by Tamar Myers
“What?”
“It’s all your fault.”
“Mine?”
“ ‘Cause you won’t let me date. Carrie’s mom lets her.”
“How old is Carrie?”
She shrugged. “Who cares? I hate her.”
“Is she older than you?”
“Okay, so she’s a junior, but so what? Jimmy is the only man I’ll ever love—except that now I hate him.”
The parlor door opened and Buzzy stepped into the foyer. When he saw Alison, he smiled. In those few seconds he was transformed from a clown into a rather handsome young man.
“Sorry, Miss Yoder,” he said. “I didn’t know you had company.”
I shook my head. “This is my daughter, Alison. She lives here. Alison, this is Mr. Porter.”
“Hey,” she said.
“Care for a piece of gum?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She looked at me defiantly. Alison has a habit of discarding her used gum wherever she happens to be when she tires of it. Usually it ends up on the floor or, at best, stuck to the bottom of a piece of furniture. Pleading and scolding have had zero effect on her, so lately I’d been making her chew it outside.
Buzzy winked at me and held out the bogus pack. Apparently that old gag isn’t popular in Minnesota from whence Alison hails, because she shrieked in surprise. When she saw that it was just a trick, she shrieked with laughter.
“What else do ya got?” she asked. From the look on her face it was clear my newly dumped daughter had developed an instant crush on the bothersome Buzzy. Needless to say, I was about as thrilled as I’d be if my prize hen, Pertelote, took up with a fox.
My next guests, Buist and Capers Littleton, more than made up for the Nortons’ lack of social graces. This couple hailed from Charleston, South Carolina, which is the nation’s capital of good manners. I know this for a fact, because I’ve been there. The folks in that fair city are always polite to your face, even if they hate your guts. While this isn’t my style, I appreciate being the recipient of consideration, no matter how insincere.
The Littletons had driven twelve hours just to attend our bicentennial. Even though they must have been as tired as hookers after a Shriners’ convention, they trotted out their good manners the minute they set foot in my inn.
“Oh, what a lovely place,” Capers cooed, adding two syllables to the final word.
“But it isn’t half as lovely as you,” Buist purred. He appeared to be looking at my feet.
I beamed. “And for only twenty dollars more a day, you can experience an authentic Amish lifestyle by pitching in with the chores.”
“Oh what fun,” they exclaimed in unison.
I doubted, however, that Capers was capable of any real work. She was a tiny thing with lacquered nails. Her bottle-blond bob was lacquered as well. Her dress was linen, that curious choice of the idle rich, who claim to like this fabric for its cooling properties, yet invariably wear outfits lined with some man-made unbreathable material. The end result is that folks who could well afford a maid, walk around as wrinkled as a Chinese sharpei, and smelling like a wet dog too.
Buist Littleton wasn’t nearly as rumpled in his blue and white seersucker suit, although his jacket was undoubtedly lined as well. In fact, he looked rather dapper, what with his bow tie and white buckskin shoes.
The couple appeared to be in their mid-thirties, although their driver’s licenses pegged them at a full decade older. A good sunscreen, I’ve learned through observation, can do almost as much to preserve the appearance of youth as can a surgeon’s scalpel.
As it turned out, I need not have worried about carrying their cases upstairs. Buist was far too much of a gentleman to have allowed that.
“Miss Yoder,” Capers said, as she turned to follow her husband, “do we dress for dinner?”
Needless to say, I was properly shocked. I had to catch my breath before answering, during which time I couldn’t help but picture Buist in the buff. Frankly, it was an intriguing sight.
“Of course,” I rasped. “I do not allow naked people in the dining room. Or in my inn altogether, unless, of course, they’re bathing—”
“Ma’am,” Buist said with a twinkle in his eye, “I believe what my wife meant was, do we need to change into evening wear?”
I must confess that I learned one of life’s most useful lessons not from kindergarten, but from my cat. Alas, I had to give my poor pussy away on account of my foster daughter’s allergies, but not before the feline had a chance to teach me the importance of staying cool. Whenever you miscalculate a distance, or commit some other attention-grabbing blunder, just pretend you meant to do it.
