Garden of the Moongate

by Donna Vitek

  "Nonsense," her companion noted succinctly. "Remember, you're only as old as you feel."

  "That's what I'm saying," Myrtle shot back wryly. "Right now I feel as old as I am."

  Smiling at their bickering, Allendre shifted uncomfortably on her own meager allotment of seat. When the bus finally bounced its way up the winding incline of Shannon House Drive, she joined the other passengers in an audible sigh of relief. Over the hilltop, down close to the ocean's edge, the stately gray stone hotel sat glittering in the sun, surrounded by acres of greenery, festooned by an infinite variety of brightly colored flowers.

  "There she is," Myrtle's friend said softly. "Isn't she a grand old place? Jacob always loved to stay here. It's the best hotel in Bermuda."

  Well, it used to be, Allendre thought, gazing pensively at the beautiful old building. Suddenly she hoped she would find nothing bad to report about the hotel. Some things should never change, and she was sure Shannon House was one of them. It looked majestic, as if it remained a stronghold of dignity and decorum in a modern world that seemed to have forgotten the meaning of quality.

  Allendre's dreams of graciousness ended abruptly, however, when the bus ground to a halt before the gate of the main entrance gardens. Soon all the passengers were standing amid their luggage on the asphalt drive, watching incredulously as the bus roared away again.

  "Well, where in the world is the doorman?" Myrtle's friend asked rather bewilderedly. "Every time Jacob and I came here, we were always whisked inside right away and there were always plenty of bellmen to carry the luggage."

  "Maybe it's siesta time," Myrtle suggested with a resigned sigh. "Or don't they take siestas in Bermuda?"

  Both ladies seemed to wilt visibly in the heat of the sun. As Allendre looked around and discovered there were only two very elderly males in the group she decided it was her place to go find someone to help carry in the luggage. After all, she was the youngest member of the assembly.

  "Why don't the rest of you go sit in the shade of that big cedar tree while I go find some bellmen?" she suggested, smiling as she heard several sighs of relief. "I'll be right back. If someone will keep an eye on my luggage, I'd be grateful."

  "Of course we'll watch it, dear," Myrtle called after her. "And you give them heck for not being out here in the first place."

  Smiling to herself, Allendre took the main path through the gardens, which obviously weren't suffering from lack of care. No weeds disgraced the neat beds where stalks of delicate shell ginger grew, and even the entwining vines laden with large passionflowers ran riot across ground free of unwanted growth, then up a gray stone wall. Someone loved these gardens, that was obvious; and Allendre paused for a moment to admire the glossy green leaves and trumpetlike saffron flowers of the cups of gold that bordered the path.

  At the end of the path, leading up to a veranda, were a long flight of steps, wider at the base than they were at the top. "Welcoming arms," Allendre had read they were called, and, indeed, they did seem to issue an invitation. Running lightly up the stairs, Allendre stopped at the summit, turning back to evaluate the view. It was magnificent. Longleaf pines and Bermuda cedars grew in scattered clusters on a neatly groomed golf course. Below the stretch of cool green, hibiscus hedges, heavy with scarlet blooms, rivaled shrubs of frangipani with their clusters of fragile white-petaled flowers. The flower-laden slope led to a dazzling beach of pink-tinted sand.

  "It's lovely," Allendre said softly, thinking how peaceful it would be to sit on the veranda in the late evening before the sun set. Then, recalling her original errand, she marched across the veranda and ran a finger over the sticky cushion of a rattan sofa. "Positively grubby," she muttered disappointedly. "This is disgraceful." Considering Shannon House's exorbitant room rates, it seemed to her that the guests should at least have clean chairs on which to sit to enjoy the view. It looked as if she would be compelled to write a bad report about the hotel for Mr. Meredith, and she knew how disappointed he was going to be. He had spoken of this old hotel with great affection and had even gone so far as to say it was probably the nicest place he had ever stayed in all his extensive travels.

  An archway opened to a vestibule that preceded double cedarwood doors, intricately carved with huge brass handles, and Allendre decided this was undoubtedly where the doorman should be stationed. Obviously someone had been here recently. A crumpled newspaper and half a discarded orange peel littered a stone bench. So much for their super deluxe rating, she thought ruefully, dragging one heavy door open to step inside the large arched entrance hall.

