by T B Audrey
“You mean, this whole time, that’s all it would have taken?” he whispered unbelievingly.
She nodded. “Yes.”
He reached out and held her hand. “Bee...” he said, “from the moment I laid eyes on you I thought you were the most beautiful creature in the world and as I got to know you, I realized you were even more beautiful on the inside then you are on the outside. I have loved you for years. I love you now, and I’ll love you forever.”
He looked into her eyes. “Will you go on a date with me?”
She threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace, finally letting the tears that she had been resisting all week fall.
“Yes,” she cried happily, laughter mixing with her tears. “Of course, I will.”
He hugged her back tightly. “Really? Then there’s only one thing left I have to do.”
“What?” she asked.
He laughed. “Fix your computer. I’m still on the clock, remember?”
AUTHOR PAGE
T.B. Audrey was born and raised in a small southern town. From a young age she enjoyed reading and was especially drawn to mystery and suspense stories. As she grew older she found that she also greatly enjoyed writing her own original works. She especially enjoys writing fictional essays and short stories. This is her first mystery/suspense short story. In the coming years she hopes to continue writing and hopes to complete many more works of mystery/suspense, as well as works in other genres. She can be contacted at [email protected].
SAMSON’S CORNER
By K.B. Clyde
Samson’s Corner. The name was written in large letters on the newly painted sign at the foot of the drive. Bed and Breakfast was printed below it in a curly script that I was sure I had seen on the cover of a romance novel.
“Charming,” my husband remarked as we turned in. I wish I could say he meant it, but I knew he didn’t. I made a face at him then quickly turned to look out the window before he could reciprocate.
I had been looking forward to this retreat from the real world for weeks and I wouldn’t allow his bad mood to spoil it for me.
A three-plank forest green fence ran parallel to the drive on either side all the way up the winding hill.
“It’s beautiful,” I remarked. A group of horses grazed peacefully on the right side of the drive and on the left side a few scattered cows milled around a small, frozen pond. The pastures stretched into the horizon with no buildings to mar the view.
Dave grunted and continued staring straight ahead.
He had managed to get off work for the week with the stipulation that he bring along his laptop and a cell phone on which he could be reached at all times.
I opened my purse and pulled out the brochure I had picked up at the local library a few weeks before. I consulted my watch, a beautiful little piece with a face surrounded by tiny diamonds. Dave’s Christmas present to me.
“It is 1:00 p.m. now,” I said, reading the brochure. “Lunchtime.”
Dave let out a groan of longing. “Great. I’m starving. Does it say what’s for lunch on that thing?”
“No,” I said, fishing in my purse again. I pulled out a piece of paper and dangled it beside his face, but he didn’t turn to look. “But it does right here. This is our itinerary for the week.”
He probably rolled his eyes, as he is prone to do, but I didn’t notice because I was too busy perusing the itinerary for the tenth time since I had received it about a week before in the mail. It was the first exciting mail I’d had in months.
I ran my finger down the page to Saturday, February 9.
“Starter: Chicken and Broccoli Soup. Main Course: Open-Faced Roast Beef Sandwich with a side of Mashed Potatoes and Gravy. Dessert: Assorted Fruit,” I read aloud.
He licked his lips exaggeratedly and swung the car into an empty space near the entrance. It was one of those stubbornly old-fashioned bed and breakfasts that looked like it should be some rich grandmother’s house: a Victorian style mini-mansion with gabled turrets and a wrap-around front porch. This side of the wrap-around front porch held several rocking chairs and a long bench.
The asphalt parking lot looked out of place in front of the aged house and hurt the ambiance somewhat, but I vowed silently to myself to ignore it. It was obviously needed since the lot was more than three-quarters full.
“Let’s get in there to that food,” Dave said, pushing his door open and stepping out into the cold.
“Well, I’m glad you can get excited about something,” I said.
He gathered his two bags and one of mine quickly and started for the door. I followed more slowly, making sure we had all of our things so we wouldn’t have to make another trip. I had brought four heavy bags to his two light ones, so despite the fact that he had, in a gentlemanly manner, taken one of my bags for me, I was weighed down considerably as I climbed the stairs onto the front porch. They creaked beneath me.
Dave paused at the door. It looked so much like someone’s home, I think he hated to just walk in. I bumped past him and let my bags drop on the well-swept wooden porch. It was much too cold to stand around waiting on someone to welcome us. I turned the shiny gold doorknob and pushed. A rush of warm air flowed over us, carrying with it tantalizing scents of food. That was all Dave needed.
I picked up my bags and he followed me in. It looked more like a hotel on the inside than I had expected. The rich red carpet was so thick beneath my feet that my ankles wobbled threateningly. My little red heels, which had added a splash of color to my black pantsuit earlier, were now lost in the sea of burgundy.
A large, poinsettia-filled vase sat on a maple desk just across from the door and a reception area on the right was filled with rigid, uncomfortable looking Victorian chairs, all covered in garish floral patterns. A large staircase ran along the left side of the room to a mid-sized landing and then turned right sharply and proceeded up to the second floor, creating an L shape. Just in front of the staircase on our left, I glimpsed a dining room through an open door.