“Gotcha!” I said, borrowing from Buzzy.
“Very good,” Buist said, and then he and Capers pretended to laugh. Like I said, the folks from Charleston are nothing, if not polite.
“By all means, put on the dog.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dress to the nines. Even the tens, if you want.”
They smiled happily. I smiled as well, knowing that I would encourage all my guests to gussy it up, except for Buzzy. That would fix his wagon good.
I know, a good Christian should be above such spiteful thoughts, but I am only a saint-in-training. In fact, every now and then I find myself in sinners’ rehab. With any luck Buzzy Porter was going to get a taste of his own medicine come dinner.
3
I had good reason to believe that at least one from among my next batch of guests would need no coaxing to play dress up. The trio arrived in a stretch limousine. Luxury cars are not unusual in Hernia, thanks to the caliber of my clientele, but they impress no one. Amish are known as the Plain People, and most Mennonites I know run a close second in the race for modesty. Thist, we have a few Methodists and Presbyterians in town, as well as two Jews—even a lone Episcopalian—but over the years folks have become blase about celebrities roaming our streets.
The locals certainly were not going to drop their teeth over an actress like Octavia Cabot-Dodge. When her manager, a Ms. Augusta Miller, had called to make the reservations, she’d made a point of emphasizing the woman’s stardom. Now, I don’t watch movies, and gave up on TV when Green Acres reruns went off the air, but even I knew that Ms. Cabot-Dodge was a has-been. I remembered reading an article—Peephole magazine, I think—that said the actress’s biggest achievement was staying in seclusion for forty years. Before going into hiding she’d managed to do three movies, one of which won her an Oscar, and two that were complete bombs. She might still have succeeded as an actress, but she was reportedly impossible to work with. According to the magazine—and I read this rag only when I’m in the checkout line at the supermarket—the fallen star was hoping to gain notoriety by her absence. Apparently she’d succeeded to a point, or the editor at Peephole would have passed on the piece.
While I, for one, wasn’t going to open my peephole and spill the beans, I doubted that she really wanted her privacy. If that was the case, why had she shown up in a limo? My hunch-—and a hunch from a woman is worth two facts from a man—is that the faded film star had run out of funds and was planning to stage a comeback. Whatever her reasons for her ostentatious arrival, just as long as she cooperated and dressed for dinner, her secret was safe with me.
When she stepped out of the stretch she was already dressed to the eights. From her narrow shoulders hung a green satin creation that fell just short of being a ball gown. It went too far to qualify as a mother-of-the- bride dress at a formal wedding, yet atop her head perched a very matronly, not to mention dated, green pillbox hat. Even from a distance I could see that her face was swathed in green netting. It may be true that rolling stones gather no moss, but apparently stagnant stars do.
Trailing behind the down-on-her-luck diva was a frumpy woman of advancing years and a bespectacled chauffeur in an ill-fitting uniform. I pasted a cheery smile on my face and opened the door.
“Gut marriye,” I brayed. “Velkommen to zee PennDutch.”
<
br /> “Good morning,” Octavia said in a voice a full octave lower than mine. “I suppose you know who I am.”
“Well, you must be—”
“Octavia Cabot-Dodge.” She said this loud enough so that the Babester, had he been standing on his porch across the road, could have heard it.
“Magdalena Yoder,” I said. “I’m the proprietress.” She sniffed. “I hope this festival of yours is all it’s been cracked up to be.”
“Of course, dear. Folks in Hernia love a good time. Just last month we had a mock funeral for Orville Humpheimer’s two-headed call There was even a drawing—the winner got veal chops—but I didn’t win, which was fine with me, since I don’t eat veal on principle. Except that Orville’s calf died of natural causes. Seems it got one head stuck in a barbed-wire fence—”
“Is there a porter for my bags?”
