Beginning, Section II
Chapter One: Maple Walnut Posted on Thursday, 2 February 2006
It is a truth universally acknowledged that most people visit a certain part of Michigan (anything north of Saginaw) for one thing: Fudge.
As much as I try to debunk that myth, it never fails. Every tourist that I've seen check out of White Pine Lodge has had at least one box of fudge on their person, or packed away in a suitcase, or stowed in the glove compartment. Somewhere.
And every town has at least one place that specializes in Home-Made Fudge. The most obvious place to go is Mackinaw City, way at the tip of the mitt, where there are more kinds of the crystalline candy than catamarans to the Island.
It's been a while since I've been there, and I only live an hour and a half away. I could make the trip in a day; leave at the dawn-thirty and get back after dark, with my four packs of fudge in a cooler by my side, but I don't often get the opportunity to do that.
I work.
That's not to say that I live in an area with a high unemployment rate; it's fairly average, as far as I can tell, even with Michigan being one of the highest in the country for unemployment. What I mean is that I work. I cover for the people who call in on those gorgeous spring or bitter cold, blustery winter days. White Pine Lodge is a resort. A small resort, but functional. And perhaps more prone to employee call-ins than the bigger, posh-er resorts. After all, being smaller, we had fewer staff.
One day, one pastoral day in early May, a few weeks before school let out for the summer, right before it really got hot and the whole county turned into a sauna, one day I was the staff.
Just me.
Well, and the cook in the restaurant.
But mainly just me. I was the receptionist, the maid, the waitress and the barkeep. And the groundskeeper, the valet and the bellhop. Thankfully it was a Tuesday in Early May. No one was checked into the hotel and the lunch rush, a whole three people, had just finished.
The tables had been wiped down. The bar was set for the dinner rush. The front desk was in perfect order. Every room had been freshened. The grass had been cut the day before, when it was generically nice and the grounds crew were all in attendance. All that was left was the flowerbeds at the main entrance. A local nursery, Get Growing, had so kindly delivered five flats of petunias in the wrong colour, never mind I'd requested pansies.
So there I was, knee deep in those foul, fuzzy, wimpy nasty flowers, debating what to do, when the melodic purr of a high-class car reached me. A dark blue Jaguar oozed up the lane. I stared.
Of course I stared! Jeans covered in mud, hands caked in dirt, with a smear across my cheek. I'm sure there was dirt in my hair, too, which I know for a fact was standing out at all angles.
Out of that sinfully gorgeous automobile stepped probably the handsomest man in the Western Hemisphere. Of course, a little voice in the back of my head was screaming at me, "Wait a minute! Something's wrong! We don't have any reservations for today! And your mouth is hanging open! Wake Up!"
For all this, however, my mouth wouldn't listen and stayed open. I finally had to swallow, which managed to happen as he walked around his car and wasn't looking at me. This man was like... Adonis in real life, a dark haired, dark eyed god! In a sharply tailored dark blue suit as well!
I felt like such a schmuck. There I was, in ratty nasty jeans, an equally putrid tee, and dilapidated sneakers. And to top it all off, I was absolutely covered in mud. Next to him I was a gnome, a short, pudgy garden gnome. All I needed was the pointy red cap and brown leather boots and I could turn to ceramic and sit there amid the petunias.
"Hi!" I said, a little too enthusiastic, but whatever.
He looked over, one eyebrow halfway up his forehead, and promptly ignored me as he walked into the hotel. Well, crap. Wasn't I the receptionist today?
The back door was only a hop, skip, and jump away, literally, and I was in the employee lounge in seconds. Hands were washed, shirt changed into a less-than-crisp white blouse, and hair smoothed back with a black headband. Not bad. Not bad for White Pine Lodge.
"Hi," I said again, slower this time, with a genuine grin.
It was difficult to keep from laughing, naturally, at the look on his face. It was only there a moment and was quickly replaced by, well, confused annoyance, I suppose. He wasn't happy.
"I'm Davlin Fredericks. I'd like a room."
Oh, good word. He's British! No, not British... Welsh! My knees just about gave out.
"Sure. We have an amazing availability right now. Any preferences?"
"Your best room."
"Sure." Something was wrong. Maybe he was just in a trashy mood, but still. It was Tuesday. There was no reason to be so crabby.
White Pine Lodge at the time did not have a state-of-the-art computer program that told us what rooms were available and which were reserved for what dates. We had a little diagram with removable stickers and a log book like way back when. The owner, Manny Lucard, thought it gave the hotel a little charm.
A very little.
However, since customer service is a number-one priority (there are more than one "number one" priorities at White Pine Lodge), I said nothing. I found him a room, one of the best, and that wasn't saying much. It wasn't the best room, technically, but it had the best view and was furthest away from the ice machines. Again, that doesn't say much.
"Room 214, Mr. Fredericks. Up the stairs and to the right."
"Thank you. Have someone bring my things up."
"Sure." Oh, heck no! He could not expect five-star service at a half-star place like White Pine Lodge.
Oh, heck yeah. The portrait of old lady Lucard stared down at me from above the register and I knew I had to go get the man's luggage. It was not going to be a good day.
Mr. Davlin Fredericks had brought enough clothes to last him a month, and he'd reserved the room for less than a week. There were two suitcases, a hanging and overnight bag, as well as the inevitable set of golf clubs. Boy would he be surprised. Our little nine-holer was crap to begin with, and as yet in the season we had had absolutely no rain. The grounds crew were mere days away from painting the fairways green.
Anyway, I huffed and puffed up the stairs, lugging Mighty Mr. Frederick's things up to his room. I arrived and knocked; he was waiting and did a double take when he saw me as bellhop. Nothing was said, but I know he was thinking something. Had to have been.
A little while later the phone rang at the front desk. Naturally it was Mr. Fredericks, wondering when the restaurant closed. He seemed pleased that I was back behind the desk, but that was just an assumption on his part. I was back outside, knee-deep in those stupid petunias. Thank heaven for cordless phones!
Of course that meant that I'd have to go back inside and wait on the man. He may be cute, but that didn't mean I wanted to serve him too! He'd probably have something to say about the groundskeeper, bellhop, receptionist and waitress all being the same person. I couldn't wait until he found out I was the bartender, too.
The restaurant was empty. Surprise, surprise. In fact, I wasn't even sure that Josh, the cook, was in the building. A quick inspection showed that he wasn't. His truck wasn't in the lot. I was not surprised, not really, but I was mad as a wet hen. He was supposed to tell the manager on duty, which happened to be me by default, if he was leaving and get permission. Ooh, would he be in trouble for this!
"What is the house special?" Mr. Davlin Fredericks asked, looking up from the menu I handed him.
I had led him to a table and he sat down, like any customer would, save for that his back was to the window. Maybe he was afraid of heights or something.
"Usually it's broiled trout with rosemary and wild rice."
"Usually?"
