How Not To Run A B&B: A Woman's True Memoir

by Bobby Hutchinson

  When he finally left, I figured I’d probably never see Donnie again, which in retrospect might have been for the best. I knew for a fact I’d never see the Danes, but Denmark was far enough away that maybe it wouldn’t hurt the Blue Collar’s reputation too much.

  But at nine the following morning while I was feeding my dazed guests tons of carbs to soothe their nerves, the doorbell announced his arrival. True to his word, he had everything needed to put the bathroom back together, as well as a huge bouquet of hothouse flowers for me, with a funny card that reiterated how sorry he was. It had a dog on it, which should have given me pause. He’d locked the offending animal in his van, which suited me fine.

  The bathroom apparently wasn’t a one day job. It dragged on, and when my dishwasher clogged up, Donnie fixed it.

  The flowers lasted two weeks, and then the fuel pump on my car gave up the ghost. Donnie replaced it. One afternoon while I was shopping he ripped up the rotten boards on my deck, he said to prevent some unsuspecting guest falling through and suing me. I hadn’t realized the flooring was that bad.

  Before he got around to laying new decking, he decided my back steps were unsafe, so he took them off.

  The pit bull was no longer with him—unbelievably, she’d found loving parents, motorcycle types, Donnie confided. But she’d been replaced by a huge, shaggy mongrel named Charlie. While he worked, Donnie kept Charlie either locked in his van or tied on my back deck with a bucket of water and a washbasin of food.

  I’d laid down the law—no dogs in my house. I asked peevishly why he couldn’t leave Charlie at home, but his foster dogs all had behavior problems, Donnie explained. His commitment was to keep them with him at all times so he could help them become more socially acceptable.

  Unlike the pit bull, Charlie was overly friendly. He also had an overactive libido, and every time I got within two feet of him, he salivated and tried to mount me. I advised my guests to use the side path to the garden. All I needed was some poor innocent lady claiming she’d been raped by a dog on my deck. I was fairly certain my insurance policy didn’t cover that eventuality.

  As usual, I was writing a book, not paying enough attention to what was going on around me. Six weeks flew by, with two more problem dogs tied on the deck.

  Archie, a semi poodle, was so neurotic he’d chewed off his own fur, everywhere he could reach. He wore a cone shaped thing on his head and whined all day from frustration. The next was Bonzo, an elderly dog with a hearing problem, which meant he couldn’t hear Donnie telling him to shut up, so he barked constantly.

  I finished the book and woke up the next morning realizing how long Donnie and his dogs had been hanging around. The bathroom still wasn’t painted, although the dry wall and moldings were done. The deck was missing some flooring. The railing on the back porch was in place, but needed painting, as did the bathroom. While I wasn’t paying attention, he’d ripped off some boards on the back fence, and it gave the garden a disreputable feeling.

  The thing was, apart from the dogs, Donnie was good at being unobtrusive and helpful. He drove up every morning, had coffee and a scone, made me laugh at some anecdote usually centered around his AA meetings, and set to work. I could hear him from my studio, singing and banging away, but he seldom interrupted me. I made us lunch, and we’d often go for a walk around the park.

  Several times a week, he’d take me out to dinner. It was always somewhere nice. I’d sort of gotten used to having him around.

  But his presence was having repercussions. Eric’s feelings were hurt because Donnie was doing all the jobs he usually did for me. My bags of gifts slowed to a trickle, ditto my daily phone calls from Eric’s dental office.

  Louie complained daily and at length because Sammie was afraid of the dogs, which to me was a bonus. Anything that kept that cat from using my garden as a toilet was fine by me. But I was getting more and more nervous about the number of construction projects and their lack of completion.

  I confronted Donnie one morning when I found him slapping a coat of paint, not on my bathroom or the porch railing, but on the steps leading to the deck. I’d painted those steps the year before, I didn’t think they needed done again.

  “Donnie, why isn’t anything ever getting finished around here? It’s starting to look like an abandoned construction project.”

