by Jerry
It was the off-season, too late for even the most dedicated of skiers, too early for the annual onslaught of hikers, and the inn, from all appearances, was barely half full. It would have been a simple thing to request a different room. Still, some perverse sense of obligation to his youthful self kept Philip from speaking up. He had made his choice, and, vacancies or not, he was not about to pack up and move elsewhere. Anyway, it was only for two more nights.
Today was Friday, the first Friday all year that he’d taken off, though when he’d quit the firm last summer to set up his own practice, he’d vowed there’d be many such weekends. Maybe now, with Margaret, there would be. The two of them had driven from Boston last night, speeding up Route 93 past the brightly lit ring roads curving round the city like lines of defense, through the lowlands of southeastern New Hampshire, and finally, long after darkness had fallen, past the dim shapes of starlit hills and a range of distant mountains, Sunapee and the Monadnocks looming far to the southwest. Their destination lay twelve miles off the highway, down a series of roads of ever-diminishing width, in a part of the state more settled a century ago than it was today, when men no longer worked the land and once-prosperous farms had been reclaimed by forest. The region around Romney Mountain, with its caves and scenic gorges, had known even grander days, having seen, in the century’s opening decades, the construction of at least two lavish hotels; a scattering of summer homes for the well-to-do of Boston; and, it was said, even one clandestine casino. The hotels and casino were long gone, and only recently had the effects of the postwar real estate boom been felt here. The glistening black road that wound through the valley to The Birches had been dirt less than a year ago.
They had spent most of the morning in the king-size fourposter that dominated their little room, snuggled under a patchwork quilt that made up in atmosphere what it lacked in warmth, and didn’t come down to the dining room till long after the tables had been cleared. Fortunately the proprietress, Mrs. Hartley, still had enough Westchester in her soul to sympathize with late risers; and she’d kept a pot of coffee warm for them, along with extra helpings of that morning’s blueberry pancakes. She and her husband had purchased The Birches only last spring; before that her only connection to ho-telkeeping had been as a part-time pastry chef, and his as a salesman of advertising space to an occasional resort. It was obvious from the look of the place that, with more zeal than knowledge, the Hartleys were trying to restore the inn to something approximating its original appearance, or, failing that, to something approximating a house out of Currier and Ives—a row of whose prints, in matched maple frames, decorated the dining room wall.
While Margaret slipped back upstairs to change, Philip checked the time; Tony would already be finished with his morning classes. In the alcove off the bar he found an old-fashioned wall phone and, through the unit in the office, obtained an outside line. He dialed Tony’s school.
Summoned from lunch, the boy sounded distracted. “I didn’t think you’d call until tomorrow,” he said, breathless as if from running. “Braddon’s giving us a multiple-choice quiz in half an hour, and then I’ve got to try out for the play.”
Philip wished him good luck, pleased that the boy was keeping so busy, and asked what time tomorrow would be best to visit. Spending a day with his son was the primary purpose of his trip; relations between them had been strained these past years.
“Is somebody coming with you?” asked Tony warily.
“You know very well I’m here with Margaret,” said Philip. “I thought I explained all that in my letter.” He immediately regretted the impatience in his voice. “Look, son, if you’d rather I came alone, I’m sure she can find something to do for an hour or two.”
“Tomorrow’s no good anyway,” said Tony, having maneuvered his father into this concession. “We’re supposed to have a track meet with Cobb Hill, and it’s away. They told us last week, but I forgot.” He added, apologetically, “They’ll really be mad if I miss it. I’m one of the two best in the relay.”
“How would Sunday be then?” asked Philip. “I’d have to leave by three.”
“Sunday’d be great. You could take me into Hanover for a decent meal. And Dad . . .”
Philip waited. “Yes?”
“Do you think you’d have time to tell me a story?”
Philip felt an unexpected rush of affection so strong it embarrassed him. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll always have time for that.” It had been years since Tony had asked for a story; once it had been their favorite pastime.
