Surrendering His Heart

by David Horne

  When he spoke before leaving the guest suite, George regretted the words. It was impossible to take back, and he felt shame because it was reflex and not part of the intimate moment he shared with the prospective buyer of the Comfort Hill Hotel.

  “That was incredible.” George lingered by the door for a moment longer.

  The look on John Dunlop’s face leveled between surprise and admiration. Dunlop smiled and wiggled his fingers in the air for a wave.

  “Bye for now,” he told George.

  Chapter Eight

  Routinely, George spent Thursday night at the local tavern. The pool table at the Rusty Ax was a well-used and comfortable blanket for George. Most nights he fed the table quarters and clear the green felt top in a few minutes. Most of the patrons stopped challenging George to billiards. That night the table didn’t have the same appeal it usually held.

  He wandered to the tavern on his nights off because it was better than sitting at home listening to the landlord’s television blaring reality television. It was a warm night without a lot of humidity. The proximity to Lake Champlain from Vergennes allowed the winds from the lake opportunity to dry after the long month of rain showers. Fog in the morning and clear at night.

  “You interested in a game?” he heard someone ask.

  George sat at the bar, sipping a draft beer. When he turned, Duncan smiled at him with a pool cue in his grip.

  “You don’t want to challenge him,” the bartender told Duncan. She had a look that suggested he in for something extraordinary.

  “I’ll have a go,” George responded, ignoring her remark.

  Above the bar, in clear black stencil letters, “No Gambling” printed on a white background. The bartender held up her index finger indicating to the rules.

  George spun on the stool and faced Duncan. The man wore a light blue button-down shirt and gray slacks. The top buttons open against his neck showed a defined clavicle and upper chest. It wasn’t obnoxious, just passive.

  “I’ll rack ‘em.”

  The game lasted a few minutes. George allowed Duncan to break. Nothing went in. Then George proceeded to clear the striped balls from the table, choosing the pockets with the end of the cue. He made simple wrist movements with the stick. The balls responded with geometric precision, banking and nesting in the intended pockets.

  “Can I buy you another beer?” Duncan asked in solemn defeat.

  George hadn’t finished the first draft he purchased. He shrugged again and went to an open table. The waitress, an old woman who was hard of hearing, needed everything repeated whenever she took the order. Duncan sat down across from George.

  “So,” he started, “The Rusty Ax?”

  “It’s from the logging history here.” George pulled at the remaining contents of the glass. It was empty before the waitress returned with another round for both men.

  “I think it’s the name that brought me in.” Duncan looked around the room.

  “We have one bar in this town for every thousand people.” George, a well of trivia, never turned it off.

  Thursday had “two for one” beers and locals took advantage of the special. It was close to ten-thirty. The flat screen TVs on every wall except one had various sports. The last wall contained a framed ancient photograph of a gaunt-looking man in a rumpled suit. The photograph was in sepia tone. A ring of LED Christmas lights lined the wooden frame. A stern man with one good eye glared at the patrons.

  “I’m still trying to figure out who the man is on the wall.” Duncan sipped at the froth on the draft beer. “Is he the original owner?”

  George lifted his draft beer and shouted to the patrons. “To Phineas!”

  The whole of the group responded with a repeat of the name. The bartender rang a bell on a post.

  “Tradition,” George pointed out. “In 1948, Phineas Gage took an iron rod through the skull in a factory close to here. He survived. Some say he wandered through Vermont and came into the Rusty Ax to drink and mumble.”

  “Interesting,” Duncan said. He appeared delighted by George’s description. “You really like it here, don’t you?”

  “I think this town has a way that makes people feel good. It’s small; we’re out of the way. If there was a thriving economic base, it might survive another fifty years. I think with the sale of the hotel it may move into a new era.”

  “What do you mean?” Duncan asked. “We started this conversation a few nights ago. But I never got your take on the hotel.”

  George gave him a quizzical look. “Why are you interested in the hotel?”

  Duncan passed it off. “I don’t know. I do a lot of traveling. I get the opportunity to stay just about anywhere. I like knowing why people want to work in certain places when it feels like they’re at a dead-end job.”

  “I can understand that from some perspectives.” George had years to acclimate to the night auditor position. “I don’t have the best job at the hotel. I certainly don’t get paid very much. But I like what I do. I love the hotel.” He looked around the bar. “It’s a lot like this place. I think the hotel fits me.”

  “Why aren’t you looking for advancement?” Duncan appeared to be the type of person who took one more step ahead of everyone else to gain that edge.

  “I don’t have the college education for the management position.” It was said before, but Duncan might have missed it the first time.“There isn’t anywhere else to go in the hotel.”

  “Sometimes college isn’t everything. I don’t have a degree, and I run my own business.”

  “What do you do?” George asked politely. He’d never inquire more from a guest at the hotel, but the Rusty Ax was sacred ground and away from work, he was entitled to be human.

  “I do a lot of marketing and sometimes PR work. I have a small base, and since I travel a lot, I don’t have a lot of overhead.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “You don’t seem to be someone who likes to travel.” Duncan had half a glass of beer and waited to finish it. George assumed it was his way of gauging a conversation. If the man lost interest, he would use the empty glass as a device to break away from the discussion and either leave the bar or move to another willing patron.