I glanced at Dave, whose eyes looked in danger of rolling at any minute. I shrugged. I had to admit, it was a little over the top.
He didn’t fit in with the fancy setting at all. I, for a change, was the one who had dressed up. His close-shaven, brown hair (he ignored my protests that I liked it long and opted for the easy maintenance of a near buzz cut) was covered with a green baseball cap and his jeans looked brand new, most likely because they were. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him in anything but pajamas or a business suit and it looked quite appealing.
“Welcome to Samson’s Corner!” an overly cheerful voice said from behind the desk. The poinsettias blocked the speaker from our view.
A head popped around the plant and a woman with chin-length straight brown hair and solemn blue eyes, which did not match her sugary sweet voice at all, stared at us. She appraised us silently for a moment before gesturing for us to approach. I felt as if I were being summoned to kneel before the queen.
“You must be David and Megan Walker?” she queried in a slightly bossy tone, her eyes drifting from me to Dave.
Dave smiled politely. “Yes. You can just call us Dave and Meg, though.”
A small smile did not awaken any happiness in her eyes. Dave proffered a hand and she took it hesitantly.
“Bianca,” she said, her voice just a shade friendlier than before. We shook hands as well. Her palm was cold and dry, her grip loose. Rings gleamed on every finger, many of them graced with gems that looked far too large to be real.
She retrieved a large book from a table behind her and sat down primly on the edge of a hideous, velvet-covered chair similar to the chairs in the reception area. She leafed through the book quickly until she came to an empty page.
“All right, Dave and Meg,” she said, hefting the heavy book up and sitting it just in front of us. “You can sign here. This is the guest book. You will have an opportunity to write in it again at the end of your stay. We al
ways like to have feedback from our guests so we can improve your visit the next time around.”
“I’m sure everything will be wonderful,” I said. “It looks quite luxurious and the woman I talked to on the phone seemed very pleasant.”
“That would be-” she started.
“Bianca!” A harried voice said from just above us.
We all looked up to see an older woman standing on the middle landing of the grand staircase, which was positioned caddy-corner to the desk.
“Yes?” the younger woman asked, handing Dave a ballpoint pen.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt. I didn’t realize you were with guests,” the old woman said, a shaky hand held to her breast. I recognized the voice at once. She talked in quick starts and stops with long pauses in between. She had a high tone of voice, similar to Bianca’s, and a hint of a southern accent.
Her flowered dress and apron looked like something Aunt Bea would wear, and her hair, light brown and clearly dyed, was arranged in a fluffy pile right on top of her head. She was not quite as I had imagined her when speaking with her on the phone.
“Hello, Joanne.” I smiled at up at her. “I’m Meg. I believe we talked when I made reservations.”
“Oh, Meg!” she exclaimed, her hand left her breast for a moment to flutter desperately at her throat, like a dying moth to a flame, then dropped back down. “And this must be the husband?”
“This is Dave,” I said. He smiled at her then glanced at me questioningly. I hadn’t told him that when I had called to make our reservations, I had ended up in a half-an-hour-long conversation with Joanne, the owner of Samson’s Corner.
Dave added both our names to the guest book and pushed it back toward Bianca, who now had a small sheaf of papers for us to sign. Dave took care of that while Joanne descended the stairs slowly, as if it caused her pain.
I noticed when she reached the bottom that she limped slightly. She shook Dave’s hand warmly. Bianca released us from our checking-in duties and Joanne led us to the dining room. She instructed us to leave our bags in the lobby.
“I’ll get someone to carry them up for you,” she said.
She directed us to a two-person table next to a window. The dining room environment was more relaxed than the lobby. The chairs, instead of being agonizingly fancy like the reception chairs, were well-cushioned and made for comfort. I sighed as I sank into mine.
Some single guests and a few families sat scattered along a long table on the right side of the room and an older couple sat at a more private two-person table, like ours, on the left side of the room. In between was positioned a long, low banquet table, now empty.
“I believe I have already found my favorite room,” Dave said with a smile at Joanne, as he settled into his chair and unfolded his starched, white napkin.
“Well, we have something in common,” Joanne replied. She gestured toward the banquet table. “Lunch and dinner are served to you, but the banquet table is for breakfast. We have a breakfast buffet instead of a plated breakfast. We’ve found that people prefer more variety at breakfast than the other meals.”
Joanne summoned a busy young waitress, who looked to be in her early 20s, with a friendly wave. The waitress finished pouring a glass of tea at the next table and came over still carrying the pitcher.
“Cicily, this is Dave and this is Meg. Mr. and Mrs. Walker. They will be staying with us all week.”
Cicily nodded and smiled at us. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her black pants and white button-down shirt were pressed neatly and surprisingly clean.
“We’ll take good care of you, Mr. and Mrs. Walker. What can I get you to drink?”
“Tea will be perfect,” Dave said, pushing his glass toward her. I did the same. She stepped forward and filled both our glasses.
“Great. I’ll be right out with your starter course.”
“Chicken and broccoli soup?” Dave queried.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, her pretty face breaking into a grin. “Hungry?”