  He used up the paint on the brush and then got to his feet, giving me a soulful look from behind his steamed up glasses.

  “It’s like this, see, Bobby. I’m in love with you. If I finish everything, I figure you won’t go on seeing me.”

  I was speechless. He’d kissed me a few times, but that’s as far as it had gone. He’d muttered something about a prostate operation that wasn’t healed yet, precluding any sex. Not that sex and love are related, but surely falling in love should involve more than a few chaste kisses? I’d certainly banked on it, but again, writing is bad for the libido—for me at least, it uses the same energy, so for weeks I’d sort of put sex on the back burner.

  Unfortunately, we weren’t on the same page with this love thing. I screwed my courage to the sticking point. My nieces had labeled me catch and release for a reason, and I’d long ago perfected the perfect speech for moments like this.

  Trying not to dwell on the fact that Donnie had cost me eight hundred dollars even before the renovations, I said, “Look, Donnie. You’re a wonderful man, and I’m sure there’s someone out there who’s perfect for you, but the chemistry just isn’t right between us. I’m sorry.” I took a deep breath and added the part that was going to make Eric and Louie ecstatic. “I want you to pack up that dog and all your stuff and leave. Now.”

  He didn’t argue. He slunk off with his dog between his legs, and within an hour, I was once again alone, this time with an unfinished fence, a deck missing boards, a bathroom needing paint, and sundry other small unfinished chores.

  I did the sensible thing and called Eric. Within a week, the jobs were completed. Eric was vindicated, Louie was content, Sammy was once again convinced my garden was his domain, and I’d learned one more lesson.

  When you’re a single lady running a B&B, what you need is a reliable handyman. You might also want romance—there’s no reason you shouldn’t have it--but combining the two is not wise.

  I should have remembered that church and state are never a satisfactory combination.

  TIPS FOR ATTRACTING A PARTNER

  (without paying $800)

  Make a detailed list of all the qualities you desire in the OTHER.

  Make a second list of all the qualities that person would find desirable.

  The second list is the one you concentrate on.

  CHAPTER TEN

  There are no free lunches

  The thing about a B&B is that the mattresses wear out. I imagine a well-run brothel has the same problem.

  Somewhere into the third year, I realized that the two double beds upstairs—which I’d bought second hand in the first place—needed new mattresses. Guests were politely hinting that everything rolled to the middle of the bed.

  Eric, who doesn’t believe in ever paying full price, always has a friend who has a friend. He gave me the number for a man who dealt, Eric assured me, in top quality new mattresses for a quarter of the price.

  “Where does he get them from?”

  “Big hotels order beds on a regular basis, he buys up the overstocks.”

  I didn’t understand how that worked, but it sounded honest enough. I was finishing a book, and hated the thought of wasting a day driving around looking for beds. Besides, who doesn’t like a bargain?

  I called the number and a deep, lilting voice identified itself as Reuben. He assured me he’d be over in an hour.

  Reuben was six feet six, East Indian, and he had tattoos down both bare, massive arms. He dipped his turbaned head under the doorjamb of my studio and dwarfed the chair I indicated. He dwarfed the whole damned studio. He’d have dwarfed entire provinces. His thighs were twice the size of my waist, an
d my waist has never been a hand span operation.

  Through the window I saw Louie, who’d been on his way over to interrupt me for the third time that morning, sprinting back into his own yard, Sammy tucked safely under his arm. If I was about to be mugged in my own studio by a dark skinned giant, Louie wasn’t about to save me.

  “I need two double mattresses with box springs. Good quality.”

  “Only the best.” Reuben was staring wide eyed at the bookshelves behind me, which contained rows of my romances plus translations. “Eric, he says you write books?”

  “Yeah. Would you like one for your wife?” I reached back and picked one at random. I’ve learned that giving someone a signed book can be great for business.

  “Not my wife, no, she does not read. But myself, I would love to have one. Always, I thought how I would like to write a romance. Please, you will sign for me?”