  It could have been beautiful. Cream-colored walls with rich mahogany wainscoting were divided by wide arches, and antique tables cozied up to the walls between each archway. But the warm glow of brass lamps met no reflection on the dull tabletops. The surfaces weren't polished and gleaming as they should have been. The maroon carpet beneath Allendre's feet needed a vacuuming, and the comfortable beige plush sofas and maroon and beige chairs that should have been arranged in an intimate grouping at the center of the foyer were slightly askew—as irritating a sight to Allendre as a painting that hung crookedly on a wall.

  Overcoming the urge to go straighten the furniture, Allendre walked across the thick-carpeted floor to the desk. At her approach three young female clerks glanced up at her, then back down at the papers they were idly shuffling. Finally, one of them wandered off to the far end of the dark wood counter while the remaining two kept on with their busywork, each one apparently expecting the other to acknowledge Allendre's presence.

  Allendre's patience was wearing very thin. Her shoulder ached from the strap of the tote bag she had lugged around all day. She wanted a bath and perhaps a brief rest on a comfortable bed in the room she had reserved. And most of all she wanted her luggage carried in, along with that of the other guests who were still sitting outside waiting for her to find someone.

  "Excuse me," she said tersely, forcing herself to smile at the girl behind the desk, who finally looked up. "I just arrived with a busload of people, and we'd like someone to bring in our bags."

  "The bellmen should be around here somewhere," the girl mumbled, glancing vacantly around. "Just wait there a minute. One of them will show up."

  "Just a minute," Allendre protested. "There are several elderly people sitting outside, waiting for someone to attend to their luggage. They're all tired, and I'm sure they'd like to be shown to their rooms. Now, are you going to do something about that?"

  Shrugging again, the girl smoothed her hands over the skirt of the gaudy sundress she wore. "I guess I could page 'em, if you really want me to."

  "Of course I want you to!"

  Ambling over to a modern intercom, the clerk started to push one of the buttons as she lifted a small microphone, but at that moment one of the other girls behind the desk hung up the phone she had used to call someone. "Better straighten up this mess of papers back here," she suggested, stifling a yawn. "I called down to the garage to talk to Ben a minute, and he said the owner of this place just drove in."

  "Owner?" Allendre's clerk questioned. "I've worked here two years and never seen the owner."

  "Well, he'll be up here before the day's over, I'll wager. Ben said he must be here to check us out, because he took one look at the garage and told them all to get busy and clean it up."

  As the girls chattered on and on about the arrival of the hotel's owner Allendre strummed her fingers impatiently on the counter. Finally, when the girl she had spoken with actually set the microphone down again, she felt a nearly overpowering desire to walk behind the desk and shake all three of them. Instead, she interrupted them without apology. "Are you or are you not going to do something about those guests sitting outside?"

  "Page the bellmen. At once," a deep voice ordered imperiously over Allendre's shoulder. "I want them all at this desk immediately."

  Three pairs of eyes widened and darted past Allendre as her own widened when she recognized that authoritative voice. Her heart seemed to skip se
veral beats as she slowly turned to gaze up incredulously at Ric. In that moment, she wouldn't have traded places with the girls behind the desk for all the gold in the world. Ric's eyes had darkened to the hue of tempered steel. With a disapproving glance he took in the attire of the desk clerks.

  "Page the bellmen," he repeated tautly, his voice deceptively soft. "Now."

  While Allendre had elicited no response from the clerks, Ric had no such problem. He obviously possessed an inherent ability to make people hop when he said hop, because the girls nearly stumbled over each other in the rush to grab the microphone. The oldest, dressed in a presentable linen shift, won the right to page the bellmen, and Ric addressed himself to the other two.

  "Where's Henry?"

  "Well, uh… Henry?" Allendre's clerk stammered. "You mean Henry Watson? H-he's off today. Th-that's why the bellmen have gone to the coffee shop, probably. When Henry's here, they don't get many breaks. He wants all of 'em to stay close to the desk."

  Ric's tight features relaxed slightly, then hardened again. "Where's Hopkins?"

