Under the Desert Sky

by Sara Luck

  “Oh, no, sir, I can find a place for you. What did you say yer name was?”

  “De Wet. Christian De Wet.”

  “All right, Mr. De Wet, I can put you and yer lady in room 205. That has a wonderful view of the falls, and if you leave yer window open, you’ll be able to hear it all night.”

  “I asked for two rooms. Is there another room nearby?”

  Mary Margaret looked up abruptly. “Isn’t this woman yer wife?”

  By this time, Christian was becoming more and more agitated. “No, she is not. Is that a problem?”

  A broad smile crossed Mary Margaret’s face. “Oh, no, ’tis not a problem at all. Just wait until I tell Bridgett about you two.”

  “What do you mean, tell her about us?” Phoebe asked.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just that you’ll be her stars tonight. She gets so frustrated when every year she has to cast her spells over the same people. This year, maybe they’ll work.”

  “Spells?”

  “You’ll see,” the check-in clerk said. “Mary Kathleen,” she called. “Would you show Mr. De Wet and his lady friend to rooms 205 and 207, and do make certain their windows are thrown open.”

  “His lady friend, is it?” Mary Kathleen said with a big smile. “Sure ’n’ Bridgett will appreciate that.”

  “What are you talking about?” Phoebe asked, beginning to get a little piqued by the repeated references to their being unmarried.

  “You’ll see, milady, when the festivities begin.”

  Still frustrated by the lack of an answer, Phoebe started to ask another question, but then she thought about Mary Margaret and Mary Kathleen, who were no doubt only paid employees of the resort. Remembering her own experience in Mount Olive, Illinois, as a counter girl for Mrs. Droste’s Bake Shop and then as the Sloans’ maid, she held her tongue.

  Mary Kathleen led them to the far end of the hall, where two rooms were separated from the rest of the rooms on that floor by a reading room. A linen closet was across the hall.

  “Here they are.” Mary Kathleen opened the door to the first room. She raised the window and placed a stick under it to hold it up. “These rooms are a little out-of-the-way, but they’re the closest to the falls, and tonight, especially, you might like that. I’ll open the other room before I go down to help with supper. It’s served in the dining room and starts in half an hour.”

  Christian and Phoebe watched Mary Kathleen walk away, and Christian didn’t speak until she was out of earshot. “Would you be for tellin’ me, lass, ’n’ is it to Ireland we’ve come? I was thinkin’ we came by train ’n’ coach, but I must’ve missed the ocean voyage.” He perfectly mimicked the Irish brogue.

  Phoebe laughed out loud. “Sure ’n’ ’tis the divel you be now for mocking them so, Christian De Wet.”

  Christian laughed as well. “Which room do you want?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me. I want this night to be perfect for you.”

  Would it be perfect? Although Phoebe didn’t give voice to the question, it sounded loudly in her mind.

  Room 207 was the end room, and it had windows on two sides.

  Christian walked over to one of the windows and pulled back the crewel-embroidered drapery. “I think this room has the better view. You’re facing away from the entrance so you can see the mountains and the waterfall. Come look. You can see where the water cascades out of what looks like a hole in the rock. We’ll have to go explore that tomorrow.”

  Phoebe came to the window and stood beside Christian.

  “See?” He pointed to the waterfall.

  Phoebe could smell a woody scent with a hint of cloves, or perhaps cinnamon, coming from Christian’s face. She smiled. She’d never smelled men’s cologne on him before. “You smell good.”

  Christian turned to her, a grin forming. “I thought I’d better do something to make you notice me when we got up here with all the society folks.”

  Phoebe nodded. “I suppose you think I’m after one of those old men who raised their glasses to Paddy.”

  “I don’t know. If you take up with one of them, I may have to go after Miss Renny.”

  “You can’t. She thinks you’re my husband.”

  “I see no immediate reason to dissuade anyone of that idea.”

  “But if they believe that, won’t they think it odd that we’ve taken two rooms?”

  “I didn’t want to be presumptuous. I’ll leave you alone for a bit, but I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. We don’t want to be late for supper, especially when we’re supposed to be the stars of the evening.”