"Yeah. Well, for the moment I'm going to give the cook the benefit of the doubt and say he's catching it fresh for us, but really, I have no idea where he is. I can round up some flank steak for you and make some home fries. That's really good. Can I get you something to drink first?"
I'm certain that if I were to say that he was unimpressed with the wine list, nobody would be surprised. He settled for a decent Merlot and even said he didn't expect me to be a master sommelier, though his tone was wanting with civility. Maybe I'd get lucky and he'd leave in the morning. And maybe Lake Michigan will flood Detroit.
The whole meal was a fiasco. The steak burned despite my best efforts. The home fries were passable, but he wouldn't listen to me when I said they tasted better with salsa and hot sauce, so he didn't like it. His loss. The wine passed muster, though he had admitted his standards for that were not high. Not after the last few hours.
By the end of the meal I was less than happy. I had been busting my keister to make this guy happy, going above and beyond the normal customer service standards for White Pine Lodge, and he was so not appreciating it.
"Why do people come here?" he asked while I bussed the table.
I stared at him.
"I mean, the accommodations are- and the service- Yourself excluded, non-existent. I am simply amazed that this resort is even open at all! What allure can a place like this have?"
As I said, the man had sat with his back to the window. It's a huge window, very new when compared with the rest of the place, just installed two or three years ago. It takes up the side of the building, from ceiling to floor and wall to wall. Stupid man.
"That," I said, finally breaking down. I grabbed the back of his chair and forcibly spun it and him around. "That is why people come here."
The whole reason that window-wall was installed was to take full, unadulterated advantage of the view it afforded. I mean, breathtaking does not do it justice, really.
White Pine Lodge, a.k.a. Crappie Creek to the natives, is situated on a hill overlooking a lake, which is usually nothing special in Northern Michigan. There are dozens of hills on lakes up here. What makes White Pine Lodge unique is that there isn't any other civilization up here. Manny Lucard and his family have a little house on the other side and had a little dock and speedboat, but really, that's all. There are these gorgeous old trees all over, and in summer it's positively idyllic. Fall- In the fall, the lodge is packed with people who want to see the colours.
Mr. Fredericks was silent for a good minute.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I didn't see much of him for the rest of the night. The end of the day for me was eight, when the night auditor came in. Josh had reappeared a few hours after my dinner debacle and cleaned the kitchen before leaving again with nary a word. Typical.
The one good thing about living and working in such a small town is that I can rag on my family for bailing on me. My mom and youngest sister are waitresses at White Pine Lodge, the next youngest sister is a maid, and my older sister (lost count yet?) is the receptionist. Granted, Gina was scheduled to be off that day, and Megan was sick, but Lydia and Mom were hale and hearty and complete slackers. The only reason they still had their jobs was because Manny's wife Carol was best friends with Mom, and his daughter Tina was Lydia's best friend. It was just easier for him to keep the women in his life happy and retain those two layabouts.
My seven minute drive home was interrupted before it even started; the night auditor ran out into the employee lot the moment the engine turned over.
"Sorry, 'Lise," he panted, "But Mr. Fredericks' askin' fer ya."
Aside from making my skin crawl at his appalling speech patterns, Hank's summons served to drop a lead weight into my stomach. I did not want to be spending my gorgeous spring night catering to the whims of a Big City businessman who wouldn't or couldn't deal with anyone else.
"Yes, Mr. Fredericks?" I tried to keep the frustration from my voice, but it wasn't happening.
"I just wanted to make sure you would be here in the morning. And your manager."
Bizarre. "Uh, yeah, I think Manny'll be in tomorrow. He sets his own schedule. I'll be here bright and squirrelly at seven."
He actually, audibly sighed. "Good. Thank you. I'd like my breakfast served in my room promptly at 7:30."
For breakfast he wanted two eggs, lightly fried and salted, two pieces of dry toast, a small pot of seedless blackberry jam set to the left of the eggs, four ounces of orange juice in a cut-glass tumbler and a cup of black coffee with an ounce of cream drizzled in but not stirred.
Like the dutiful secretary that I wasn't, I took down a letter-perfect message of finicky Mr. Fredericks' order. Then I stared at it. The whole situation was ludicrous. We didn't take special orders for breakfast, not like that. Our concept of customer service did not extend to tailor-making meals with that kind of precision. I'd have to talk to Manny about that when next I saw him.
Half an hour later, after making sure we had all the necessary ingredients for the offending party's breakfast, as I had all ready agreed to make it for him, I finally got to go home. It was going to be a long, long week.
Chapter Two: Cherry Posted on Tuesday, 7 March 2006
I saw two deer on my way home. They stood by the side of the road and looked up as I roared by in my little beater. It was so serene there in the twilight that I could almost forget my day. Almost. How in the world was I going to find, let alone make, seedless blackberry jam? And why in the world did he think he could order me around like I was his personal servant?
Thank goodness my drive home was only ten minutes. By the time I got there, the tension of the day had eased to the point where I could actually think about going back to work and not grind my teeth into powder. Time for the nighttime tension to start.
I really, really need to move out. Gina and I could probably, between the two of us, manage a little one-room apartment in town. So long as my dad kept making the "house" payments and the like, we'd live at home.
Ah, home. That was a euphemism. It wasn't even a house, just a trailer out in the middle of a stretch of land a mile or two out of town. Five of us shared three bedrooms and one bathroom; my dad didn't spend a lot of time at home. Gina and I had shared a room almost from infancy; Megan and Lydia had their own room, and Mom, well, Mom naturally had her own. Like I said, Dad wasn't around much. His business kept him travelling.
It has been pointed out to me that I have to love my family, but I don't have to like them. I love my mother and younger sisters, but da- dangnabit they are pains in the a- posterior. Mom flirts with anything that moves, not that I don't, but I'm at least subtle and sincere about my flirtation. Lydia was just like Mom, and Megan tried to distance herself from all of us with her technological education. She grumbled a lot that she had a degree and was working at White Pine Lodge. I pointed out, quite frequently, that I had a degree as well and worked there too, and that her degree could at least take her somewhere if she would just look.
I got home in time for Mum to start shrieking at Megan about dinner.
"Meggie, you were supposed to plug in the slow-cooker! What have you been doing all day?"
There was a muffled reply from Megan's room. I kinda felt bad for her. For the last three days she'd had the worst cold I'd seen since last year. This time, however, she stood her ground and didn't let Mom or Lydia make her camp out on the sofa. For that I'm proud of her.
The usual hysteria followed. I hid. I had learned by then that when Mom and Lyddie got into one of their high fits there was nothing stopping them from carrying it through to the exhausting end. One of them could not just sit by and watch the other have a fit; either both of them were screaming and flailing around the house or both were utterly exhausted from such a fiasco. Is it any wonder I spent so many hours in my room?
