Legacy (25 page)

'I've changed my mind,' Father said. 'Let's go into the office and have a look at those reservations.'

We went behind the front desk, on which there were three nearly empty coffee cups, without saucers, and through the connecting door into the small office cubicle. There Gilbert quickly got out a correspondence box and a black leather looseleaf binder.

Father opened the binder and scanned a few of the pages. 'Why, there are hardly any bookings here at all! Most of these rooms show vacant, even during the first week!'

Gilbert gave a strained smile and quickly undid the string around the correspondence box. When he opened it, a sheaf of papers in varying sizes burst forth, and he had to grab them quickly with both hands to keep them from spilling over the manager's desk.

'These are some others, sir. We've just not had the time to enter them all, but I'd estimate we'll be running very close to full capacity for nearly every week of the season.' He allowed his look to become a trifle more satisfied, as though he were taking part of the credit for the predicted success.

Father was controlling himself. He pointed at the crammed-full correspondence box. 'Now, let me get this straight. You've confirmed all these?'

'Oh, yes. I answer all inquiries and requests myself.'

'But you haven't entered them in the book here. You haven't filled them in on the room chart.'

'Not as yet, sir. I was planning to attend to that sometime next week.'

'Well, then, tell me, what do you plan to do if you've overbooked? Suppose you've confirmed more reservations for next week than we have rooms?'

'Oh, I've never had to worry about that in the past. If too many actually arrive, we've always simply found them other accommodations . . .' His confident voice trailed off haltingly as he realized that this hotel was the only accommodation out here in the mountains for fifty miles. 'Oh, dear, I see what you mean. I shall have to get around to that first thing and write to anyone who might be displaced. I suppose I should take them in chronological order . . .'

He was talking as if to himself, and Father interrupted him.

'Yes, well, one more question, Gilbert. Who are those people we saw out in the lobby?'

'Why, they're staff members, sir. Jackson's to be the handyman, and Tolliver and Lee are waiters, and Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Tolliver were there, too, if I'm not mistaken; they're going to be in the linen room. Very reliable people.'

'And the chef?'

'That would be Otto, sir. He's been in the kitchen since breakfast, preparing supper. I hope it meets with your approval, and, of course, with that of Miss Rawlings. I've had them set a table for three in the dining room for tonight. I thought perhaps the three of us might discuss . . .'

Father drew in a breath and let it out through his nose slowly. Then, lips compressed, he looked Gilbert in the eye. 'Gilbert, I want you packed and on the train outside within the next half hour. You're going back to Grampian. Your work here is over.'

A look of incomprehension came across Gilbert's face. His hand went to his mouth, fingers touching his grey mustache. 'Am I to understand, sir, that I . . . that I am . . .'

'You don't have a job here anymore,' Father said. 'When you get back to Grampian, stop at the Deer Park Hotel for your wages. And you can fill in as a room clerk there for a month or two while you find some other position. But you're leaving here, now - Within the half hour.'

'But, sir! How . . . why, I've only begun . . .'

Twenty-nine minutes,' said Father.

Gilbert stiffened. He glared at us both. Then he turned abruptly and made for the door, only to realize that he still held the bulging correspondence box with both hands. He looked daggers at the box, as if it had bitten him, then slammed it down on the lamp table beside the doorway. 'I hope they all cancel,' he said, defiant. 'I hope it burns down, and you with it!'

'Don't slam the door,' said Father dryly. But Gilbert slammed it, anyway. I felt sorry for him, but I could not help smiling all the same. Even when he was trying to act outraged, Gilbert was ineffectual.

Father shook his head, his eyes half-closed. 'Hard to believe how that glib son-of-a-bitch could have fooled me like this. Can you imagine what would have happened if I'd waited until opening week to come up here?' He shook his head again. 'But now where do we go?'

An hour earlier I could not have cared. Yet now I found myself being drawn in, wanting to help get the hotel ready for its opening. 'Well, you need another manager,' I said. 'That's obvious. You need somebody you know and can trust.'

He gave me a quizzical look. 'You volunteering for the job?'

'Oh, no. I could stay a bit to help, but you need someone with real experience. And on such short notice, I suggest that you have only one choice.'

'You mean Bill Malory from the Deer Park, I take it.'

'I do. The place looked well enough run when ... I last stayed there. I'd wire him immediately, and then send the train to pick him up.'

'What about his family?'

'Triple his salary. Tell him it's only temporary, but that he can stay on and bring his family later if he likes.'

A grin spread over Father's face. 'You remind me of me, daughter. That's just what I'm going to do.'

He went over to the office telegraph key and sat down. In a minute or two he had finished sending the message and stood up. 'Told him to bring out a staff, hand-picked. It'll leave us a bit shy in town, but they'll make a good backbone for the operation here.'

'What about those people in the lobby?'

Father turned up a palm. 'We'll take a fast tour now. If it's really bad, we'll have 'em on the train back to Grampian. They can keep old Gilbert company. But if it's not so bad, we might as well give 'em a chance for a day or two.' He paused slightly, as if remembering something, and then he said, 'At least that's the way I see it. What do you think?'