  Before Christian left, he kissed her on the back of her neck. The mere touch of his lips sent shivers of anticipation through Phoebe.

  After the door closed behind him, Phoebe looked around the room. The fireplace had been laid with wood and tinder, ready to be lit if needed to push away the cool of the night. The bed with its canopy atop four posts was as large as any she’d ever seen. Its deep-green velvet coverlet sported elaborate crewelwork as well. She ran her hand over the handiwork, admiring the fine stitches that someone had spent hours completing. Her mother had tried to teach her the intricate stitches, but Phoebe could never satisfy her.

  She seldom thought of her mother, but tonight she wondered what she’d think of her daughter. She was in a place where the Rockefellers, the Whitneys, and the Vanderbilts vacationed, yet she, a coal miner’s daughter, could stay here as well. She’d never before been anywhere quite as beautiful as this hotel, but even as she was thinking that, she realized that this was the first time she’d ever been in a hotel room anywhere.

  Her musings were interrupted by a quiet knock.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Oh, Christian, I meant to put on one of my new dresses, but now I don’t have time.”

  “I’ll wait. Why don’t you put on the white one?”

  “For Halloween? I don’t think so.”

  13

  When Christian and Phoebe reached the dining room, they saw that it was appropriately decorated for the holiday. It had orange and black crepe paper intertwined all around the room. The only light was from the candles set inside carved pumpkins. There were no individual tables, but one long table set with gleaming silverware. Beside each place setting was a hollowed, carved orange that had a small candle inserted as well. On the table were three oversize oval copper trays filled with pumpkins, apples, pears, and clusters of green and purple grapes. In addition, the ubiquitous crepe paper was interspersed with the fruit and connected the arrangements.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe our last two guests have arrived,” Margaret Calhoun announced when Christian and Phoebe entered the room. “Mr. De Wet, I believe we failed to get the name of your friend.”

  “My name is Phoebe Sloan.”

  “Thank you. Mary Kathleen, can you find where Miss Sloan will be sitting?

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mary Kathleen began scurrying along the table.

  “All of you, please find your seats. The place cards are just in front of the orange jack-o’-lanterns.”

  “Well, now, tell me, Margaret, aren’t all jack-o’-lanterns orange?” a man who seemed to have had a bit too much to drink said.

  “Of course you’re right, Harry. I meant the jack-o’-lanterns made from the oranges.”

  People began to mill around the table looking for their names, Phoebe and Christian were following Mary Kathleen when a young woman came toward them.

  “Mr. De Wet? I believe you’re sitting beside me. I’ll bet you don’t remember me, but I certainly remember you. I’m Helen Hay.” She extended her hand to Christian.

  Christian shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall having met you.”

  “Oh, but you remember meeting with my father, John Milton Hay, do you not?”

  “The ambassador, of course, and now I understand he’s McKinley’s secretary of state.”

  The young woman flashed a big smile. “Yes, he is,”
she replied proudly. “I knew you had to be the same handsome man I met long ago. Come. Shall we be seated?”

  The ambassador’s daughter pointed to a place on the table where her and Christian’s name cards were side by side.

  “Excuse me”—Christian plucked up the place card that had his name—“I believe this is a mistake. I’ll be sitting beside Miss Sloan.”

  “Oh, but . . . that’s not how Mrs. Calhoun had it planned.”

  Christian smiled a most disarming smile. “Perhaps not, but it is how I have it planned. I’ll make my apologies to her and perhaps we can speak later in the evening.” He put his hand on Phoebe’s waist and turned her in the direction Mary Kathleen had gone.

  When they found Phoebe’s place, the gentleman who’d remarked about the jack-o’-lanterns’ being orange was waiting for her.

  “I believe I’m to be yours tonight, my dear.” He stood and almost tipped over the chair.

  “It’s Harry, is it not?” Christian asked.

  “Yes. Everybody knows old Harry. Harry Hastings.”

  “There’s been a mistake, sir. I believe Harry Hastings is to be sitting by Helen Hay. It’s alphabetical, you know.”

  “Oh, and where is she?”

  “That is she on the other side of the table—the one in the yellow dress.”

  “Thank ye kindly, and, ma’am, I’m sorry you don’t get to sit beside me. You would’ve liked my company.”