“At your service, dear. Although I’m sure your chauffeur would do a far better job. Last time I dropped one of the cases down the stairs and it split wide open, like a melon on a sidewalk. You wouldn’t believe what that woman had inside.”
“Stanley,” she said, without turning her head. “Get the bags.”
The chauffeur, who was barely more than a teenager, stepped forward boldly. “I’m not just a chauffeur,” he said, looking directly at me. “I also rappel.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, dear,” I said kindly. “Nobody gets to choose how they look.”
The lad rolled his eyes behind his wire-rim frames. Besides being repelling, he was impudent.
I might have said something to correct the young man, but the dowdy diva did it for me. He rolled his eyes again, but sauntered off to do as he was bid.
It was time to drop the phony accent. “Come on in,” I said, “before the flies do.”
Octavia Cabot-Dodge placed a tiny foot on the first step leading to my porch, but then removed it. She immediately put the other foot on the step and removed it. She repeated this behavior seven times. It was like watching someone do step aerobics. Finally she put her first foot on the second level. From then on she progressed normally. In the meantime I observed that her shoes, which had at one time obviously cost a great deal, were rather scuffed.
“This is my personal assistant, Augusta Miller,” she said, upon reaching the porch.
Assistant? I was sure Ms. Miller had introduced herself as the actress’s manager. Well, perhaps a personal assistant and a manager were one and the same. Despite five years of dealing with the herd from the Hills, the ways of Hollywood remain beyond my ken.
The woman whose job description was in question mumbled something unintelligible. I thought best not to pursue the matter and attempted to usher the ladies in, but again, Ms. Cabot-Dodge did her little dance. This time over the threshold. I pretended to look away, but you can be sure I counted. As before, eight was the magical number.
Once inside both ladies scrutinized the foyer, which, by the way, does double duty as my office. “This floor looks new,” Augusta said. “The wallpaper too.”
“Well, they are,” I said. “Relatively.”
“Either they are, or they aren’t,” Octavia said.
“They’re less than two years old,” I wailed.
“How old is the inn? Your brochure said it was a historical Pennsylvania Dutch farmhouse.”
My cheeks burned. “It is! I mean, almost. The original house was blown to smithereens by a tornado, but I rebuilt this place to look exactly like it was.”
“Why, that’s false advertising,” Augusta muttered. One thing I’ve learned from my teenybopper foster child is that when the going gets tough, change directions. “Would either of you like to avail yourselves of A.L.P.O.?”
Octavia recoiled in horror. “Dog food?”
“Oh, no. It’s my Amish Lifestyle Plan Option. You see, for just twenty dollars more a day, you get to do chores—like clean your own room.” No sooner had the words escaped my mouth, than I realized they were a mistake. Obviously the woman couldn’t afford such an extravagance, even if she did arrive by limousine.
Much to my surprise, however, a glint appeared in her eyes, shining through the veil of green like twin beacons through fog. “Is that it? Just cleaning one’s room?”
“By no means. There’s the barn to muck, the chicken house straw needs replacing—”
“Sign up my assistant,” she said, the glee in her voice quite evident. “The chauffeur as well.”
Augusta gave her employer a look that would have turned grapes into raisins, had there been any lying around. I had the feeling she was going to give Octavia a piece of her mind as well, but Stanley the chauffeur stumbled up the steps under a load of suitcases that a dozen Sherpas would have been hard-pressed to manage.
I moved to help the lad, but Octavia stopped me by laying a withered hand on my bare arm. “Stanley can manage, Miss Yoder. If he needs help, my assistant will be glad to do it.”
Her assistant shot her another glance capable of drying fruit. Since dried apricots are a favorite snack of mine, I made a mental note to tote some fresh ones with me for the next few days. Now that I no longer carry a kitten in my bra, there is plenty of room for goodies.
I smiled at Augusta, then turned my attention to Octavia. “Dinner is normally at six, like the Good Lord intended, but because today is Sunday, it will be a half hour later.”
Octavia nodded. “Where does the help eat?”