I had the strangest dreams that night. They were probably brought on by the pizza, fried chicken, and cole slaw we had for dinner, heavy, greasy fare that rarely sits well on my stomach in such quantities.
I was walking barefoot down the road in high summer, and my feet were stained blue, like I had been stomping on grapes to make wine. A huge roar started from behind me. Before I knew it, a dark blue Jaguar drove past, hell bent for leather, kicking up dirt and rocks like nobody's business. Just as it passed me, who other than Davlin Fredericks leans out the window and shouts: "I love you, you're perfect, now change!"
I look down and I'm suddenly wearing a frilly pink confection of a dress, some terrible prom gown gone wrong, and I'm at a party where I know absolutely nobody. Then, right there, is Davlin Fredericks, leering at me like I'm some kind of prize. He extended his hand, escorted me to a kind of dais and whispered in my ear: "I like my eggs lightly fried and salted, with dry toast, a small pot of seedless blackberry jam set to the left of the eggs, four ounces of orange juice in a cut-glass tumbler and a cup of black coffee with an ounce of cream drizzled in but not stirred." I woke up right then.
The digital readout on my alarm read 5:34 a.m. There was no chance in the Uh-Uh Place I would be able to get to sleep again, not without severely compromising my morning rituals and making me fantastically late. The last thing I wanted to do was be late for anything, especially work and especially when I had to cater to the demands of Fussy Mr. Fredericks, a man of obvious wealth and influence, or at least an incredibly inflated sense of self-worth.
Yeah, I know, with that kind of pernickety order, I could've done any number of things. I could've served him the same stuff we serve everyone else the same way we serve everyone else. I could've been a few minutes late in getting the food to him, or early for that matter. I could've given him his orange juice in a blown glass goblet or stirred the cream into the coffee. I could've given him his blackberry jam with the seeds still in it.
But I didn't. I couldn't. My own sense of self-worth would've suffered, and my work ethic wouldn't allow it. He was the customer, I was in the business of customer service. Besides, if I continue to bust my rear to get him the level of service he wants, it would be beneficial in the long run. He might give me a nice tip at the end of his stay, or exert some influence over Manny and get me a better, more stable position. Heck, if he was as powerful as he seemed, he could get me a job somewhere else entirely, and I could get out of f- frickin' Northern Michigan!
I knew that the morning cook would be at the Lodge early, and while I was certain that she could manage Picky Mr. Fredericks' breakfast, I had the distinct feeling he would flip out if anyone but myself handled it. Seeing as I couldn't sleep any more, I decided to get my day started. It was going to be a long one, I knew it.
No amount of caffeine could wake me up in the morning. I could have a shot of espresso and be a very hyper sleepyhead all day. Even a hot, or cold, shower couldn't shake me awake. Lucky for me I've learned how to cope, and drive, in that state of mind.
At least the cook didn't say anything when I showed up at 6:30. By twenty minutes after seven I was setting plates on a tray and putting the finishing touches on the meal for Choosy Mr. Fredericks. It was no mean feat carrying it upstairs or down the hall, and I was obliged to kick the door to signal that I was there, but by golly I was there at 7:30 a.m. on the dot and the meal was perfect.
I just about dropped my teeth when I walked into his room. I swear, when I fixed it up the day before, everything was clean. The bathroom had been scrubbed and disinfected, the sheets washed and pressed, the floors vacuumed, and the windows washed within a sparkling inch of their glass. Should a person wish to, he could eat off the carpet.
Davlin Fredericks was not such a person. Along with enough clothing to last half a lifetime, Mr. Fredericks had brought half the cleaning aisle of K-Mart, right down to the gallon jug of hand sanitizer. I nearly choked on the stench of bleach as I passed the bathroom. A bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towel graced a small table, and the glare from the window was blinding. He had cleaned the place again! It was enough to make me think he didn't trust the place...
And then I realised it. Every picture had been straightened. The magazines were stacked precisely so on the TV stand. His shoes were lined up on the floor, toes tucked under the bed. My stomach dropped into my knees.
"Thank you, Miss Benjamin," he said. "Set the tray on the table."
I was almost out the door when:
"I beg your pardon."
I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. Still, professionalism held strong over my desire to bolt.
"Yes, Mr. Fredericks?"
"The jam."
"What about it?"
"It's in the wrong place."
"Wha-a-at?" Oh, no! Not this!
I strode over to the table and stared at the plate, then turned it 180 degrees.
"Better?"
He actually sighed with relief.
"Yes, thank you."
It was not going to be pretty. I was working with, or for, a guy with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The best thing I could say, for being in that particular situation at that particular resort, was "Thank goodness he's not a counter." I couldn't deal with an Obsessive Compulsive Counter. I could deal with the Neatnik, which Fastidious Mr. Fredericks was, but not a Counter. And if he had, for whatever reason, latched onto me as some kind of assistant, things would not go well. I didn't want to deal with the Neatnik.
The door had barely closed behind me when I heard the noise I dreaded. The deadbolt clicked; not once, but four times. A pain started in my left temple and stabbed inward. This was not good.
Manny showed up at 8:45, as usual, and ambled in like nothing special.
"Hey, Manny, there's a Mr. Davlin Fredericks upstairs that wants to see you ASAP."
"Oh, good. I've been waiting for him."
Say what? Something was going on. This was unusual to say the least. Manny waited for nobody, and for him to be waiting for this bloke was something... I just couldn't figure it out.
The whole rest of the day I was busy. The skies opened at noon and poured down buckets of rain, which would make my next job more difficult, if not boring as h- boring can be. I left White Pine Lodge at noon thirty and drove to my next destination: Tredwell Orchards, where I worked part time. Cherry season was just starting, with sweets ripening and being picked by a large clan of migrant workers. Lucky me, I got to sort out the dozens of lugs brought in daily, pitching the split and/or rotting ones and eating as many as I liked. I'd worked there for four summers and I still wasn't sick of them.
However, with the torrential downpour, the workers weren't picking and the morning crew had sorted what had been brought in. That left me to tend the shop, a quaint little curio thing full of everything cherry related. Again, with the rain, there were no customers. I swept, straightened, dusted, restocked, everything imaginable. In the end, there was nothing for me to do!
The rain was, at least, warm, and I really wanted to go out and dance around in it. The sand outside was soft enough, and there weren't many rocks so going barefoot was lovely, on the few occasions I had to do so. I tried to keep my mind off the total boredom, but it wasn't really working. There were only so many radio stations that came in clearly in that old pole barn, and I can't stand country-western music. As a result I got National Public Radio, and they were running a block of Schubert. Now, I love Schubert, but it isn't really Dance in the Rain music. Maybe for waltzing or ballet.
After half an hour of that, I realised that my boss wasn't anywhere near the orchard. The rain wasn't letting up, either, which was good; no need to paint the grass at White Pine Lodge. I could dance if I wanted to, and leave my friends behind... Oh, how I wished for a CD player.
