane.
He can swerve right, into the snow berm. That will stop him, probably without killing anybody.
What looks like his best choice is to swerve left into the clear lane, thinking to go around the blockade. Then he runs over the spikes and his tires deflate. He stops, with any luck safely, and we arrest everybody. That's what happened. The woman was driving. We found the jewels on the older guy. He was the only one with a gun, and didn't show any sign of wanting to use it.
Now if it's all right with everybody, I need to have a private talk with Harry."
They were gone for half an hour. When they returned, Harry was pale and silent. Darren spoke. "Harry, let me tell this the way I want to. You can correct me if you want to when I finish. But just let me tell it my way, OK?"
Harry nodded.
"Thanks. It goes like this. The gang planned a robbery of a jewelry store in Las Angeles several months ago. They hadn't any experience in it and when the time came to actually do the robbery, they made a big mistake. They got Harry involved at the last minute. He probably didn't even know it was a robbery. He just happened to be in front of the jewelry store at the wrong time. He was employed by the gang to watch customers coming and going in and out of the store, and signal the gang when there weren't any clients in the store. That's it. That's his entire involvement in any crime.
On Harry's signal, the two men went into the store and did the robbery. The woman stayed in the car. She was the driver. When they came out of the store they had the brilliant idea of taking Harry with them. I guess they thought he could identify them some way. So off they go in their getaway car to their temporary hideout, which was a deserted hotel out in the more deserted regions of Wyoming.
It was this deserted hotel in this deserted region of Wyoming. They hid the jewels in the newel post. Harry saw them do that. He wasn't supposed to see that. I've already mentioned that these weren't the smartest or most experienced robbers in California. It soon dawned on them that Harry knew where the jewels were. But Harry wanted no part of the crime. Harry had to be eliminated. But Harry escaped out of the hotel and into the ruins of the ghost town. They couldn't find him. They looked for a day or so, then came up with another brilliant idea. Since they couldn't find him, they assumed he wasn't here. So they give up looking for him and just left. He was supposed to die in the desert from starvation, exposure, dehydration, whatever came along. They switched to a second car they had stashed in the ghost town before the robbery and left for parts unknown.
That's as much of the story as I need to know. I could guess quite a bit more, but there's no reason to."
Brigitte had questions. "If Harry was with them at the robbery, why didn't they recognize him when they came tonight?"
"I don't know," responded Darren, "but so far as I know they didn't."
Charles said, "Harry doesn't look like he did when they shanghaied him into helping them commit a crime. He doesn't sound or act like the same man either. For that matter, Harry isn't the same man that got mixed up with robbers months ago."
"So why did you move the jewels, Harry?" Brigitte asked with a puzzled look.
Darren broke in before Harry could answer. "I don't need to know that. Look at it this way. We arrested the robbers. We have the stolen goods. What does it matter who might have done what with it in between times?"
"It doesn't matter at all." Charles said firmly.
"I'm glad to hear that," Darren said, "I have one more thing to tell you. I'm just a patrolman, so I expect an investigator from the county sheriff's office will be out here tomorrow to hear everyone's story again for the record. It would probably be best if you didn't volunteer any information about Harry. If the story stays the same as it has been related here tonight, I believe that will be the end of it for all of you. Harry might have to explain his actions during the execution of the robbery, that will depend on the statements made by the robbers. They might attempt to involve Harry, but I don't see how that helps them. Be sure to tell the Sheriff's investigator about the previous visits of the other two involved in the robbery and all of the words and actions of Mr. Brown, I believe he calls himself, this evening. That will make it clear that Harry had very little to do with the robbery. What Harry may have done after the robbery will hopefully be of no interest to the District Attorney.
So now, I guess I'll be running along. I'll be back with news in a day or so. Probably not tomorrow, or rather today. It's been a long night. Thanks for all your help."
On Charles suggestion everyone except Lucy went up to bed. She stayed behind to walk Darren to his cruiser. They stood next to the car, Darren's hand on the door handle. Neither of them said anything. Then Darren turned towards Lucy.
"Lucy, you are a woman of many talents. You really made me look good tonight with your antics. I'm just glad you didn't fall off the pole."
"No chance of that, I assure you. I'm impressed with the way you guys made the arrest. I guess I expected a running chase with lots of shooting like in the movies."
"It might have been that, except for the advance notice." Darren paused again. There didn't seem to be anything more to say. He opened the car door, then looked back at Lucy again. He could see her face in the porch light. He kissed it, quickly, right in the middle, right on the lips. Lucy didn't move, except to kiss back. Then he got into the cruiser. She watched him drive off, then turned and went into the hotel.
After a pause, Brigitte answered, in a somewhat hesitant voice, "Yes. I remember Harry was to build flower boxes for outside and we were going to have potted palm trees inside the hotel." She also remembered something about playing the piano. Thus the hesitation.
"Well, maybe not palm trees, but a couple of large indoor potted plants of some sort might be nice in here. What do you think of the idea?" Charles looked from face to face. Harry's was blank, as usual. Lucy had her small smile. She probably would have said something except that she knew that if she remained silent, Brigitte would certainly speak.
And sure enough, after a short pause, Brigitte said in her grown-up voice, "Charles, after the way I did it to you over the espresso machine and the way you reacted to the chaos and expense that caused, you can have a whole rain forest in here if you want it. I'll do it. I would even take piano lessons if you asked me to. Harry might help me. With the forest, I mean, not the piano lessons."