  Phoebe laughed. “I’m sure I would have.”

  When they were seated, Christian took Phoebe’s hand in his. He gave it a squeeze. That simple gesture meant more to Phoebe than she could say, and her eyes began to glisten as she held back her emotions.

  Phoebe picked up the hand-printed menu by her place setting and read it over. The first item was Welsh rarebit, and she recalled her introduction to the dish when she was working as a maid for the Sloans. She had shared those domestic duties with a cook named Crecy.

  Mrs. Sloan had asked Crecy to prepare the cheese sauce for an after-theater repast to which several dignitaries were invited, including the governor and his wife. It had been a disaster from the very beginning. Frank and Myra had gotten into an argument about something, and Juliet tried to cover for her son’s behavior. Crecy had prepared the rarebit to be served at the precise moment Juliet had asked, but when the course was delayed because of the tiff between Frank and Myra, the sauce curdled, the toast burned, and Crecy could do nothing except serve the disastrous meal. Juliet had come to the kitchen, and both Phoebe and Crecy had been hauled over the coals for embarrassing her.

  The evening had turned into a complete fiasco. Frank drank much more than he should have, and for the first time in her life Phoebe was confronted by a drunken man. She had no idea what would’ve happened had W.F. not intervened.

  Hindsight told her she should’ve left the Sloan household that very night, but she’d just arrived in Phoenix, and she was afraid.

  “I’m not all that sure you would have ‘enjoyed’ Mr. Hastings’s company,” Christian said, his words bringing Phoebe back to the present. He nodded toward Hastings and Helen Hay, who was obviously being made uncomfortable by the inebriated man.

  Phoebe smiled. “Don’t you feel guilty now for rearranging the seating chart?”

  “Not at all. Do you?”

  Phoebe’s smile grew broader, and she reached over to put her hand on Christian’s arm. “Not in the least.”

  The meal continued with an orange aspic filled with an oyster timbale that was nestled on a bed of lettuce. Phoebe realized the inordinate amount of time it must’ve taken someone to form the face of a jack-o’-lantern in the bottom of the mold before the gelatin set. She couldn’t decipher what had been used to form the features, but it looked like little black beads. Whatever it was, it had a fishlike taste that she liked.

  When she came out of her reverie, she was aware she hadn’t been a very engaging dinner companion, but Christian didn’t seem to mind. He was speaking with two men sitting across the table while their companions were concentrating on their own food.

  Phoebe listened to see if she could interject something intelligent into the conversation, but she soon went back to her own thoughts. She thought it strange to be discussing such sober topics as whether the US military would have to stay on in Cuba, or if the Chinese and the French would reach a peace accord, or how much wealth could be taken out of the Philippines in gold or wood, or if the future for the islands would be in rubber. All of this while women were waltzing around the room dressed as witches and carrying brooms.

  Then Bridgett called out to the diners, “Now for the moment you’ve been waiting for: Let the Oiche Shamhna begin!”

  “Oiche Shamhna shona daoibh! ” many of the diners called out as they lifted their glasses.

  Christian turned to Phoebe, lifting his eyebrows by way of questioning what was happening.

  Mary Margaret explained, “Samhain means ‘summer’s end,’ and they have just wished a happy summer’s end. It’s like saying, ‘Happy Halloween.’ ”

  “Oh.” Phoebe flashed a smile at Mary Margaret, who was dressed as a witch as well. “Thank you.”

  Margaret Calhoun came out carrying a large tray that contained what looked like a fruitcake. She placed it in the center of the table.

  Bridgett withdrew a knife from her witch’s costume. “As I prepare to cut the barmbrack, ’tis an Irish toast I have for you. May yer neighbors respect you, may trouble neglect you, the angels protect you, and heaven accept you. Sure, now, ’n’ may this be the year Renny O’Shea gets the ring.”

  “Didn’t she get the shimble, shimble . . .”

  “Here now, Harry, ’n’ has demon rum muddled your tongue?” someone called.

  The others laughed.

  “Thimble,” Harry Hastings said triumphantly, finding the word. “Tha’s what she got last year, ishn’t it? That means she’ll be single for life.”