My mind was just made up and there was a phone call. First instinct: It was the bossman, telling me that if I so much as took my sandals off I would be fired. Yeah, like that was a possibility.
"Hello, Tredwell Orchards, how can I help you?"
"Miss Benjamin?"
Oh Holy Freddy Krueger...
"Mr. Fredericks. How can I help you?"
"I need you back here. My partner is arriving tomorrow and I want to make sure his arrangements are spot-on."
Spot-on? Partner? It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if this stuffed-shirt hard-to-please man was gay, but why didn't Partner Boy travel up with him? Why wasn't Partner Boy staying in the same room with the Compulsive? I supposed it was to throw the general public off the scent. Such a thing wouldn't go over terribly well in Rawley, or anywhere in the area for that matter.
"I'm sure Gina can handle that, Mr. Fredericks. I can't exactly leave right now."
"Manny Lucard has assured me that you will do all you can to assist me, Miss Benjamin. I would like you to handle the arrangements for Mr. Clarke."
My head hit the counter as if my eyebrows were made of lead.
"I can't just get up and leave, Mr. Fredericks," I muttered. "I'm the only one here."
"Miss Benjamin, I believe it would be in your best interest to coordinate your schedule so that you will be available to me from this point onward."
I hung up on him. There was no way in Hades that I would change my whole life around to cater to that anal-retentive son of a b- bicycle rider!
For me to sufficiently calm down, I decided to do what I'd been wanting. I left my comfy sandals at the door and walked out into the rain. With Schubert playing in the background I began to twirl and jump around, even going so far as to jump in puddles and generally ignore the cars careening down the road, windshield wipers slashing rain off the glass. It was heaven!
And then! And then! And then, as I was spinning around like a child, soaked through, eyes closed, I heard the purr of a high-quality import car and felt the heat from the lamps. Opening my eyes would have made it a harsh reality, even in the soft grey light, and I tried to keep them closed as I kept twirling. It wasn't to last, of course. A large hand grasped my wrist and I had to stop.
There was Mr. Davlin Fredericks frowning down on me, a storm cloud unto himself.
Chapter Three: Vanilla Posted on Monday, 3 April 2006
If anyone could squash my mood faster, I have yet to meet him. I had known the man for a day, little more, and here he was, ready to go all caveman on me and drag me back to that time-warped little resort. Rather than haul my short little posterior to his car, however, Mr. Davlin Fredericks forced me back into the fruit stand.
"What's this about your not being able to leave because you were too busy?"
"I never said I was busy. I said I was the only one here. Do you see anyone else?"
"I need you at White Pines."
"Tough beans!" Man oh man, his hair was so curly ... "What makes you think you can barge in here and start ordering me around?"
For a brief moment he didn't have an answer.
"That hotel is the most appalling piece of commercial property that I have ever laid eyes on and the staff is atrocious."
"Thanks." It was cold in the pole barn, and the rain was deafening.
"Apart from you! You're the only one in the place who has her act together-"
"Gina does, too, and she happens to be my sister." I was getting some strange, perverse pleasure from watching him squirm, which he did so well. And hearing him curse was like ... Like what happens to a smoker who is trying to quit and someone lights up two feet away.
"Look, it's just very difficult for me to trust people these days, and you seem to be the most competent person whom I have met." The words, lead weights, fell awkwardly from his mouth. "I would greatly appreciate if, while I am staying at the hotel, that you assist me in any way I need."
"I'm not your f- bl- I'm not at your beck and call, Mr. Fredericks. It's against my nature."
I walked away and went in search of my jacket. It had become quite apparent to me that I was soaked through and wearing a light-coloured shirt. Not that the neat freak, who was actually standing stock still, hands clasping his elbows so not to touch anything, would try something.
"I can make it worth your while, Miss Benjamin."
All sorts of filthy thoughts ran through my mind, right on the heels of the filthy thoughts from his last statement.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I am willing to augment your wages at the resort. Substantially."
Ooh, damn. (That word I was allowed, since it was one my dad used all the time.) He was going to pay me more, under the table, which would not be taxed. How bad could it be?
"I'm listening."
It was his turn to say "Beg pardon?"
"What, you think I'm going to just jump at any offer of better pay? I'm not an idiot, Mr. Fredericks. What are the terms? What do you expect from me? What kind of 'substantial augmentation' are you talking about?"
I expected him to start spouting off lines from Labyrinth. "I ask for so little. Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave." But Davlin Fredericks was no David Bowie, for all his good looks, and I sincerely doubted that he would stoop to begging.
He paced around for a moment or two, glaring at the quarts of cherries and cracks in the concrete. My feet were freezing and I had mud drying on my calves. If he didn't answer soon, all bets were off.
"As I'm sure you've noticed, I have rather peculiar traits."
"That's an understatement."
"I'll ignore that. I would expect you to prepare my meals and run errands for me. This is a working trip, and I won't have time to find the things I'll need. I can pay you twice your current rate, plus travel expenses. Manny Lucard has assured me that you can be spared from your regular duties when I need you."
That was quite the offer. A little extra work for a lot extra pay. Not bad at all, really. "Is there anything else?"
He considered his shoes. "Due to the nature of my work, you would have to stay at the resort. I may need you to fetch things at odd hours at night."
Hmm. On one hand, I would be away from Mom and Lydia and their craziness. On the other, I could be woken at two a.m. to get something like mineral water blessed by a Buddhist monk, and the nearest 24 hour store was about an hour away. On the other ... I'd be away from Mom and Lydia.
"I like the sound of this, Mr. Fredericks," I said. "But I gotta make a few changes. I don't mind driving all over to get you your seedless blackberry jam or whatever, but 'odd hours of the night' isn't going to happen. If I get less than six hours of sleep, things get very, very ugly. So, how about between midnight and six I get to sleep?"
"Eleven and five."
"Fine. What about days off? I can't work all day, every day."
He was fidgeting something fierce. "Saturdays and Sundays?"
"Sounds good. Naturally, I'll want a copy of this in writing."
He stared at me, shocked that this little mud-spattered hippie chick would dare ask for something so simple!
"What? I'm not so much of a simpleton as you think, Mr. Fredericks! I don't want to get in over my head here and have you start asking me to do things that we didn't agree on."
In the amount of time that passed, his eyes could have dried up and fallen out of his skull. I don't think he blinked once.
"Right. I'll draw up the agreement when I return to the resort and have it at the front counter."
"Okay then. I'll look over it when I get in tomorrow and we can talk. Breakfast same as today?"
Watching him fidget could be one of the funniest things I've ever witnessed. He really, really wanted to get out of there.
"Uh, yes, please."
"All right. Here." I upended a quart of fresh sweets into a baggie and handed them to him. "Compliments of Tredwell Orchards. Welcome to Michigan."