I could scarcely believe my ears. Father was making quick decisions in his usual way, but now he was remembering to consult me! Perhaps he was simply trying to take my mind off the way things stood with Justin. Maybe he thought that keeping me busy with the hotel would be a good remedy for my depressed spirits. Or perhaps he really wanted my opinion, really wanted me to share in the business of managing his interests at this critical time. Either way, Father's consideration gave me a small, but real, amount of comfort. We had fought so bitterly lately. It was a relief that finally we had reached some sort of peace. If I could only manage to keep the pain of Justin's loss safely locked away, perhaps I could make myself busy, make myself forget. . .

What had Father asked me? Oh, yes, about the staff. 'I agree,' I said. 'I think we should at least see what else they've been doing. Why don't we start with the kitchen?'

'Good idea. Let's see if this Otto is the paragon he's cracked up to be. While we're at it, we can have him pack some food for the trainmen to eat on the way back.'

It was not until after dinner that we finally got settled in the Plantation suite. We had found Otto to be a trifle imperious but wonderfully efficient. He served us a magnificent seven-course dinner - all Pennsylvania Dutch foods - from the sweet and sour relishes to the rich cabbage soup to the sauerbraten and finally to the rich, gooey-sweet shoofly pie. Everything was cooked to perfection. When Father asked Otto why he had chosen Pennsylvania Dutch cuisine for his first menu, he had informed us that he had not been certain of our tastes and wanted to serve something safe. Actually, he said, his speciality was French cooking, and he asked if we would like eggs Benedict for breakfast.

So Otto was to stay on, indisputably. For the others, we were still not sure. We had toured the rooms and found them all in passable condition, though none was ready for a guest. The small things - the lamps, the antimacassars, the over-drapes and so on - were either not properly placed or missing altogether. And what was worse, we found that most of the staff were living in four of the larger rooms, even though there was a staff dormitory complete and ready for occupancy only fifty feet or so from the rear of the hotel. Otto had moved into a corner room of that dormitory building already, but the others had remained in the rooms that were reserved for guests. Mr. Gilbert, they informed us when we gathered them together in the lobby for explanations, had said they did not have to move out for a few more days.

Father, of course, told them differently. They were to move out now, either to the staff dormitory or on to the train, which they could hear at that moment outside, getting up steam to leave. Not surprisingly, all chose to stay. Father informed them that he would be watching them quite closely during the next few days and that they would be given an opportunity to prove themselves.

After our meeting with the staff, we ate dinner. Then we went outside to have a look at the lake shore before the sun set completely. The lake was splendid. Deep blue, formed in what we had been told was an ancient volcanic crater, Eagles Mere stretched out before us, dark and majestic. The pines along the opposite shore were nearly a mile away, only a tiny green blur. I had to strain my eyes to see them. Here, on our side of the lake, Father had brought in by train tons and tons of white sand so that people could sun themselves beside the lake just the way they did along the New Jersey coast or on any of the other ocean beaches. The sand had stayed clean and sparkling, inviting someone to come into the water and bathe. I took off my shoes and stockings and, hoisting my skirts, ventured in up to my ankles. The lake was shockingly cold, and I shivered. 'How can anyone think of bathing in this icy water?' I asked.

Father chuckled. 'They'll get used to it. It's good for 'em. Gets the blood going. And it's gonna stay cold, too. That lake's two hundred feet deep out there.'

I looked again at the dark, smooth surface of the water, nearly all in shadow now that the sun had gone down behind the edge of the pines. The sand felt smooth underfoot, but my toes were growing numb. I shivered again, but this time it was not from the cold. Doubts about the hotel came over me. Father had so much money tied up in this venture. What if all the guests came out here and were as chilled by the lake as I was? Or what if they were dissatisfied with the staff, or with the isolation? It was so silent out here in the wilderness. What if the silence began to get on the nerves of the guests? I began to feel an unpleasant foreboding that the hotel would not succeed. Something was going to happen. I remembered Gilbert and his angry hope that the place would burn down. Suddenly I was shaking and there were tears rolling down my cheeks.

Father saw me crying and came quickly to where I was standing a few feet away from him. He put an arm on my shoulder and handed me a towel I had brought along. 'Hey, now, it'll be all right,' he said after I had confessed that I was worried. 'They're going to like Eagles Mere - you can be sure of that. All we've got to worry about is the staff - and the mosquitoes.'

I looked back at the quiet shadows on the lake, breathing in the clean fragrance of the water and the pines along the shore.

Father was right, I told myself. He must be. But the feeling of dread did not disappear. I decided to ignore it. I had locked away the hurt I felt for Justin, and I would do the same to this nagging premonition!

'Foolish of me,' I said. 'Of course they'll like it here.'

So now we were unpacking in the Plantation suite. I was in my bedroom, one of two, each with its own bath. Between my bedroom and Father's, where he was also unpacking, was a spacious central sitting room done in light blue, with comfortable beige sofas and dark blue chairs.

A knock sounded at the door and Father went to answer it. I heard a brief conversation while I put some of my clothes into dresser drawers and hung others in my closet. And I had expected to be going back to Grampian tomorrow! As things stood, it looked as though I would be needed here at the hotel for several days at least, and probably right on through the opening weekend.

When I came out to the sitting room, Father was alone. He was sitting on one of the blue chairs with a leather-bound note pad, making a list. Beside him on the bamboo end table was an unfolded piece of paper.