The day passed quickly. It was too cold for swimming—the new semicircular pool at the end of the garden stood empty, in fact—but Margaret, it turned out, was a nature enthusiast, and one thing The Birches had aplenty was nature trails. It was all Philip could do to keep up with her. Still, this Girl Scout aspect appealed to him; till now he’d only seen Margaret’s urban side, the tall, studious-looking girl he’d secretly lusted after at his former office, and who’d seemed far too smart for the routine secretarial tasks required of her. Clutching glossy new guidebooks provided by the Hartleys, the two of them trudged along the base of the mountain, dutifully peering at fungi in their various disquieting shapes, admiring the newly blooming wildflowers, and searching—in vain, as it turned out—for identifiable animal tracks, all the while snacking on the sausage, bread, and cheese which Mrs. Hartley had packed for them. They discovered, nonetheless, that by dinner time their appetites were quite unimpaired; they shared a bottle of cabernet with their meal, chosen from the inn’s small but adequate wine list, and still found room for dessert. Glowing rosily, as much from the wine as from the bay-berry candles that flickered at each table, they staggered into the lounge.
The room, high-ceilinged and handsome, was already occupied by several guests, who themselves were occupied over after-dinner drinks and conversation. Flames danced and sizzled in the obligatory fieldstone fireplace covering most of one wall. Before it, taking up more than his share of a bench by the fire, sat a large, barrel-shaped man, his bald head gleaming in the firelight, eyes sunken in wrinkles like an elephant’s. He was wearing loose-fitting white pants and a somewhat threadbare cardigan. They had seen him in the other room, devouring Mrs. Hartley’s rack of lamb with considerable gusto. Aside from one wizened old lady who, from her own table, had stared at him throughout the meal with apparent fascination, he was the only guest who’d dined alone. It was impossible to tell his age.
“Am I blocking you from the fire?” he asked. He flashed a smile at Margaret. “Here, you young people, have a seat. April nights are chilly in this part of the world.” There was a trace of accent in his voice, a hint of Old World frost-fires and battlements. He eased himself sideways and patted the bench beside him. Margaret politely sat; Philip, with no room for himself, pulled up a wooden chair.
“I trust that you two are enjoying your stay.” He spoke as one who expected an answer.
“So far,” said Philip. “Actually, we came up to visit my son. He’s at prep school a bit north of here.”
“And, of course, to relax,” Margaret added.
“Of course!” The man grinned again. His teeth were long and widely spaced, like tree roots blanched by water. “And have you found your relaxation?”
Philip nodded. “Of a sort. Today we took a hike around the base of the mountain, and tomorrow we may go for a drive, maybe look for some antiques.”
“Ah, a fellow antique-lover!” He turned to Margaret. “And you?”
“I’m more of a swimmer myself. Unfortunately, this isn’t the weather for it.”
The other cocked his head and seemed to study her a moment. “Odd you should say that, because I happen to know where there’s an excellent heated pool not half an hour’s stroll from here. All indoors, with antique brass steps in each corner and a well-stocked bar right beside it, so close you can reach for your wine while standing in the water. The bar stools are covered in leather from, if the lady will pardon me—” He regarded her almo
st coyly for a moment. “—the testicles of a sperm whale.” Philip and Margaret exchanged a wary glance, then a smile. “It’s true,” the older man was saying, “I assure you! No expense was spared. The pool has its own underground oil tank which keeps it at exactly seventy degrees. You’ll find a painting of Bacchus on the ceiling, best appreciated while floating on your back, and heart-shaped tiles on the floor shipped specially from Florence.”
“I’ve never heard of such a place,” said Philip. “There’s certainly nothing like it listed in the guidebooks.”
“Oh, you won’t find it in a guidebook, my friend. It isn’t open to the public.” His voice was low, conspiratorial. “It’s in the private home of a certain Mr. Hagendorn, on the other side of the mountain.”
“Sounds like he must be worth a fortune.”