“My cook, Freni, is an Amish woman. She prefers to eat in the kitchen.”
“I meant my help.”
“Why, in the dining room with everyone else.”
“Well!” Octavia said in a huff, but Augusta was grinning like the Cheshire cat.
It was time to hustle their bustles through the registration process before it came to fisticuffs. I even risked Octavia’s wrath by helping the hapless Stanley schlep the rest of the mountain of suitcases up my impossibly steep stairs. To be honest, I did it just because I knew it would irk her. You see, I had already made up my mind I was going to side with the help this time.
When one is as successful a proprietress as I am, one can afford to make up any rules that one wishes. Therefore, I choose not to rent my rooms by the day, but by the week. Guests must arrive on Sunday between the hours of three and six. Theoretically this gives them plenty of time to attend the church of their choice earlier in the day, but the truth is most of the folks, all of whom are blessed just by virtue of the fact they can afford my rates, have not darkened the door of a church or synagogue since they were children. At any rate, guests must check out by noon the following Saturday. They may, of course, leave earlier, but they will not get any money refunded. To the contrary, those who depart before the agreed-upon date are subject to a fine. S.A.L.E., I call it. Suckers Always Leave Early.
In fact, I have a whole string of fines that I am free to impose at will, because they are all delineated in the fine print on my brochures. Guests arriving after the six p.m. Sunday deadline are charged a late arrival fee. And believe you me, I was extremely irritated at twenty after six when all but one of my guests had gathered in the parlor, waiting to be ushered into the dining room. The holdout had yet to arrive on the premises. Never mind that we were all dressed in our best clothes. I, for one, was looking pretty spiffy, if I must say so myself I’d polished my brogans, put on a freshly laundered prayer cap, and my blue broadcloth dress was one that I’d worn only a handful of times. Much to my disappointment, even Buzzy had cleaned up pretty well.
“You certainly look handsome,” I said. I was not being flirtatious, mind you, merely kind. Compared to the Babester, Buzzy at his best looked like a comic strip character with his finger in a socket. According to my sister, Susannah, some men actually work at getting their hair to stick out in all directions.
“Thank you, Miss Yoder. Do you like my flower?”
I didn’t. It was obviously a fake. But a compliment is a blessing one bestows upon another person, and should not be construed as a he.
; “It’s lovely,” I said graciously.
“Smell it,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a gardenia. It has a really nice scent.”
I decided to bless Buzzy further by pretending to smell his flower. “Mmm,” I murmured, but all I could smell was the odor of Buzzy’s aftershave.
“You need to lean closer, Miss Yoder. This is a new variety. They say it smells like lemon.”
I leaned closer. “Smells just like Pledge,” I said, to show that I was a good sport.
“You really think so?”
“Aack!” I shrieked, as Buzzy’s blossom squirted water directly into my left eye.
Buzzy roared with laughter. He even slapped his thighs—although he should have been slapping his own face. The only thing stopping me from doing so was my genes. My Amish and Mennonite ancestors have been professing pacifists for almost five hundred years and it’s all I can do to swat a fly.
Fortunately Buist Littleton was not a pacifist. Au contraire, I hear that the Civil War is still being waged in his fair state.
“Apologize to the lady,” he said in a quiet, authoritative voice.
Buzzy appeared puzzled. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, sir. Apologize to her.”
Buzzy stopped laughing. “All right, you don’t need to make a federal case out of it.” He looked at me with all the sincerity of a televangelist. “I’m sorry, Miss Yoder. That was childish of me. Will you forgive me?”
The Bible says to forgive seventy-seven times, and Buzzy had offended me only fourteen times since setting foot on my property—not that I was counting: The only other human being to irritate me so many times in such a short space of time was my brother-in-law, Melvin Stoltzfus.
“Sure,” I said, to set a Christian example.
“Shake?” He offered me his right hand, which looked to be empty of battery-powered devices, but my parents didn’t raise a complete idiot.
“How about we just nod our heads, dear?”