The Beach House

by Jolie Campbell

  THE BEACH HOUSE

  By Jolie Campbell

  CHAPTER 1

  "Make jam," Elaine slurred, hoisting a flat of strawberries onto the counter. "The guests will love it. I'll expect it tomorrow at breakfast. There’s another flat in the trunk."

  She stumbled out of the kitchen. Wow, nice chatting with you. Thankfully my boss was headed downstairs to the tiny bedroom where she or another employee stayed overnight, not toward the living room of the Beach House, the upscale six-room inn where I worked as a baker, cook and unofficial assistant manager. There was usually at least a guest or two relaxing in the living room; more in the mornings when we served breakfast and during the late afternoons when we offered tea and my homemade treats there.

  Right now it was barely 11 a.m., and Elaine was clearly soused. Not exactly the picture of the calm, reserved hotel manager most people expect, especially at an elegant inn like the Beach House. This happened at least three times a week and lately even more frequently.

  As I headed out to Elaine’s car to grab the other flat--and lock up, since she had left it open with the keys in the ignition--I mentally rearranged my afternoon schedule to figure in jam-making.

  Especially since I didn’t know how to make jam.

  Back inside, googling “strawberry jam recipe” led me to more search results than I felt like wading through, so I reached for my trusty, weathered old copy of The Joy of Cooking. I'd had this book since I picked it up at a yard sale for a quarter when I was 9, and had made dozens of recipes in it. Not the jam though, sadly. I sighed, turned on NPR’s All Songs Considered podcast and started unloading the ripe, luscious berries from their containers.

  A while later, as the jam bubbled in a giant, ancient pot on the stove, I was at the front desk helping a couple of guests decide where to go for dinner. They were honeymooners from New Jersey, making their way down the West Coast along the Pacific Coast Highway by car. This would normally have been part of Elaine's job, but she was still sleeping it off in the tiny downstairs bedroom.

  Elaine slept there overnight on Tuesdays through Thursdays, and the other nights it was occupied by Liz, a local grad student, so there was always a staffer in the inn for late check-ins, emergencies or just in case a guest needed something. I had the inn's tablet out on the wide, beautifully sculpted antique mahogany front desk, and the honeymooners and I were clicking through the bookmarks we kept of the best local restaurants so they could peruse the menus. I heard a rustling out on the front porch.

  "Well, hello there, Emmy!" shouted Mr. Matthews, as he shuffled in the front door. He was a widower in his 80s, hard of hearing and had difficulty walking, but he was always jolly and kind. He was a close family friend of Lauren, one of the inn’s owners, and stayed with us often.

  "Mr. Matthews, welcome back!" I grinned at him. He held out his arms for a hug and I ran over to embrace him.

  "Careful there, Emmy, you're going to break my old bones," he laughed, patting my back.

  "Mr. Matthews, come and meet Andrea and Craig. They're on their honeymoon," I slipped my hand around his arm to gently guide him over.

  "Honeymoon! Well now, congratulations!" he shouted at them, shaking Craig's hand and kissing Andrea's. "First time here at the Beach House?"

  As he chatted amiably with them and they relaxed into his grandfatherly charm, I filled out a check-in form for him. Everything was done digitally at the Beach House, but Mr. Matthews was used to signing in on paper, so I kept some forms on hand for him and scanned them later.

  The couple and Mr. Matthews were reaching a natural break in their conversation just as I finished up the form.

  "I think we're going to go with Café Zack in Ventura, Emmy," Craig told me as he followed Andrea up the stairs toward their room. "Thanks for your help."

  “My pleasure,” I replied with a smile. “I’ll make a reservation for 8 tonight for you.”

  “If anyone knows food, it’s our Emmy here,” Mr. Matthews shouted with a grin. He had settled into one of the midcentury easy chairs in the living room, just next to the open entryway, and was slowly pulling his feet up onto the ottoman. If I left him alone like that for a few minutes I would come back to find him napping, snoring softly, with a faint smile on his face.