In addition to everything we had discussed at the fruit stand, Infuriating Mr. Fredericks added a provision that the contract was not set in stone and that if a change needed to be made, it would have to be agreed upon by both parties. It was remarkably fair of him and took me by complete surprise. I added my name right next to his tight, spiky signature, and though it still grated a little that I was more or less a servant, for the foreseeable future I was contractually obligated to Mr. Davlin Fredericks.
First order of business: Make sure Partner Boy's room was ready. Mr. Fredericks chose the room adjoining his for the guy, whose name I had yet to learn. Partner Boy would be arriving around 1 p.m. and everything had to be ready. Bed linens were changed. Fixtures were dusted. Chrome polished. DSL and cable lines prepped, which added to my unease to the whole situation. Nobody else had ever had this kind of consideration shown to them, ever. Business people did not come to White Pine Lodge to conduct business. There had to be something else going on...
Second order of business: Call all staff and announce an emergency meeting for 6 p.m. A mandatory meeting; if you don't show, you're fired. Manny had never made such a demand before, and if I hadn't seen the look on his face when he told me, I would never have believed it.
I was busy at the other end of the resort when Partner Boy arrived, and Mr. Fredericks didn't call for any help, which surprised me again, so I didn't know who this other guy was until that night.
We all assembled in the "conference room," a.k.a. the dining room, starting at about 5:30ish, with others drifting in as they wanted to. Each new person was just as clueless as the last, and by the time it was to start, speculation was running wild. I didn't pay any attention to it, since Mr. Fredericks had me running around like a headless chicken, making sure refreshments were ready and that everyone was in attendance.
My mother, bless her heart, had one of the more outrageous ideas, which I had heard for the last few days but again, chose to ignore. My mother, if you must know, believes that Bigfoot lives in the woods behind our house and that Elvis lives above a shoe shop just outside of Muskegon. That's just ridiculous. Everyone knows Elvis has a little cottage in Paradise, up on Lake Superior.
"White Pine Lodge is going to be the location of some big Hollywood film!" she said. "I had it from Carol just the other day. She couldn't tell me details, naturally, since it's all hush-hush, but that's what it is! Celebrities will be arriving sometime tomorrow!"
If only that were true. A film industry invasion would be welcome. Of course that wasn't the real story. At promptly 6:10 the doors closed and the room hushed. I felt like a cow being sent to slaughter and had just realised it, and the rest of the people there felt the same way, I imagine.
Manny Lucard stood up at the makeshift dais, looking a little worse for wear. Whatever he had to say didn't appear to be great news. In fact, he looked like... like he was being blackmailed or something.
"Can I have your attention, please?" His voice was a little hoarse, and his commonplace smile was gone.
The request was unnecessary. Once he'd stepped up there all eyes were on him.
"I'd like to say that White Pine Lodge has been in my family for generations. I've tried to make it a homey kind of place for travellers and a comfortable place to work. Unfortunately, times are tough right now, as I'm sure y'all know, and White Pine Lodge just can't compete with the bigger places along the lake and down in the city."
Not good, not good at all... this was boding very badly. Murmurs started weaving through the crowd, as murmurs like to, little pockets of chatter as the mood dropped. For as long as I'd worked at the resort, I'd seen fewer and fewer people checking in as the years went by. The neighbouring resorts had things like ski lifts and high quality runs in winter; White Pine Lodge was home to a small sledding hill. They had lush, emerald-green golf courses; we... didn't. Their pool was indoors, and heated; ours was outside and not heated, and often played host to falling leaves and that one kid that likes to pee in the water. The worst thing would be that White Pine Lodge was going to close and we'd all be out of a job. But then, why would Manny have made the "No show, no job" threat?
Everything fell into place a few seconds later. The back door opened and all eyes turned to see who entered: It was none other than Mr. Davlin Fredericks and Partner Boy... who happened to be hometown football star Byron Clarke!
This would obviously be the titled pair of Fredericks and Clarke, in the hotel and resort industry, famous for creating some of the most luxurious and barely affordable resorts in the country. How could I not see this? Mr. Fredericks' interest in the hotel and the staff, not to mention the surrounding area all should have been clues. This was not going to be good at all!
"Y'all have been like family to me, Carol, and Tina," Manny continued. "And it's a real wrench to have to say this. Like I said, right now White Pine Lodge just can't compete with the bigger resorts."
Manny loved his drama.
"So I sold it."
Chapter Four: Chocolate Orange Posted on Wednesday, 19 April 2006
A general wail went up from the crowd. Many of them had worked there for ages, and the mere thought of some newcomer Fudgie from Chicago taking over and remodelling (because let's face it, the place was unofficially called Crappie Creek. Real jump of the imagination why, huh?) sent most into a tizzy. Change? In their beloved resort? Nevah!
So Davlin Fredericks took the stage as it were, followed by the hulking Byron Clarke. Manny introduced them again and bowed gracefully out.
"I would like to detail our plans for the resort insofar as we have made them," Mr. Fredericks said.
Ooh, that man was sweating! One hand straightened his tie while the other was hidden. I peeked around the makeshift podium and saw why: he had one of those retractable pens and was clicking it open and shut in a sequence of three, four, three, ever repeating and speeding up.
"For the time being, we plan to keep all of you on staff. The resort will continue to operate while plans are made for modifications and improvements. Once a final decision is made as to the aesthetic aspects of the building and grounds, we will discuss how best to proceed."
"Basically what my partner here is sayin' is that y'all get to keep your jobs while we figure out what changes we need to make to make White Pine Lodge even better!" Byron translated. There was an audible sigh from the group.
To clarify, those who live above the 45th parallel are not idiots. Sure, some of the employees of White Pine Lodge had barely finished high school. The vast majority of us were intelligent, rational human beings, but when mixed in with those who were (sad to say) not, the collective IQ seemed to drop dramatically. It's that whole mass-hysteria thing in action, only with intelligence. That, and most people up here are plain folk and not given to fancy talk.
"There may be a time when, while the grounds and buildings are under renovation, that the resort will have to close or reduce hours. In that event, you will be given adequate compensation for time missed."
At least I wasn't the only one exasperated by Davlin Fredericks' attitudes. After Byron translated a second time, he pulled his partner aside for a few words, which I, being close enough, could overhear.
"Hey, listen, Davlin, I know you're not incredibly pleased to be up here, but remember, this is my pet project. These are my people you're talking to. They get offended and confused when Fudgies use five-dollar words when five-cent ones work. They think you're pulling a fast one on 'em."
Wow. Things must cost more in Chicago.
Fussy Mr. Fredericks simply sneered and let Byron finish up.
"I know this is a lot of change for ya," he said, giving his best Boy Next Door grin. "But I promise, me and Davlin here'll try to make it go as easy as possible. The last thing we want is to upset alla'ya'll."