"Piano lessons?" Charles asked, "Whatever brought that up?"
"Once when you first talked to me you asked me if I could play a piano."
"Did I? I must not have been serious. I haven't thought of it since. No, Brigitte, you do quite enough around here without being tasked with more. I don't want to interfere with your cooking. Especially not after tonight's efforts. Dinner was superb."
Brigitte smiled her thanks and looked softly at Harry. "It's OK. Harry will manage the pots and flower boxes. He's the hotel gardener. Won't you, Harry? I'll help."
"Sure, miss, I mean Brigitte, I'll do it. But I don't know anything about plants. I told Mr. Charles that right off. He said it didn't matter." Harry looked at Charles to confirm that it was he who was nuts and not himself. Charles smiled.
Brigitte said, "None of us do, unless Lucy does?" She looked at Lucy.
Lucy smiled her smile at the group. "Nope. Not a thing. I have had a small plant from time to time in the past, but they always died. It seems you have to water them occasionally. I never remembered to do that. Giving me a plant is a death sentence, for the plant I mean. I'll help, though, as long as I can stay out of management."
Soon after, on yet another spring morning, Brigitte, Harry, and Charles looked at Charles's laptop in the coffee shop in Cramer. They looked at pots, big terracotta pots with bright wide zigzags on them in yellow, red, and brown. Very expensive pots, Charles thought. After much thought and discussion, they selected two of them and ordered them on line, to be delivered to the hotel. Then they walked to a bookstore and bought two books on gardening indoors and out.
While waiting for the ordered pots to arrive at the hotel, Brigitte and Harry made another trip to Crammer to choose two plants, guaranteed to be the right plants for the pots they had ordered. The plants would grow to be six feet tall, three feet wide, and were some kind of fern.
In due course, the pots arrived. The driver and his helper unloaded and uncrated the pots on the front porch. Then they left, leaving the four standing in a single rank looking silently and perhaps reverently at the pots and the front door of the hotel.
"They're awfully big." Brigitte said.
Lucy was looking at the bill of lading. "They're 32 inches wide. The door is 36 inches wide. They will go through the door, but only just. Harry, get on one side of this one and tilt it towards me a little bit so it'll roll on it's edge to the door."
Under Lucy's careful guidance, both pots moved through the door and into the hotel. Once inside, Brigitte and Harry spent hours moving them from place to place wherever they would fit in the public area of the ground floor and coffee shop until Brigitte was at last satisfied with the overall aesthetic effect. At every new move, Brigitte stopped and asked his opinion of the arrangement.
Charles observed from his upstairs lounge. Looking over the railing at the scene below, he didn't see much artistic difference from one arrangement to another, but the two of them were having so much fun dragging the pots around that he kept out of the discussion, agreeing with every arrangement when called upon to do so, including the final one.
"Charles," Brigitte shouted up to the railing above, "would this be a good location? Will the plant be too close to the reservation desk?"
"I think it's just fine Brigitte, the best place for the plants I'm sure." Charles repeated. Eventually, the two artists decided on one, or just gave up and accepted Charles's response as true.
The next day, three of the gang went to Cramer once more. Harry because this was to be his project eventually, Brigitte because she had read the appropriate chapters of the how-to books, and thought she knew what they now needed, and Charles to carry the money all this additional material was going to cost.
The plants had arrived with their roots wrapped up in burlap balls, and in only a few short hours, the trio had exchanged a lot of Charles's money for several huge bags of this and that and several tools.
With help from store personnel, they loaded bags of soil, the plants, and the tools into the now-repaired van and drove very carefully back to the hotel. Harry was going to get into gardening big time. He was amazed at all the money that had been spent that day.
Back at the hotel, the books came out again, this time in deadly earnest. The sections on planting something in a pot were read over and over until the two, or rather Brigitte, thought she understood what actually was to be done. Then bags of potting soil were dragged into the lobby and dirt was scooped into the pots surrounding the bags of burlap.
They had to make a phone call to the gardening store in Cramer to ask whether the burlap was to be removed from the root balls or not. The burlap was to be removed. All the dirt came back out of the pots, the burlap was removed, and the dirt was put into the pots a second time. Then more dirt added to the top and it was over, except for the celebrations. All four agreed that the effect was really good. The old place looked more alive already.
Then Decisions had to be made.
When were the plants to be watered? (Once a week: Unanimous decision)
Who was to water the plants? (Harry: Unanimous decision)
How much water in each pot? (Heated debate: Final decision tabled. Experiments would be undertaken and results carefully recorded.)
What would the plants be named? No one had any good ideas. Charles wondered if plants had names. Lucy had never heard of a plant with a name. Brigitte was sure they should have names, and Harry agreed with Brigitte, as usual.
A list would be established on the reception counter for suggestions for name. Exactly one gallon of water was poured into each pot, the amount and the date recorded on the brand new watering chart, and everyone stared once more at the pots to see if the water had done anything yet.
"Do you like what we've done?" Brigitte asked Charles, once she was sure they were finished for the day.
"Yes, Brigitte, and all of you. I like it very much. Thank you for your work. Thank you for living here." He looked especially at Harry when he said that.
There would be more. Oh yes, for sure, there would be more. There would be carpentry making boxes, more earth to mix with the local dirt. Decisions would be made about plants to put outside. But that would wait for even warmer weather.
For now, it was dinner time. Another exciting day at the abandoned hotel would soon be over.