  The chairs, tastefully upholstered with a soft, pearly gray fabric, were just a few shades paler than the sectional sofa that sat perpendicular to them. My favorite piece in the room was a charcoal velvet Milo Baughman chaise in the corner opposite the real focal point, a big picture window, under which stood a stunning antique French farmhouse table that likely cost as much as the rest of the furniture in the whole house combined. That’s where we served breakfast and afternoon tea.

  The inn was full of treasures like that table; scattered about every room were posh pieces like custom-made pillows with silk from India, a 19th-century wooden starburst wall hanging, an authentic Tiffany lamp. Then there were a few kitschy items, like odd ashtrays picked up at yard sales and an ancient quilt sewn by one of the owners’ grandmothers. The guest rooms each had their own distinct style but somehow they all held together, with big, inviting beds, impossibly luxurious linens in shades of cream, shelves tastefully lined with a few candles and carefully selected books.

  It helped that the interior design was created by Martin Snow, a famous Hollywood set designer who was friendly with the owners and stayed at the inn frequently.

  “So Emmy dear, come here and tell me all about your boyfriends,” Mr. Matthews shouted. I smiled and walked over to him, and he motioned for me to sit on the ottoman.

  “No boyfriend at the moment. Except you, of course.”

  “Ha!” he whooped. “Now, now, you’ll make me blush.”

  “So how have you been? How’s your family?”

  He gave me the rundown on his daughter and son-in-law and their three children.

  “Did you bring the pictures?” I demanded, knowing full well that he never left his condo in San Diego without his small but overstuffed leather photo album.

  “Of course!” he laughed. “They’re in my case.”

  He coughed a little and cleared his throat.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I would love a little something,” he sighed, patting my hand. “Some iced tea? With-”

  “Lemon and a just touch of honey?” I finished for him, earning me a chuckle. “Be right back with that.”

  After I had set up tea service and spooned the ruby-hued jam into a motley assortment of jars I had found in the dank little downstairs pantry, the phone rang.

  “Good afternoon, the Beach House, this is Emmeline, may-" I started.

  "Can I speak to Elaine, please?" A female voice interrupted brusquely. She sounded like a lawyer or an executive—for some reason I pictured Joan Crawford in one of her wide-shouldered suits in a 1940s movie, all painted-on eyebrows and red lipstick, black hair pulled back into a severe, no-nonsense bun.

  Uncertain whether Elaine had finished sleeping it off, I tried to stall.

  "She's unavailable at the moment. May I help you? Or would you prefer to leave a message for Elaine?"

  "I'd prefer that she make herself available,” the woman snapped back. “Go find her and tell her it's Julianne calling. She'll want to come to the phone, trust me."

  No, you trust me, you would not want to be on the other end of the conversation when Elaine is hung over.

  "I'm sorry, I'm not able to reach her right at the moment. Are you quite sure I can't help? I'd be happy to assist you."

  That’ll soften her up.

  Her exasperated sigh exploded in my ear. "No, I need Elaine," she bit out. I could hear traffic in the background—was she in a car with a headset on? That killed my black-and-white movie fantasy.
"Tell her I called and it's imperative that she call me back within the hour. Otherwise I'll have to...well, just let her know she'll lose my business."

  Just then Elaine shuffled into the kitchen, no doubt in search of coffee and Advil, pulling a long camel-colored cardigan around her faded black tank top and slim pants. I hurried off the phone to keep this Julianne person from hearing Elaine groan.

  "Uh, Elaine?" I whispered.

  "Stop yelling, for Chrissakes," Elaine grumbled, raising a hand to her brow. She was a trim, petite woman in her mid 50s, well put-together and stylish, with a highlighted blonde shag haircut and bright blue eyes. Drinking had aged her prematurely, and it showed even more when she was in this state and not wearing makeup.

  "Sorry, but someone named Julianne just called. She wouldn't let me help her.She said you should call her back within the hour or you would lose her business."

  "Oh shit! Dammit," Elaine wailed, now holding her head in her two hands. "When did she call?"

  "Just now. I just hung up with her. Who is she? Why is her business so important?"

  "Shit!" Elaine growled, edging me out of the way as she reached for the house phone. She grabbed her cell so she could look up the number. Straightening her shoulders, she took a deep breath and put a serene smile on, just as I heard Julianne pick up.