I couldn't tell if his drawl was real or marvellously put-on, which was a real treat. It certainly made his more accessible to the general public, for all his neatly-tailored suit and carefully careless hair. Byron Clarke, like the rest of the Clarke clan, had spent much of their lives up in neighbouring Preston. Preston happened to be a handful of miles from Rawley, and both schools were small enough to have to co-op and cobble together a football team, though the rest of the year we were bitter enemies. The most ironic thing was, my roommate at college was from Preston, and she's the sweetest person I know next to my sister Gina. Marlowe happens to have four older brothers, one of which was standing up front in the dining room of Crappie Creek.
Nothing looked better than my bed that night, my last night at home for the foreseeable future. My bed, however, was buried under the entire contents of my closet, which I was trying to cram into a much-battered duffel I snagged from an army-surplus store. There would be time for laundry later.
"How could you not know about this, Elise?" my mother asked when we all got back. "I mean, the scuttlebutt I heard was that that dishy Davlin Fredericks wants you for his assistant or something."
Dishy Davlin Fredericks? It was an adjective that definitely applied to him, but I was less than receptive at the time.
"He doesn't really talk, Ma."
"At least not like a normal person!" She snorted and leaned against the doorframe. "You know, it wouldn't be a bad idea if you managed to make the relationship a little more personal. Just think of the money he's got! But then ... he doesn't seem all that personable. He's definitely not our kind."
I really wanted to say to her "No, Ma, he's not our kind. He's a million times better. He's intelligent, articulate, and has ambitions beyond this little hole of a town. He's got class, respect, and a decent job. All we've got is a beat-up Chevy or two, a trailer out in a swamp, and piddly little jobs in a piddly little resort."
Instead, I said: "Yeah."
"Still, you should make the most of it. Who knows, he might be worth something in the long run."
"You sound like I should ransom him to the parent company for a half a million, Ma."
She laughed her twittering, completely fake laugh and sauntered into her room. Me, I sank back into my bed and whimpered. It was too much. I couldn't do this! I was a clerk at best, spazz at worst. This guy was a professional! What was he going to have me do all day?
Gina walked in and smacked my foot.
"So, you're abandoning me, huh?"
"Apparently. I'll put in a good word for you, though. Partner Boy seemed to like you."
It's very easy to make Gina blush. I hadn't been able to break myself from referring to Byron Clarke as Partner Boy, and he had been very interested in Gina. The feeling, so it would seem, was mutual.
"I always had a crush on him, actually," she whispered. If Mom got any hints as to someone we liked, she was on the scent like some overbred bloodhound and we got no peace.
"That's sick and wrong, Gina. He was out of high school before we got out of middle."
"So? You have to remember, I'm a year older. I'm more mature."
"Sure you are. Why am I doing this?"
"Because you love a challenge," she said, ever the kind, saintly one. She picked up my duffel and dropped it on the ground. "Because you know it's an opportunity that will never come again. And because you're just dying to know what kind of undies Mr. Fredericks wears."
My pillow landed on her face.
"I'll save a pair of Byron's briefs for you."
"I think he's more of a boxers kind of guy, actually."
"Not something I want to think about."
"What about Mr. Fredericks?"
"Why does he get the 'Mr. Fredericks' treatment, but Partner Boy is Byron?"
"That's not answering my question, Ellie."
"I don't want to think about your question, Gina."
"Humour me. You're leaving me on my own here for the next few weeks. Need I tell you what that'll do to me?"
"Fine. I think that Mr. Davlin Fredericks is definitely a briefs kinda guy."
"See, now, was that so hard?"
"Yes. I need to puke now, thankyouverymuch."
The window was open, letting in a soft breeze and sleepy birdsong. I'd never actually spent the night at White Pine Lodge before and it had been ages since I was in a hotel. There was some note of absurdity about the whole situation. A note? Try a whole friggin' symphony!
"But you know, he really is cute." Gina broke me out of my reverie with a sleepy little sigh.
"Which one?"
"Does it really matter? Byron, you silly goose! Though, Mr. Fredericks is pretty good looking, too."
"I won't argue that. He's just a freak."
And what a freak he was. First thing in the morning, after his peculiar breakfast needs, he had me clean and disinfect one of the suites so that he could set up an office and be fairly self-contained. Byron Clarke got to keep the room I set up for him as it was right next door and me, I got to move into the spare bedroom of the suite. I wasn't comfortable with that, but it made sense. And I could lock my doors.
Imagine Mr. Fredericks' astonishment when I admitted the sorry fact that I did not have a cell phone.
"You'll need one," he said as soon as he regained a reasonable facsimile of composure.
"Only if you're footing the bill. I haven't needed one yet, and once you're gone I still won't need one. You want I should go out and get one of those pre-paid dealies?"
The look of disgust he gave me was classic. "No. In my experience they are patently unreliable. Where is the nearest place to get one?"
"'bout an hour away." There was one closer, but the two or three times I'd been in there I was less than impressed. The shop in the city was far better.
"All right. Take the afternoon and go set up some kind of service, whatever will work out in this wilderness. Save your receipts. I'll make sure you're reimbursed."
"I don't have a credit card, either, genius," I said, then clamped one hand over my mouth. The last word wasn't supposed to be said.
He glowered. I didn't really know what a "glower" was until that moment, and afterwards I got really friendly with that expression. A pause of some length followed, broken when he reached for his wallet and extracted a silver bit of plastic.
"It would behove you, Miss Benjamin, to watch your language and level of formality when addressing your superiors," he said, voice on par with the frigidity found in that Northernmost Lake somewhere around January. "I don't want to hear you talking like some common hoodlum. You sound ignorant, and I know you're not."
Another almost compliment, along the lines of being one of the more competent employees at the resort. It was the best I'd get from him for the time being, not that I was looking for any affection or validation. If I lived through this experience without committing homicide I'd be happy.
I was almost to the store when I realised: I was being paid to drive around and shop. This might not be so bad after all. A shiny new picture phone was charged to Fredericks International, the parent company that spawned Fredericks and Clarke. With it came a year-long plan that had the works: unlimited anytime minutes, free text messaging, and as many photos as I could take.
I took the long way back, letting the phone charge as I drove. The windows were down, music loud, and I sang along like nobody was listening. They weren't, since the long way back was mostly back roads that didn't have a lot of traffic on the best days, and only let one car through at a time. Heaven help the poor stooge who was going the wrong way!
He was watching me as I pulled into the little driveway near the back entrance. The suite was on the wrong side of the resort to allow the lake view and instead overlooked the pathetic fairway and start of the sledding hill. But I knew he was watching me. I could feel those dark eyes on my neck as I scrambled out of the little Chevy I had inherited from a former teacher. What he was thinking would have to remain a mystery; I had no intention of asking. I knew my hair was a mess. It always is. I'd given up trying to brush it in high school, and since then I'd kept it close-cropped. Other than that, however, I wasn't overly unkempt. Maybe he just felt the need to supervise every move I made, being the control freak I had pegged him as.