The other shrugged. “You’ve heard of the Great Northern Railroad? One of Mr. Hagendorn’s ancestors owned nine million shares. So as you might imagine, Mr. Hagendorn has always been accustomed to getting what he wants. The bed he sleeps in once belonged to an Italian prince, and the house itself is modeled on a Tuscan villa. It has its own greenhouse, a billiard room with six imported stained glass windows, and a sun porch with a magnificient view of the gorge.”
“You seem to know the place pretty well,” said Philip.
A shadow crossed the other’s face. “I used to live there,” he said softly.
“You mean you once owned it?”
“No, not at all. I merely worked there. I was young when I started, and new to this area, but by the time I was twenty I was Mr. Hagendorn’s personal aide. Wine for the cellar, an antique painting, a new maid—whatever he required, I obtained. I served him well for many years, and we remain in close touch. He asks me often to his home. I’m always welcome there.” He sighed. “So while I’m not a rich man, I suppose you’d have to say I’m well-connected.”
“It sounds,” said Margaret, “like a fabulous place.”
The old man brightened. “Would you care to see it? I’m sure Mr. Hagendorn would love to have you as his guests. You could come for a swim, say tomorrow afternoon. Stay for an early dinner, and I’d have you back here just after dark. I know the trail by heart.” Leaning toward them as if afraid the other guests would hear, he added, “You’ve never had dinner till you’ve had it in the great hall, overlooking the valley. The new people who’ve taken over this place—” His hand swept the room. “—they cook a meal fit for a peasant like me. But Mr. Hagendorn has employed the finest chefs in Europe.”
“But why,” said Philip, “would this fellow want to put himself out for two complete strangers?”
“The truth is, my friend, he’s somewhat lonely. He doesn’t get many visitors these days, and I know he’d want to make the acquaintance of two young people like you.”
“But we didn’t bring bathing suits,” said Philip, hoping, somehow, that the matter might rest there.
“Speak for yourself,” said Margaret brightly. “I brought mine.”
The man turned to Philip with what looked disconcertingly like a wink, but it may just have been smoke in his eyes. “I assure you Mr. Hagendorn has plenty—for men, omen, boys, girls. Though you may find them a little out of style!”
Margaret clasped her hands. “Oh, I love old-fashioned things. It sounds like fun.” She turned to Philip. “Can we go, honey?”
He swallowed. “Well, I still don’t like just barging in on the man. I mean, what if he’s not in the mood for visitors?”
The older man stood, a surprisingly rapid movement for one so large and so seemingly advanced in years. “No need to worry,” he said. “I’ll simply ask him. I’ll be speaking with him tonight anyway.” Excusing himself with a courtly bow, he made his way from the room, picking his way among the other guests.
It was only after he’d left that Philip realized they had failed to exchange names, and that their entire conversation had been watched—with, it appeared, an almost indecent curiosity—by the wizened old lady of the dining room, who now sat regarding him and Margaret from the depths of a wing-back chair in the corner, dark eyes glittering.
“Maybe she’s just got a crush on him,” said Margaret later, as they moved about the little room preparing for bed. “He looks like he’s nearly as old as she is, and men that age are scarce.”
“I’ll bet that by tomorrow he changes his mind about the pool,” said Philip, with a curious feeling of hope. “I’ll bet he was talking through his hat about how chummy he is with his boss. He probably won’t even bother to phone the guy.”
But shortly afterward, when Margaret returned from the bathroom at the end of the hall, she closed the door behind her and whispered, “You’re wrong, honey. He’s telling him about us right now—about how he met us in the lounge tonight.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard him,” said Margaret. “He has the room across from us.”
Gathering his toothbrush and towel, Philip stepped gingerly into the hall. Sure enough, he could hear a man’s low voice coming from the room opposite theirs, and recognized it now as belonging to their companion from the lounge. Still half turned toward the bathroom as if that innocent goal were all he had in mind, he tiptoed closer.
“Yes, they’re both coming . . . What’s that?” There was a pause. “No, not at all. They both seem quite well-bred . . . Yes, she’s charming. You’re going to like her.” Another pause. “It’s agreed, then. Tomorrow, by three.”