  “And how many times have you gotten the button, Harry?” another diner asked.

  “But I keep coming back. My luck has changed. Look at me now. Am I”—Harry hiccuped—“am I not sitting by the prettiest woman in the room?” He leaned over to try to kiss Helen Hay, but she adroitly maneuvered away from him.

  “I believe the ambassador’s daughter won’t be too happy with you when you two get together later,” Phoebe whispered to Christian.

  “And why would we be getting together later? Besides, if old Harry hadn’t been by her, may I remind you he would’ve been sitting in my place.”

  “Yes, but then he would’ve said I was the prettiest woman in the room.”

  “That’s what I’m supposed to say.” Christian kissed her on the nose.

  “Here, now.” Mary Margaret shook her finger at Christian. “There will be none o’ that until the future be told.”

  At first Phoebe thought the woman was serious, but then she saw that Mary Margaret was trying to contain her giggles.

  “May 1900 be the year the barmbrack tells the future good and true.” Bridgett lowered her knife and with a thump it split the cake. “There be trinkets in this dish, ’n’ for any of ye who have no knowledge o’ the meaning of the trinkets, I’ll be for explaining them to ye now. If ye get a coin, then that means riches will come to you; but a rag means poverty. A button for a man”—she looked toward Harry—“means unlucky in love. A thimble means single for life. But”—she held up her finger—“the luck o’ the Irish will fall upon one here, for if it be yer fortune to bite into a ring in yer barmbrack, sure ’n’ that means ’tis romance for you. What think you, Mary Kathleen? Is there romance in the air tonight?”

  “Aye”—Mary Kathleen looked directly toward Phoebe and Christian—“for ’tis somethin’ I can feel.”

  Mary Margaret and Mary Kathleen passed the pieces of the barmbrack around, and everyone began eating as people commented to one another, hoping it’d be their luck to find a trinket.

  Renny was the first to call out. “Oh, no!”

>   “What is it? What did you get?” Bridgett asked.

  “I got a . . . piece of cloth.” The disappointment in Renny’s voice was obvious.

  Bridgett smiled. “You’re already a rich woman, Renny, so ye can laugh at the cloth. Besides, don’t ye have all yer good friends, especially Mr. Whitney, who we are missing for the Samhain, but we’ll forgive him this year, because he and Andrew have promised to bring Saratoga back to its glory. ’N’ when that happens, yer horses will once again run at the front on the nine-furlong track. Sure ’n’ the wee bit o’ rag means not a thing to Renny O’Shea.”

  “ ’Tis fine for you to say, but what about Nora McMullen?” Renny asked.

  Bridgett laughed. “And who got the ring last year? Andrew Mellon, that’s who. ’N’ who did he marry? Sure ’n’ ’twas Nora McMullen herself. Don’t tell me the barmbrack doesn’t tell the future true.”

  “Ha! It’s money for me!” one of the men said as he held up a penny. “I got the coin.”

  “I got the ring!” Helen Hay said happily, holding the ring aloft for all to see.

  “Good for you!” Bridgett said. “And for sure there’ll be wedding bells before a year has passed.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Helen flashed a flirtatious smile in Christian’s direction.

  “Oh, my, Miss Hay not only has her cap set for you, it would appear she now has the ‘luck o’ the Irish’ as well,” Phoebe said, needling Christian with a coquettish smile of her own.

  “Surely there must be some spell that can ward her off,” Christian replied.

  “Ladies, you’ll be needing a covering,” Margaret Calhoun said as she began passing black shawls to each of the women. “Tonight’s the night for sprites and fairies, and lest you be covered, they’ll carry you away.”

  “There you go, Christian. All I have to do is jerk the covering from Miss Hay’s head, and the sprites and fairies will whisk her away,” Phoebe said with a little laugh.

  Phoebe and Christian moved with the others outside. All gathered around a big bonfire blazing in a rock cave near the lowest of the three pools of water that came from the springs. A black iron cauldron was suspended over the fire, and just as Mary Margaret, Mary Kathleen, and Bridgett came out of the shadows, a loud boom sounded. The noise startled Phoebe, and, reacting to her quick movement, Christian put his arm around her waist, briefly drawing her close to him.