  So with heedless optimism I wrote on the title page, For Reuben, who will write a best seller. Best regards, Bobby H.

  There’s no point ruining someone’s dream by telling them that about one romance in every 4000 submissions actually makes it to print, never mind on to the best seller list, or that a miniscule number are written by men. How did I know he wasn’t the next Robert James Waller?

  Reuben was overwhelmed. He stared down at the paperback, turned it over three times in his huge paw, read the dedication and clasped it to his heart. He thanked me in a trembling voice.

  For the next half hour, we went over how one went about starting a book, how to write outlines, where to send it, how to go about getting an agent. Finally I cleared my throat and said, “About the beds.”

  “Oh, the beds, yes, for you, Bobby, only the best. I will bring you tomorrow two, you will like them, you will see.” He went into a technical description of chiropractic open coil pillow top whatever.

  I went for the bottom line. “How much?”

  “Cash, no paper?”

  I agreed.

  He quoted a price so low I assumed it was for only one bed.

  “No, no, missus, for two. Two of my very best, only for you. And maybe I will bring you a sample of what I write, you would quickly look and tell me what you think, yes?”

  What the heck. I agreed with the terms, providing he also removed the old beds and set up the new ones. I had guests arriving the following evening.

  Reuben and a skinny little helper were there at noon the next day. With much hollering and what I assumed were exotic curses, they carefully manhandled the old mattresses and box springs down the narrow staircase and then reversed the operation to get the new beds upstairs, not an easy proposition. They even transferred the bed skirts and mattress pads for me.

  I’d examined the beds before they unloaded them from the back of an old Ford pickup, and found them to be exactly what he’d promised, beautiful, pristine, pillow topped. Remarkable for the price.

  I paid Reuben cash, and he handed me a thick sheaf of badly typed papers. His manuscript. My heart sank. I hate reading stuff and having to tell people some version of the awful truth.

  “I’ll read it as soon as I can,” I assured him, knowing I’d put it off as long as I possibly could.

  When he was gone, I went into the house, ran upstairs, and flopped down first on one bed, then the other, before I set to work making them up. They were heaven. As soon as I got my check for my completed manuscript, I decided, I was going to splurge and buy myself a new bed.

  Of course, before I could contact Reuben again I’d have to read his writing, which sort of took the joy out of the whole endeavor.

  Weeks went by. I finished the book, did the revisions, started a new outline, all the while greeting guests, cooking breakfast and washing sheets. Once in a while I thought of my new bed and sighed with longing.

  When my book money finally arrived, I dug through the pile of paper on my desk and found Reuben’s manuscript, which I hadn’t yet looked at.

  I forced myself to take off the rubber band and skim through it. It was about as bad as I’d anticipated. The parts that were even a little good weren’t original and the original parts really weren’t good. The English usage was highly amusing and totally unintentional.

  But hey, I wasn’t an editor. It took me two hours to scribble down a couple pages of honest suggestions. What they pretty much amounted to was don’t quit your day job. Take an English class, or four or five. Read a few romances instead of watching the latest videos from Bollywood.

  Then, dreaming of my new bed, I dialed Reuben’s number.

  “The number you have called is out of service,” a recorded voice informed me.

  I called Eric.

  “Oh, yeah, Reuben,” he said, with that little off hand chuckle that always signified something not good. “Reuben got arrested.”

  “Omigod. What for?” I started to sweat and hyperventilate. I had visions of the cops arriving tomorrow morning, ordering guests out of their lovely pillowtop beds, and then reclaiming my mattresses as stolen property. And wasn’t there some charge relating to receiving stolen goods?

  “Well, he was renting a garage to store the mattresses in, and he claimed the place was broken into and someone stole all his inventory. He made an insurance claim, but then an investigator found out Reuben did it himself.”

  “He stole his own stuff?”

  “Yeah. He took it all to his brother’s basement.”

  “So my mattresses aren’t hot?”

  “No, no, no.” Eric was shocked. “I’d never have put you in touch with him if he was a thief.”