A door rattled somewhere down the hall. Philip whirled and hurried to the bathroom. By the time he emerged, the hall was silent. He thought he could hear, faintly, a snoring from the old man’s room.
Margaret was already in bed when he returned. She looked up expectantly. “So? Hear anything?”
He planted a kiss on her lips. “He says you’re charming.”
She laughed and pulled him down beside her. “How in the world did he find out?”
Later, as they lay beside one another in the darkness, she stirred and said sleepily, “I hope I don’t dream again tonight.”
“Had a bad one last night? You didn’t tell me.”
“I can’t remember it.” She pressed her face deeper into the pillow. “All I know is, it was scary. Leave your arm around me, will you?”
“It’ll fall asleep in three minutes.”
“Leave it around me for three minutes.”
He himself was asleep in less than that. Some time later—it must have been near dawn, for beyond the lace curtains the sky had grown pale—he felt himself awakened by a tugging at his arm, and heard Margaret whisper his name.
“Whatsamatter?” he mumbled.
“Is it really you?”
The idiocy of her question seemed, to his sleep-befogged brain, too enormous to contemplate. “Yes,” he said, “it is.” In a moment he was once again asleep.
“I got frightened,” she explained the next morning, sunlight flooding the room. “I somehow got it into my head that there was someone else in bed with us.”
“You mean, like threezies?”
“Like another man lying between us, pressing up against us both. And you know, I think he was black—a little black man.”
“Maybe it was that guy from the mailroom.”
She seemed not to hear. “What’s so weird is, I’m sure it’s the same dream I had the night before.”
Philip yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Well, you know what they say about dreams. Wish-fulfillment.”
She poked him in the ribs. “Honestly, Philip, you’re so trite!” Frowning, she looked about the room—the cloud pattern in the wallpaper, a spiderlike crack in the ceiling, a row of dark pines in the painting above the dresser. “You don’t suppose this place is haunted, do you?”
“Talk about trite . . .”
“I mean,” she went on, “inns have been known to be haunted.”
“Sure,” he said, “they all are. Or claim to be. The ghost of some long-lost sea captain comes back every hundred and twelve
years, or a serving wench who hanged herself appears at each full moon. Here it’s probably Daniel Webster’s brother-in-law. All part of the charm.”
“Just the same, will you ask the Hartleys? Ask them if there’s a ghost.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I’m too embarrassed.”
Embarrassed himself, Philip asked Mr. Hartley in the office downstairs while Margaret finished getting dressed.
“No ghosts that I know of,” the man said, scratching his thinning hair. Suddenly he grinned. “But golly, I sure would like to have one. It’d help business.”
Their stout companion was waiting for them in the lounge by the time they had finished breakfast. “It’s all agreed,” he said genially. “Mr. Hagendorn would love to meet you both.”
“It certainly looks like a beautiful day,” said Margaret.
He nodded, beaming. “Magnificent. You’ll be able to see clear to the Monadnocks.” He seemed, on this sunny morning, the soul of jollity. “By the way, I didn’t introduce myself last night. My name is Laszlo.” His grip was like iron as they shook hands and arranged to leave after lunch.
When lunchtime arrived, however, a call came for Philip on the phone by the bar. “Sorry, Dad,” said Tony, with a babble of youthful voices in the background. “I got it wrong. The track meet’s tomorrow. Can you come see me today?”
“Hell,” said Philip, “we’ve already made plans. I can’t just—” He caught himself. “Yeah, sure, I guess. No problem. What time’s good?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know yet. Jimmy and I are getting a lift into town, and we need you to pick us up.” There followed a dismayingly complicated series of adolescent proposals and provisos, the upshot of which was that Philip was to wait for Tony’s call “sometime in the early afternoon,” whereupon further directions would be supplied.
Dinner with the reclusive Mr. Hagendorn was clearly out of the question. Laszlo, waiting for them at the bottom of the garden where the trail began, agreed to take Margaret up to the villa for a swim alone, and promised he would have her back by nightfall, in time for Philip’s return. Far from being put out, he seemed to take the last-minute change of plans with surprising nonchalance.