  "Old Mr. Hopkins hasn't been feeling too well lately."

  "Then where is Miss Hopkins? I was told she was covering for him until he returns."

  Allendre's clerk twisted her hands together in front of her. "Miss Hopkins… went down to her cottage to see to the old gentleman's lunch, I believe, sir."

  Ric glanced at his gold Piaget wristwatch. "It's three o'clock. She should be back by now. Call the cottage and tell her she's needed here. Did she leave one of you in charge?"

  "Oh, no, sir!" the two girls chimed simultaneously, one of them adding, "Gerald's in charge."

  "Gerald?"

  "I mean Mr. Cooley, sir. He's in the office."

  "Call him out here," Ric commanded, the frown that furrowed his brow deepening as the girls dashed to a closed door beside the switchboard. After knocking, they stepped inside, closing the door again.

  Sighing, Allendre touched her fingertips to Ric's coat sleeve, then dropped her hand away hastily as he transferred his cold gaze to her. "You've obviously stayed here before, thank heaven," she murmured. "You know how to get the staff moving. I wasn't having any luck at all, I'm afraid. It didn't even seem to matter to them that there are several elderly people waiting outside to have their luggage brought in."

  "So I noticed," he said with disgust. He lost all interest in her when the door behind the desk opened again and a sloppily dressed young man in jeans and a sweat shirt lounged against the doorjamb.

  "Yeah?" he muttered rudely. "Something I can help you with?"

  Ric's expression became thunderously dark, and as his eyes flashed Allendre instinctively backed one step away from him. He moved forward, his body tense with an unspoken but undeniable threat. "What are you doing in that office?"

  Gerald tensed, too, his formerly vacant expression changing to a belligerent scowl. "It's my office. I happen to be the assistant manager."

  Ric shook his head. "Not anymore."

  Gerald laughed cockily. "Just who do you think you are, chum?"

  "Your employer," Ric answered shortly, ignoring Allendre's soft gasp of amazement and Gerald's paling face. "I'm Patrick Shannon. How long have you been working here?"

  "Two years," Gerald mumbled, thrusting out his chin defiantly. "First I worked with the groundskeeper. Then Deb… Miss Hopkins promoted me."

  "Well, I'm demoting you," Ric said ruthlessly. "If you want to work here, you'll have to take your old job back."

  "Wait just a minute!" Gerald snorted, and his stocky, muscular body stiffened as he raked his fingers through his untidy brown hair. "You can't do that to me!"

  "I can and I am," Ric said calmly. "You obviously don't know how to keep a hotel running smoothly, so I have no use for you in here. Report to the grounds-keeper—and don't let me see you in this lobby again looking the way you do now. Is that understood? Or would you rather just look for work elsewhere on the island?"

  "Maybe I will," Gerald retorted sullenly, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he stalked out from behind the desk. Muttering to himself, he shoved open the door leading to the stairs, slammed it shut behind him, and was gone.

  "I thought Deb had more sense," Ric said aloud, then turned his attention to the three uniformed men who were ambling down the hall from the elevators. All of them were young, no more than teenagers, and one had a toothpick dangling from his lips, but he tossed it into a sand-filled ashtray when Ric met them in the center of the lobby.

  Though Allendre couldn't hear, she watched with some amusement as the three hastily straightened their blue uniforms and their expressions changed from lazy insolence to respect. And when Ric inclined his head toward the hotel entrance, they trotted away obediently to escort the waiting guests inside.

  "Where are your bags, Allie?" Ric asked rather wearily.

  "Outside. I left them when I came in to look for a bellman. They'll bring them in, won't they?"

  Nodding, he turned toward the desk again, beckoning the older girl. "You, what's your name?"

  "Loretta, sir," she answered squeakily. "Loretta Smithers."

  "Well, Loretta, you handle the desk, since that dress you have on isn't a total disaster." He shook his head at the other two clerks. "Both of you live in the staff quarters?" he asked patiently, and when they nodded, he added, "Go change to white blouses and dark skirts. When you come back, Loretta can go change, too. From now on, come to work dressed neatly, or don't come at all."

  "Yes, sir," they sang out as they darted away.

