Chapter 2

The unnamed guest said something like, “The house is huge. I love the widow’s peak at the top with its American flag blowing in the wind. And the balcony on the second floor looks lovely. Exactly how many bedrooms are inside?”

“Four bedrooms in the main house. But only David and I stay in the central unit. Separate rooms, of course. We’re not lovers, although guests think otherwise, sometimes. To the right of the main building are the guest’s rooms.”

He visually consumed the two levels of guest rooms to the right. Again, he took in the gazebo beyond, and the woods at the far end of the property. “Can you swim in the pond?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” I told him. “God only knows what’s in that thing. A monster. Snapping turtles. The strand of human-killing virus.”

He chuckled.

I chuckled.

I pulled up to room 104 and said, “You’ll be staying here for tonight. Check-out is at eleven in the morning.”

“Thanks.”

We climbed out of my Jeep. I passed him the key to room 104, and I fetched his two bags from the back of the Jeep. He walked up to the room and I called out to him, “The door’s open. Make yourself at home. You can get settled in before dinner with Mr. Claire. It will be at seven in the main house. Casual, of course.”

“Thank you.” He smiled. Nothing fancy or articulate.

David told me that the arrangements for the room had already been made; a done deal. Guest’s name, address, telephone number, and credit card information for payment were on file in the lobby. My task entailed getting the guest settled in, welcoming him to the inn.

I walked his two bags to room 104. Once inside the room (a single queen, small bathroom, writing desk, table with two chairs, and flat-screen on the wall, air conditioner, and luggage rack in the far-right corner) I placed his two, cumbersome bags near the front door.

“There’s fine,” he said, and passed me a ten-dollar tip, which I pocketed. No complaints. Gas money for my troubles.

I thanked him for his generosity and added, “If you need anything at all, call the main house. We have a person there all the time. We’ll make sure you have a nice stay.”

“Thanks, Barker,” he said again, closing the door behind me.

And off I went to accomplish other tasks, busy at work, continuing my life at the inn.

* * * *

Meeting David Claire. I must say that it happened unexpectedly, three years gone now: how I became Northshire Inn’s nuts and bolts; the sticky glue to his fine-running establishment in the northwestern Pennsylvania woods. We met at the Templeton Community Library. I worked part-time there, using my Library of Science degree. The library lacked funds to keep me on as a full-time employee with benefits and I was barely capable of paying my bills: rent, provisions, Jeep. Although I loved the job, and the fine people of Templeton who borrowed the community’s books on a daily basis, I had to find something more substantial to pay my bills. Something my mother would have called, a “real job for a real adult,” had she known of the current low balance in my checking account at the time. Plus, I was starving. No money meant no food according the fundamental and basic equation of life. And with no food, meant starvation, and eventual death.

Enter David Claire in my life. He regularly perused the large print section of best-selling fiction: Patricia Cornwell, Stuart Woods, Margaret Atwood, and Grant Ginder. We chatted sometimes at the library’s main counter/information desk, discussed politics, current events, handsome actors, enjoyed books, cooking, cookery, weather patterns, and local pleasures.

I took him at six-four, tall and thin, almost skeletal. His silver-gray hair resembled that of a floor mop, its strings wispy, flying this way and that. And he smelled of Earl Gray tea and biscuits, very English in every way. His eyes were a tarnished, aged green that seemed soothing and scolding at the same time. I wanted to think him alone in the world, but he claimed not to be, having many friends and acquaintances in the area, coming from a very large family.

Being homosexual, he enjoyed my Robert Pattinson looks and always checked me out from head to toes during his short visits to the community library. Occasionally he called me handsome, friendly, darling, cheerful, charming, a pet, and absurdly cute. “Barker Christian, you’re much older than you look,” he admitted, surprising me.

“How old do you think I am?”

“Thirty-seven. Although you look twenty-seven.”

“Spot on,” I told him, pleased with his company.

How quickly we became friends. How unexpectedly. And a door creaked open to a new world for me—us.