Dave and I laughed. “Starving,” I replied. “We had a two hour drive to get here and skipped breakfast because we were packing.”
“Well, I can take care of that,” Cicily said cheerfully. She rushed off toward the kitchen with the half-empty pitcher of tea.
“I’ll let you two be alone now,” Joanne said, clasping her hands in front of her. “Just find me or Bianca when you are done, and we will show you to your room.”
We thanked her politely and she ambled off toward the lobby.
Dave removed his cap, hanging it from the back of the chair. The sound of glasses clinking and forks scraping against plates made my stomach growl. The enticing smell of roast beef drifted over from the next table, where the older couple sat embroiled in a deep conversation, their plates virtually untouched.
“Well, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Dave admitted, sipping his iced tea. “The food looks amazing.”
He looked longingly at the older couple’s full plates. We chatted idly for a minute or two until Cicily reappeared. She held two bowls of steaming soup on a tray in one hand and a basket of large, fluffy rolls in the other.
She deposited the soup in front of us and placed the rolls in the center of the table, along with a small bowl of butter.
“Dig in,” she said, and disappeared again before we could thank her.
“The lunch hour rush,” Dave commented as he buttered a roll and handed it to me. More guests were trickling in and Cicily and one other waiter, a young man with shaggy, dark brown hair, were handling several tables apiece.
I lifted a steaming spoonful of chicken and broccoli soup to my lips, blowing on it carefully before putting it in my mouth.
It was heaven. Hearty pieces of flavorful chicken and large chunks of broccoli made it less of a starter course and more of main event to me, but I wasn’t planning on complaining.
Dave and I ate in silence until our bowls were empty. Not because we didn’t have anything to say, but because the food was just that good. I could now understand the scraping sound of forks and spoons against china. I wanted to do the same myself, but manners taught long ago by a strict and unyielding mother didn’t allow me such a pleasure.
Cicily appeared at our table just as Dave set his spoon down and she whisked our empty plates and the bread bowl away.
The main course arrived within minutes. A thick piece of Texas toast with three tender slabs of roast beef piled on top and a hunk of buttery garlic mashed potatoes on the side, all of it smothered in rich brown gravy.
Dave didn’t say a word. He rubbed his bristly brown hair and eyed the full plate uncertainly, as if unsure where to attack first, then dug in. I followed suit.
We both managed to finish the entire plate sans any plate scraping, and I leaned back, groaning, in my chair. “I haven’t eaten this well in years.”
Dave didn’t respond, he just shook his head in agreement, but I could see the intense pleasure in his almond-shaped blue eyes.
“You’re not done yet,” Cicily said. She had been walking past, a pitcher of water now in hand, and stopped short next to us after hearing my statement.
“I’ll take those.” She stacked our plates and picked them up with her free hand. “And I’ll be right out with your dessert.”
“Dessert? I don’t know if I can handle it,” Dave protested.
Cicily laughed. “It’s only fresh fruit with whipped cream. Feel free to linger over it. There are no activities this afternoon for you to miss. Would you like some coffee to go with your dessert?”
“You’re an angel,” Dave replied, winking. Cicily smiled, her pale cheeks turning a light shade of red and looked down at the floor.
“I’ll be right back with your dessert and coffee, then,” she replied, heading off toward the kitchen with our plates and the water pitcher in tow.
I kicked him under the table and he shrugged and widened his eyes, trying to look innocent.
“Fl
irting with waitresses during the first meal of our week away?” I said.
He smiled at me and leaned across the table to grasp my hand. His hand felt warm and familiar wrapped around mine. I smiled back in spite of myself.
“I’m just assuring good service for the rest of our stay,” he said.
“Sure,” I replied with narrowed eyes. “Just wait until the nice young man over there is our server.” I nodded toward the waiter with shaggy brown hair as he strutted past carrying a tray full of dirty plates.
“Oh, so that’s how it is going to be,” my husband replied with a laugh.
“Exactly,” I said, squeezing his hand.
Cicily returned a minute later with two small glass bowls full of fruit topped with a large dollop of whipped cream. “Dessert is served and coffee follows,” Cecily said, setting the bowls down with a flourish.
“Thank you, Cecily,” Dave said, giving her a smile and then turning to smile at me with a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
I picked up my spoon, dipping into the sweet concoction. The fruit, mostly berries, had been sprinkled with sugar and tasted almost too sweet for me, so I was glad when Cicily returned with two cups of strong, hot coffee and a small pitcher of half and half.
After adding half and half and sugar to his coffee and stirring it absently for a moment with the spoon for his fruit, Dave sighed. “So, tell me. What are these ‘activities’ Cecily speaks of?”
“Well,” I replied, clearing my throat nervously and looking down at the table. I already knew it was the sort of thing Dave would hate. “It’s all in the itinerary. I tried to show you.”
I glanced quickly up at him. He sighed and wrinkled his nose. “Just tell me what they are, and if I am going to be expected to do them.”
“To the second question, yes. Definitely. The reason we are here is so we can spend time together, and these activities are all things we can do together.”