"Miss Benjamin, I have just received news that the designer Mr. Clarke works with will be arriving later today with her assistant and my dog. Please make sure all accommodations are made."
"No problem." Save that White Pine Lodge didn't necessarily welcome pets, but he was the new boss, so he made the rules. "Wait a minute. Your dog?"
"Yes, my dog. Is that a problem?"
"No, no. I just guess I thought you were more of a goldfish person."
He snorted and ignored me the rest of the afternoon. I was so lucky to be available to greet the darling Candy Carmichael and her snotty little assistant later that night. With them was the biggest German Shepherd I'd ever seen, a right behemoth that flowed out of the car and sat with all kinds of regal airs while he waited for the girls to step out.
I'd made the attempt to iron out my dress shirt, and the largest crease was just under the armpit. Aside from that, I'd thought I was doing well as far as appearances went, but when those two emerged I knew I was outclassed. It's not difficult to do that, but still! They were all coiffed and manicured and perfectly pressed, not a speck of lint or dog fur on their designer suits. Me, I was back to being a garden gnome.
The blonder of the two stepped forward. This one had to be Candy. "What a simply darling place," she said. I knew she meant every word... to sound fake. Ooh, lovely. "So rustic."
"Yes, it's one of the many charms of White Pine Lodge. My name is Elise Benjamin. Mr. Fredericks asked me to show you to his office once you've arrived. I hope you had a pleasant trip."
Both of them ignored me and went into the resort. I'd loved to have seen their faces when they saw the deep pile shag carpeting and wood panelling, but I stayed outside a second longer, contemplating the dog.
He sniffed my hand and determined that I was an okay person, since he let me scratch his ears and seemed to like it. Soon enough, 80 pounds of canine muscle, fur, and bone was leaning against my leg enough to make me step aside. Sweet dog. How did he end up with a guy like Davlin Fredericks?
Chapter Five: Peanut Butter Posted on Tuesday, 30 May 2006
So I got to follow the Wonder Twins into the resort with perhaps the doggiest dog on my heels. I still couldn't get over how well-behaved this mutt was. My aunt's dog Bandit would be all over the place like the long-legged horse I swore he was bred from. It was a nice change, though, to not have my arm pulled out of its' socket.
Candy was making some comment about the state of the 'window treatments' which most people I'd dealt with called them 'curtains.' Her assistant wrote everything down, and managed to do it in heels and without looking where she was going. I found it funny that Candy had to stop and actually look around before asking where she could find Mr. Fredericks' office.
"This way, please," I said. Good thing my back was to them, they couldn't see my smirk.
"God, Bruno, keep away from me," Candy said. "The last thing I need is your slobber on my skirt."
I bit back a comment about classical conditioning, realising how unfounded it was. Maybe he just liked her nylons.
I was not privy to the meeting, sad to say. There was work still to be done, reservations to make and general stuff to do. The curiosity was killer. I mean, I wanted to know what was going on behind those closed doors. It would affect my future, man!
Business around the resort kept me busy the rest of the day, which was fine. Byron ended up giving the Wonder Twins the grand tour of the area, from restaurant and rooms to clubhouse and pool. They couldn't do too much with the golf course, and only Byron laughed when I suggested putting in a putt-putt course in lieu of refurbishing and reseeding the full-sized greens.
Mr. Fredericks was on the phone all afternoon with landscapers and real estate people, trying to buy the 40 acres behind the resort in order to expand. It was too soon to be certain just how beneficial all these changes were going to be; I liked walking back in those woods on my lunch breaks, camera in hand, and snapping photos for use in other projects. What if he was going to level everything and put in ski lifts? A water slide? Some kind of exclusive country club thing? No, I didn't like this one bit.
Gina stayed with me that night, more because she wanted to spend more time with Byron than helping me settle into this new role I had. I couldn't blame her, the man kept making cow eyes at her whenever he thought nobody was looking, and she did much the same. Funny how two people can be in the same county for much of their lives and never know the other existed... It was cute, in a way, seeing that big ole' football player stumble all over himself around my sister.
"Candy's nice," she said, smoothing out a new tee shirt. "And Sandy, too."
"Sandy? You're kidding, right?"
"It's short for Alexandrea, actually, but she don't like being called Alex or Lexi or whatever."
"Doesn't, you mean." It would figure that the Wonder Twins would have rhyming names. "Are they sisters?"
"Not really. Step-sisters, in a way."
"Hmm. Well, it's good that they like you. Shows they have taste." The bed I'd been given, so to speak, was lumpy. Hopefully part of the proposed changes to Crappie Creek would be new mattresses. Maybe those special space foam ones, or the air chamber ones. I wouldn't mind testing them out.
"Oh, cut it out. You just haven't been able to spend as much time with them. Candy's got talent comin' out her ears, you should hear what she's thinking about doing to this old place! Sounds dreamy."
"Hmph. Come on, let's go. I'll bet I have to make something for Finicky Mr. Fredericks."
"He can't be that bad." Gina took one last look in the mirror, making sure she was perfect. Not difficult for her. "I mean, he's friends with Byron. You just don't know him very well."
Much to my surprise, Davlin Fredericks partook of the pizza and beer that Byron insisted on for dinner. Not just pizza, but pizza with everything. He actually had his own, with pepperoni, green peppers, and ... anchovies. Bruno sat by his feet, licking his chops and waiting for scraps.
I was still amazed by that dog. When inside the building he was a docile behemoth, sitting quietly by his master's feet or curled up on the bed. Outside, he ran with reckless abandon and phenomenal speed after anything thrown. Yes, that was part of the business that kept me busy: Bruno's daily exercise. I like getting paid to play.
It was getting late, even for May, and the sun was setting. One problem with the situation of White Pine Lodge was the trees on the western edge of the lake: we could only see the sunset for so long. Still, while it was there, all was quiet. Even Bruno didn't whine for a treat. The whole restaurant was bathed in a wonderful ruddy orange while the seven of us watched the sky turn from red to orange to violet to dark navy, the few puffy clouds transformed into cotton candy. I wished for my camera, or at least film to put into it.
When the nightly show was over and the stars began to twinkle, Candy pulled all attention back to herself.
"So, what is there to do around here, anyway?"
Before I could stop myself: "Drink and sleep around."
Candy and Sandy had identical horrified expressions on their overly made-up faces. Davlin Fredericks scowled. Poor Gina was embarrassed and Byron was trying very hard not to laugh.
"Sorry," I mumbled. "Poor taste, I know, but it's true. There isn't much to do up here, especially at night. People just hang out and drink."
Candy looked from Sandy to Davlin Fredericks and back. They all looked to Byron.
"Hey, there's a pool table downstairs, isn't there?" he said, completely oblivious to the horror his companions felt. Gina concurred and the troupe followed, albeit reluctantly. Lemmings, all of us.