  “I honestly never had a lot of money to travel.” George felt the prick of the past needling his brain. “I got out of a relationship and moved here. Vermont’s small, but sometimes an hour in the car is a lifetime away from ancient times.”

  “That’s poetic.”

  “But I’m a little worried the hotel is going to get a generic name or turned into some hostel or Airbnb.” George finished the second beer. “It'd be a shame to see the place lose its appeal.”

  “What about now?” Duncan asked casually. “Are there enough guests to keep it afloat?”

  “We have a few long-term guests. I feel like that’s the way to go. You must have met most of them by now.”

  Duncan nodded.

  “If we filled the entire top floor with long-term guests, kept the second and first floor for overnight travelers, the hotel might turn a better profit.” He turned his empty glass in his fingers. “I feel like with new owners things might stay the same or even get worse.”

  “You met the new owner yet?” Duncan asked. He sipped at the beer again.

  George nodded. “He checked into the hotel on Wednesday. The manager pointed him out to me.”

  “What’s wrong?” Duncan asked.

  Either the two glasses of beer pressed on George’s emotions, or the events in room 214 were still tender. Sitting across from Duncan made him feel moderately guilty. Sex was animal and fantastic and finite. Love came from something sublime and spontaneous; and it evolved. It was difficult sitting across from the man and not feel something akin to love. Even on a minor scale.

  “I feel like I’ve been used, actually.” It wasn’t in George’s repartee to expose his emotions. “My manager is mildly homophobic, she can be severely intimidating.”

  “That doesn’
t sound very good.” Duncan leaned closer and whispered, “What happened?”

  “Long or short version?” George offered.

  “Let’s go with the short version, and if it needs defining, we can expand on it.”

  “Ashley knows I’m gay but she skirts around it. I feel like she’s going to fire me any day now. But she hasn’t done it because she thinks I’ll have some law suit against her or the hotel for discrimination.”

  “Okay,” Duncan said in understanding.

  “She looks for any little thing to use against people. There used to be twenty people on the staff, fifteen full-time staff and five part-time. Slowly, she’s whittled down to what we have now.”

  “I see,” Duncan said slowly and leaned back in the chair. He finished the beer and put down the glass gently. “Did you feel inclined to provide services outside the scope of normal hotel hospitality?”

  “Now that was an astute observation. George pointed out. “I mean, I feel like if it were a matter of cause and effect, I would feel differently about anything the woman says.” He nodded. “I do go above and beyond when it comes to the duties of the night auditor, but nothing dubious.”

  Then George felt a hot rush of fright course through him. He gazed helplessly at Duncan. “Please don’t tell Ashley anything,” he pleaded. “I’m hoping I can trust you.”

  “Don’t worry, George. I like you.” Duncan arched his back before he stood up. “I won’t say anything to your manager.” Something was hanging at the end of the statement like a preposition, but Duncan didn’t elaborate what was missing.

  Chapter Nine

  George had to leave for work an hour earlier to ensure he’d make it on time. It would take longer to get to work.

  “Hello, George,” Mary called from her perch on the porch.

  “Hi, Mary,” he responded in kind.

  “Where’s your bicycle young man?”

  “It was stolen on Wednesday night.”

  “Oh my,” she sputtered. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s okay,” George replied. He continued the long walk to the hotel.

  Ashley hovered over George after he dressed and stood at the front desk, checking in an overnight guest. He felt her fiery demon eyes gazing hungrily at him. When he completed the ledger, Ashley motioned to join her in the office. George went as far as he needed and never sat down.

  “I wanted to let you know it’s important we take care of our guests but not fraternize with them all night.” Ashley continued to stare at George expecting him to understand what she alluded with the statement.

  “I’m not sure what you're getting at,” he replied feeling a sting of panic.

  “You spent fifteen minutes at the front desk on Wednesday with one of our long-term guests, Duncan Chambers. I’ve told you before: long-term guests are not as important as short-term guests. They don’t get special treatment just because they’re staying longer.”

  “I don’t understand,” George responded. “What does it matter the length of time someone stays at the hotel? They’re all guests.” She made no point about George leaving the front desk in the company of John Dunlop. She had standards, although doubled.

  Ashley moved back into the hallway behind the front desk. Habitually she needed the last word. Pressing further only infuriated the harpy. For some reason, she made no retort. Instead she closed the door after George backed out of the office. It was wiser to let the beast settle its ruffled feathers and go home.

  ***

  It was after eight before the police arrived at the hotel. Two officers from the Vergennes Police Department wandered into the lobby. George straightened the black vest and smiled at the officers.

  Duncan slipped into the hotel and lingered in the lobby. He sat on the couch and George glanced to him. The flat screen television on the wall in never had the volume turned up. Anyone on the couch could see the TV but not from the angle of the front desk. George surmised Duncan patiently waited his turn after the police officers.

  “You wanted to report a stolen bike?” one of them asked. Neither office seemed interested or in a hurry to take the report.