  “Well, technically, he is,” I pointed out. “He’s trying to steal from the insurance company, isn’t he?”

  “Technically, yeah, but see, he had water damage on a pile of beds a year back, and they wouldn’t pay. So he was really just trying to get straight with them. He’s not a thief.”

  Sometimes Eric’s logic escapes me, and I knew better than to dig any deeper. Moving on, I said, “I have some chapters of a book here Reuben wrote and wanted me to look over. I need to get them back to him.” I said hopefully, “Is he in prison?” I’d always wanted to visit someone in prison.

  “No, no, he’s out on bail. But his wife’s left him, he’s staying with Dumpster Dan. I’ll come by after work and pick up his stuff. Is it any good? He’s pretty depressed, it would cheer him up if you thought it was any good. He’s told everybody you were looking at his work and you told him he was going to have a best seller. Maybe you could show it to your editor for him, that would really give him a boost.”

  Lordie. I’d written that dedication never dreaming Reuben would take it seriously, or confuse it with any critique.

  “Bobby?” Eric hated dead air time.

  I mumbled, “It needs work.” Now I’d have to re write the critique so the guy didn’t head for the bridge when he read it. All I needed was Reuben committing suicide because of something I said.

  Writing anything is so difficult. No matter how awful the product was, at least Reuben tried. It took me another two hours to re word what I’d said so it sounded vaguely encouraging but not too hopeful.

  I thought longingly of the new bed I’d been coveting and I called Eric again. “I guess Reuben can’t sell me another mattress set, aye?”

  “Nope, they confiscated all his inventory. But I know this other guy—“

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll take a drive over to Beds and Beyond.”

  Eric was horrified at the idea that I’d pay full price, but I’d learned another little lesson here.

  Sometimes full price is by far the most economical way to go.

  TIPS ON WRITING

  The only worthwhile suggestion I have applies to both writing and running a B&B. It’s written on my desk in black indelible ink.

  OKAY, UNIVERSE. YOU DO QUALITY, I’LL DO QUANTITY.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I asked for strength, and God gave me difficulties

  To make me strong.

  (Hazrat Inayat Khan, Sufi m
aster)

  There’s always the question of what to charge when you run a bed and breakfast. Generally, people expect to pay less for more than they’d get at a hotel, I have no idea why.

  I charged by the room, which meant one person paid the same as two friendly people. Given my romantic track record, I figured anyone in a reasonable workable relationship deserved a break.

  I didn’t advertise my rates, and as time went on, I found myself adjusting the nightly fee in accordance with how I felt. If I was exhausted and wanted a night off, I’d double it when someone inquired. Or if a young couple came along with an old car, a baby, and appointments at Children’s Hospital, I’d cut it in half.

  So when a social worker called asking what my rates were, I asked her why she was inquiring before I quoted.

  She explained she had a woman from Germany in town visiting her mother in a rest home. The lady was currently staying in a most unsatisfactory B&B, paying much more than she could afford.

  The logical questions to me were, “What can she afford? And how long is she staying?”

  A figure was quoted. The visit would last four weeks.

  I thought it over quickly, cut $10 a day from the amount the social worker had suggested, and waited for my new guest to arrive.

  Katie was small and shy and tense, a faded, pretty woman in her late forties, obviously upset. The place she’d been staying had a bully for a landlady.

  I showed her to her room up under the eaves and invited her down for tea whenever she was settled.

  “It is very kind of you,” she stated, her hands shaking so that tea spilled over the side of the cup. It took a couple of days before she’d calmed down enough to be able to explain what she was doing in Canada.

  Late in life her mother had married a Canadian and come to live here in Vancouver. The gentleman died, and Katie’s mom began to exhibit signs of Alzheimer’s.

  “I am divorced, I live on small pension in a little town in Germany,” she explained in her careful, stilted English. “Here, my mother has free medical care. If I bring her back to Germany, I could not afford the care she needs. I would have to care for her myself at home, and I cannot.”