There was a little lounge kind of thing in the "basement" or sunk into the hill upon which the main building sat. There were doors that opened onto the front lawn, which lead down to the lake, a fully stocked bar even though it was rarely used, and a few bar games. The requisite furniture was there: high stools, a few comfy chairs, and a TV/conversation pit. On one end was the entertainment centre, the other had a fireplace.
Candy and Sandy chittered away to each other while shooting numerous less-than-subtle or friendly glances my way. The other three were absorbed in racking up and shooting a game of pool. I got to scratch Bruno's ears. For an hour. No talking. Nothing. Longest time I've been privy to a tense silence ever.
"Ooh! Carla called yesterday. She's wondering if you're going to Public Parking tomorrow night."
"I was wondering when I'd hear from her. I'll call her now." I pulled out my pretty new phone and began to dial her number.
"That's intended for business use." He spoke! Not a surprise that he was disapproving, but it was something for me to address right away.
"I'm still on the clock, then?"
"Yes."
"And I'll be on the clock until eleven?"
"That was our agreement."
"Okay. Well, after eleven it'll be too late to call. Before five will be too early. Seeing as right now I'm just sitting here, I should be able to call my friend to see what she's doing tomorrow night, which happens to be my night off."
"Right you should. But not on a company phone."
"I don't have my own cell, which is why you had me go out and buy one."
"Yes, I remember."
"So do I get to go out and build a fire to send smoke signals? Find a conch shell? Stretch a few animal skins across a bowl and beat the message out that way?"
Another lovely tense moment, this time with the two of us staring at each other.
"Do you think you're clever?" he asked.
"Sometimes."
He ended up letting me make the call, conceding with the strangest expression on his annoyingly handsome face.
"I tell you, the man is a sadist!" I leaned back against the hood of Bubba's truck, Carla next to me. We watched the guys do stunts with skateboards and bikes and crash spectacularly, all without helmets or pads.
"Is he now?"
"Totally. He likes watching me squirm."
"So quit. You've got enough experience to get a job somewhere else."
"Eh, I make more with him than I would anywhere else right now. School's letting out soon, remember?"
"Oh, yeah. It's easy to forget when you don't have to be part of it."
I snorted, a little carbonation going up my nose. Not fun.
"Why do we hang out here? They were in elementary school when I graduated ... Anyway, I can't quit. Would be against my nature. I'm a masochist, remember? I like this kind of sh- stuff."
Carla laughed. "So then you're a perfect match! Really, though, you should stay with him. Could be your ticket out of here."
The lift of her eyebrows meant something other than the direct intention.
"You know me. I couldn't do that. No matter how bad this place stinks, I'm not going to hook up with a guy just to get out. That act never works long-term, and I can't commit to someone knowing that. Look at my folks. Could you?"
She sighed and bit her lip. There was a lot going on in her mind, I could see, and I supposed that I had yet to learn the advantage of age with regards to wisdom. She was four or five years older than even me.
"I might. There's nobody up here for us, Elise. And I'm not a dithering romantic like you are. I'll be happy if he has all his teeth and a decent job, and isn't abusive or an alcoholic."
"Well, that last one's going to be a tough sell. And the first one. Good luck with that."
Gina stayed with me at the resort for the next week, and much of the time she wasn't working she spent with Byron Clarke. I favoured the match, certainly. There was a fair bit of mutual attraction, and I could see that Byron was head over heels. He got all goofy when he was around her.
As for the other half of the powerhouse of Fredericks and Clarke, I got to witness one doozy of a hissy fit.
Now, there isn't a dry cleaners in Rawley. There isn't one in a fifteen mile radius of Rawley. Naturally Freaky Mr. Fredericks won't trust the laundry facilities at White Pine Lodge, or the Laundromats in the surrounding towns, so guess who got to go find a dry cleaner and get no less than five outstanding references? If you guessed anyone other than me, get out now.
"Miss Benjamin."
I have the Psycho violins for his ring tone.
"Yes, Mr. Fredericks?"
"Could you please come to my office?"
Never a good thing, especially when delivered in that calm, collected voice. It always ends up badly, and in his case, probably shrieking like a 50's housewife when a mouse skitters under her skirt.
"Yes?"
I could barely believe the scene in his makeshift office. There he was, handsome self seated in a cast-off chair from Manny's office, and of course the chair was covered in plastic. The lamp was on despite open window shades, and he was hunched into the small circle of light, examining something with a magnifying glass.
"Is there a spot on my cuff?"
"Beg pardon?"
He was studying the cuff of his shirt! White shirt. French cuffs. Newly retrieved from a dry cleaners 35 miles away. Spotless.
"Is there a spot on my cuff?" he asked with maddening calm.
I looked. There, visible only to those looking, was the slightest discoloration, perhaps the size of a pencil top eraser while viewed under 5x magnification. The actual spot was two millimetres across and only slightly less white than the brilliant Titanium white of his shirt. I should've been the nice, submissive quasi-assistant thing that I had been hired to be, but I just couldn't.
"No."
"It's right there, plain to see! You said this cleaner had a perfect reputation!"
"It does! You just spilled a micro litre of tea onto your cuff!"
"It's a spot and it needs to be cleaned, and cleaned properly! Take it back to wherever you said this place was and demand that they take care of it."
Ooh, no. As much as I liked being able to drive around, I wasn't always the best at confrontations like this. It was Mr. Fredericks' fault the spot was there.
"No." Did I say that?
"Beg pardon?"
I guess I did.
"Look, it's a teeny, tiny spot. It'll probably come out with a little water, no need to go all the way back to the cleaner's."
"Do you like your job?"
Ooh, I hate that question.
"Most of the time." Why can't I keep my big mouth shut?
"Would you like to keep your job?"
"Yes."
"Then I suggest you take this shirt back to the cleaners and make sure they take care of the matter. Then find another cleaner, one who won't make such a mistake."
I stared, mouth open, then shut, then open again.
"Stop gaping, Miss Benjamin, and do your job or I will find someone more competent, if that is possible up in this backwater sinkhole."
Ah, such a challenge to not jump down his throat and twist his insides into knots. The Welsh accent made it easier to bear the insult, which also had a hint of a compliment in it. Golly gee willikers, does he have a habit of backhanded compliments or what?
"I can't take the shirt if you're still wearing it."
I mentally chuckled as he realised this. All action stopped at the desk and he wouldn't look at me. Click click click. He played with the pen, ultimately stopping after twenty clicks and carefully set it down, parallel with the top edge of the document he was studying.
"If you will excuse me, Miss Benjamin," he muttered as he stood. "I'll bring it down to the front desk in a moment.
"Of course, Mr. Fredericks. Anything you say."
He sighed through his nose, not amused in the slightest with my flippant tone. It was so much fun to needle him, get back for the little insults wrapped around minor compliments. I backed out of the room, bowing in mock obeisance. What a trip...