  "Now, Loretta, check Miss Corey in, and when the other guests come inside, try not to keep them waiting too long. Call the bar and have them send a couple of waiters up here. The least we can do is provide some refreshment to compensate a little for their inconvenience."

  "Very good, sir," Loretta said, giving an oddly satisfied little smile. Then she glanced past Ric and inclined her head. "There's Miss Hopkins now, Mr. Shannon."

  As both she and Ric turned, Allendre watched Debra Hopkins lift her hand in a lazy wave as she strolled down the long east hall toward them. Tall and boyishly slim, clad in a poppy-red jump suit, she had short chestnut hair styled softly around her face and big hazel eyes that, at the moment, saw no one except Ric.

  "Patrick," she drawled rather nasally, "you infuriating man." Planting a lingering kiss on his mouth, she draped a long bare arm across his shoulders. "Why didn't you tell us you were coming?"

  "Would I have found things running a little more smoothly if I had told you, Deb?"

  Still clinging tenaciously to his shoulder, Debra leaned back slightly to examine his face. "You sound a little angry. Is something wrong?"

  "Is something wrong?" he repeated softly yet impatiently. "Yes, something's wrong! Deb, I hardly recognize this place! What's going on here?"

  With a dramatic sigh that sounded very phony to Allendre, Debra rested her cheek briefly against Ric's shoulder. "Well, you know Uncle Lawrence has been ill. I've been doing all the work myself, but I guess it's just too much for me to handle. I'm so glad you're here, Ric. I need you. I've tried, but…"

  "I'm sure you've tried, Deb," he relented slightly, obviously because she seemed to be on the verge of tears. "But answer one question. Why on earth did you hire that bum Cooley as assistant manager?"

  "Oh, but Gerald's not a bum," Deb protested laughingly. "He happens to have a college degree."

  "I don't care if he has a hundred degrees; he's still a slob," Ric replied, his voice low, his words clipped. "The guests certainly don't care about his education. They only want someone efficient, which he isn't, and someone with decent manners and professionalism, which he certainly doesn't have. I just can't imagine what made you think he would ever make a suitable assistant manager."

  "Oh, please don't fuss at me, Ric," Deb whined, wriggling closer to him. "I did the very best I could, really I did. Say you're not really mad at me."

  "We'll talk about this later," he replied, raking his fingers through hi
s hair. "Right now help get these guests checked in. They've had to wait long enough already."

  After disentangling himself from Deb's arms, he walked behind the desk into the office Gerald had vacated. Until he shut the door behind him, Deb stood with her head inclined, the perfect picture of the dejected and helpless woman. But once Ric was gone, she proceeded to bully Loretta and even tried to take some of her frustration out on Allendre.

  "What do you want, miss?" she snapped hatefully. "Are you waiting for something?"

  Shaking her head, hardly aware of the older woman's rudeness, Allendre signed the register, then took the room key Loretta handed her and wandered in the direction of the elevators. As she stood waiting she stared back at the closed door behind the desk. Ric Shannon could be a harsh man sometimes—as she had learned more than once during the course of the day—but, harsh as he sometimes was, it was obvious that Shannon House meant a great deal to him. Because it did, Allendre liked him, though she wasn't sure she wanted to.

  Chapter Three

  Overlooking the palm-fringed beach, Allendre's room was large, airy, and quietly elegant. She loved it. A black wrought-iron railing enclosed a tiny balcony graced with two wrought-iron chairs and a small matching table. During the five minutes it took for her luggage to follow her up, she stood on the balcony, breathing in the fresh salt air. Three stories up, she had a panoramic view, and the late-afternoon sunlight glimmering on crystal azure waters created a loveliness no picture postcard could truly capture.

  When a knock on her door interrupted her quiet enjoyment of the scene, she went back into the room rather reluctantly and answered the door.

  "My, that was fast," she remarked as one of the young bellmen swept past her to set her suitcases on the low reed table at the foot of the huge cedarwood bed. "Are all the other guests getting settled?"

  "Yes, miss, as fast as Miss Hopkins and Loretta can get 'em checked in," he answered pleasantly, his accent distinctly Bermudian, yet with a hint of British inflection. "It's amazing how fast people can work when they know the boss is around."