  “Yes.” George had called the police department the morning after the theft. The chain and the bicycle both were both missing from the column where he’d left it. He didn’t bother telling Ashley about the missing mountain bike. It was impossible to explain how she’d undermined him again by perpetuating the theft.

  “Do you have a picture of the bike?” the officer asked. There was a sublime pitch of boredom in his delivery. The occasional DUI, a report of domestic violence, these were the exciting and never-ending cases building up in the Vergennes Police Department. Expecting to track down the bicycle thief would prove too daunting for busy police officers.

  George offered a photograph of the mountain bike he had on the cell phone. It took less than ten minutes for the officers to take a statement from George and wander out of the hotel again.

  “Someone stole your bike?” Duncan asked after waiting for the police to leave the lobby. “I thought you brought it inside.” George considered Duncan a more than observant guest. He took notice of everything around the hotel.

  “I did.” He shrugged. “Ashley said the storage room wasn’t a bike garage.”

  “Why didn’t you say something the other night at the bar? I would have drove you home.” There was a mild disappointment playing on his handsome face.

  “I didn’t want to trouble you. And I usually walk to the Rusty Ax. It’s only a few blocks from my apartment.”

  “I’ve got some phone calls to make overseas,” Duncan mentioned as he glanced at his cell phone and wandered away from the front desk. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Alone at the desk, George leaned against the counter and surveyed the lobby. Five years was a long time to stare out at the night. For anyone else it might have been a lifetime. But George liked the view. He enjoyed seeing the first start of sunrise play across the marble tiles in the foyer.

  Maybe a new owner was the opportunity he needed as an excuse to move on. The theft of his bicycle felt like a violation and compounded by the theft of guests items. He did his best and sometimes it felt as if he was still alone, waiting for the night to end.

  The phone rang: room 214. “Front desk,” he answered.

  “Hello, George.”

  “Hello, Mr. Dunlop. What can I do for you?” It was a double-entendre. A distraction welcomed at the moment of melancholy. He added a smile to open the dialogue and maybe a little more.

  “What time are you free tonight?” Dunlop asked his voice lilt with the city accent.

  “I have a few obligations. I can usually get away around one in the morning.”

  “I see,” Dunlop said and left the sentence hanging.

  When George hung up the phone, he sighed. He had another three hours. Then he had to help John Dunlop with services in his room.

  The phone rang again. “Front desk.” He listened for a considerable length of time before he said, “I’ll be right up.”

  George set the electronic lock on the front doors and moved with purpose upstairs to room 304. Florence McAlester had an acting career in the 1970s. She starred in fourteen films, according to her accounts, and nominated for some foreign award that George never heard of before. She had a cat named Lucy.

  While it was forbidden for guests to have pets, Lucy was a stowaway within the hotel, and George felt it wasn’t any business of Ashley’s if the old woman wanted a cat. Angel maintained a weekly check on the apartment. Lucy was a clean cat, and Florence was a tidy and respectful guest.

  “What did you say was missing?” George asked the old woman.

  “I had a pearl necklace in my jewelry case, and now it’s gone.”

  He walked through the suite to the single bedroom with the queen-sized bed. The dresser had a walnut jewelry box. Inside was a vast collection of trinkets. George had no idea of the value of the items.

  “It was here, and
now it’s gone.”

  “Do you know when you saw it last?” George had hotel security to add to his list of duties.

  “I remember seeing it last month.” Ms. McAlester had been an attractive woman in her youth.

  There were black and white framed photographs on the walls of the bedroom that showed Florence in various states of emotion and dress. The Hollywood headshot portraits were visual reminders of her past career. She still had a youthful twinkle, but the years had not otherwise been kind to her. I don’t know what happened to it.”

  Lucy lay on the bedspread. George scratched the cat’s head. “I’m not sure what I can do, Florence. I’m worried if I say anything to Ashley she’ll find out about Lucy.”

  Florence looked defeated. “I know I shouldn’t worry so much but they meant a lot to me.” She wandered back into the main room and sat on the small sofa. The television played a muted black and white movie. “I spoke to Elizabeth, and she said something was missing from her apartment too.”

  George nodded in acknowledgment. “I had a conversation with Hugh and Mary too.”

  “I don’t think Angel would do anything like that.” Florence lived at the hotel longer than any of the other guests. She was there before George took over as the night auditor. She’d known the housekeepers the longest. None of the women had betrayed her secret with Lucy. It was impossible to think any of them would steal from her; or any of the guests.

  “I wish there was something I could do for you. Were they worth very much? I can have the police come by.”

  Florence waved her hand. “Don’t bother.” Lucy found Florence’s lap and settled in. “I don't care about the value of the necklace, just the memories that came with the pearls.”

  “I understand.”

  Chapter Ten

  When George arrived at the hotel on Saturday, a police SUV idled in the roundabout in front. The lobby had a smattering of long-term guests who lingered around the main area, watching two police officers standing close to the front desk. He acknowledged them as he made his way inside. There were some unfamiliar faces comingling and just as curious of the police presence. The overnight guests were few but George smiled at them accordingly.