  "Julianne darling, I'm so sorry I missed your call. You know how it is, the guests here always have my undivided attention when they need me," she said in her smooth, authoritative voice, the one she used when she spoke to Lauren and Dennis, the Beach House's owners.

  When she noticed I was watching her, she shot me a look and walked out of the kitchen.

  "Yes, of course, we have a great deal of experience with VIPs. How can we be of help?"

  VIPs? We had mostly rich tourists and old friends of the owners. Los Angeles was only about an hour and a half away by car, so occasionally we'd get a couple from there sneaking in a quick weekend away from their kids, but VIPs? I assumed they would stay in more of a full-service hotel, with a business center and room service. As well appointed as the Beach House was, at the end of the day it was still a bed and breakfast.

  Who could it be? It might be fun if it were some TV or movie actor I recognized, or a rock star. That was possible, since Lauren and Dennis were entertainment lawyers with many big-name clients, but those types of people probably had a whole entourage and would be too much for us. Maybe a big-name journalist? An athlete? A politician?

  The sound of Andrea, Craig and a few other guests milling about in the living room snapped me out of my reverie. Time to get back to work. I sighed, smoothed down my apron and walked into the living room to make sure everyone had what they needed.

  CHAPTER 2

  "We're going to have a special guest," Elaine began. All of us let out a sigh of relief. It was 11 the next morning, breakfast had ended and the living room was all tidied up. Elaine had called our first all-hands-on-deck staff meeting and we had all been speculating about what the news was.

  We were told to gather in the sunroom in the back of the house, next to the kitchen, a room which, although open to guests, was rarely used.

  "Jesus, Elaine. We thought you were firing us," said Shari, the cleaning woman, or "The Cleaner," as she liked to call herself, after the movie about a shady guy who mops up after assassins. Shari had a vivid imagination. All of us—Shari, her fellow cleaner Anna, Allen the maintenance man, Liz and myself—started chatting among ourselves.

  "Please everyone, shut up!" Elaine yelled, exasperated. She pinched the top of her nose and winced in apparent pain. "Can we just get through this meeting, please?"

  We all fell silent.

  "You aren't fired. But you will be, immediately, if you don't follow the ground rules surrounding our special guest. His stay here will last for at least two months, possibly longer. He is a public figure, someone you've all heard of, no doubt."

  "Oh oh, who is it?" Shari's big body bounced on the couch. I was next to her, so I was made to bounce, too. "Come on, Ellie, tell us! Is it Jake Gyllenhaal? Is it Zac Efron? Oh! No! Is it Justin Bieber? Oh my God, it is, isn't it? Is it Justin Bieber?"

  "Shari, you have just demonstrated the precise behavior that will get you fired," Elaine said, glaring. “And don’t call me ‘Ellie,’ ever.”

  Shari closed her mouth and sat still.

  "That's better. People, I know this is a small inn, but the Beach House has a special feel to it, a certain elegance, and we must begin to think of ourselves as an exclusive boutique hotel, especially while our special guest is with us. That means absolute professionalism and complete discretion at all times.

  “You will not ask him for autographs. You will not ask him about his work or anyone with whom he works or socializes. Indeed, you will not ask him anything personal at

  all.”

  Elaine paused to make eye contact with each of us.

  “Your only interaction will be a polite greeting if he greets you first and the most basic questions about what he requires, such as what he takes in his coffee, whether he would like another fresh towel," she continued, using a tone appropriate for misbehaving 8-year-olds. "And after the first time you ask, I expect you to remember what he says so he need not ask again. We will accommodate any requests he has and do our very best to anticipate his needs. And we will do so while giving him as much privacy as humanly possible.”

  Shari began fidgeting, and I elbowed her. Elaine glared at us.

  "If I find any of you attempting to fraternize with him, behaving in the least bit familiar way, if I see so much as a hint on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or any other social media, if I catch you taking a photo on your cell phone—anything—you will be fired immediately,” she said, stretching out the last word. "This arrangement was made between our guest's agent and Dennis and Lauren, so these instructions come straight from them. Your behavior reflects on them and our success in this endeavor could affect the very future of this business. We will do everything in our power to make Mr. Buckley feel at home.

  "So. Any questions?"

  Shari began squirming in her seat again. "Elaine, sorry, but..." she started in her quietest voice. "Mr. Buckley? Do you mean Quinn Buckley?"

  "That's right," Elaine frowned. "Quinn Buckley. No doubt you are all aware not only of his films, but also his, ah, difficulties of late."

  Quinn Buckley. Heartthrob, loved by young girls and their mothers alike, most well known for his massive box-office success in the Radiant Angel movie trilogy. Everyone knew about him. His movies were always hits, his every move was splashed on the pages of the tabloids and if you flipped on late-night TV, he could usually be found bantering with some host or another.

  Currently he was entrenched in a scandal involving his costar and girlfriend, the stunning Maya Santos. I wasn’t big on celebrity gossip, but even I knew that something had happened on the set of his latest movie, the hotly anticipated Kill Switch. He had been messing around on her, culminating in a public screaming match between them, and then he had walked off the set. He had been hiding out ever since, and no one seemed to know exactly where he was.

  Now he was coming here. It seemed impossible.

  "Why here?" I blurted. "I mean, he could go anywhere in the world—Europe, a desert island, South America. Why come here?"

  "Well, thank you for sharing your knowledge of world geography, Emmeline," Elaine purred. My cheeks heated. "Yes, obviously Mr. Buckley has the means to go anywhere. Is it really so strange to imagine he would choose to stay in our lovely boutique hotel? Not to mention that it's close enough to Los Angeles that he'll be able to slip in and out for meetings when he needs to, and he has his friends around him here, which I imagine is a comfort during this difficult time."

  "Well, he cheated on Maya, she's the one who needs comforting. That guy is nothing but a dog. A hot and sexy dog, but still a dog," Shari snorted.

  "All right, Shari, that is quite enough," Elaine snapped.

  “What about the ot
her guests?” Anna murmured. She was extremely shy and almost never spoke; she was kind of the anti-Shari. “How will we keep them from telling about Quinn Buckley or posting it on Facebook?”

  “Anna, that’s an excellent question, thank you,” Elaine nodded to her. Anna blushed and lowered her head. “While Mr. Buckley is with us, the other rooms will only be occupied by longtime friends of the Beach House or Dennis and Lauren, people who have stayed with us often over the years and can be trusted. They will all be briefed on our situation, and will sign a nondisclosure agreement before checking in. I have a list of approved guests who may be given a reservation during Mr. Buckley’s time with us. If those of you who answer the phone take a reservation from one of these guests, you must let me know right away so I can follow up with them. If anyone else calls, you’re to tell them we’re booked.

  “Under no circumstances are you to disclose the fact that Mr. Buckley is here, to anyone. Not to your friends or family, and especially not to anyone over the phone. No one is to know. No. One. Julianne, Mr. Buckley's assistant, will be here on Tuesday to inspect the inn, let us know about any special needs he has and to talk to all of you. Until then, no gossiping. Remember, I expect all of you to behave like hospitality professionals, with maturity and complete discretion. Thank you."

  "What do you know about this Julianne chick?" Shari asked me later that afternoon. She was straightening up around me in the kitchen while I mixed oats, almonds and coconut in a big bowl. "And what are you cooking up now?"

  Shari and I had been working together for four years, and at this point her cleaning around me while I cooked had become like a well-choreographed dance. We never bumped into each other or got in each other's way.

  It helped that the kitchen was enormous. Guests often came in it to visit with me. Aside from the aromas of treats baking, the room drew visitors with its comfort and style. Every high-end kitchen gadget imaginable lined the white granite counters, and a big butcher-block island in the center of the room had an assortment of stools around it inviting guests to hang out and socialize. The giant, ultramodern stainless steel Sub-Zero fridge somehow melded perfectly with a huge, whitewashed antique cabinet that held the inn's impressive collection of crystal. A small desk in the corner past the back door held a laptop, to which I had attached speakers so I could have music on all day, and large windows overlooked the inn's small back porch and modest backyard.