Keys to the Castle

by Donna Ball

  They reached the second floor, and turned down a wide hallway with a high medallioned ceiling and a faded, rather threadbare blue tapestry carpet that ran the length of the gleaming marble floor. It was a hallway in the sense that it was a corridor flanked on either side by rooms, but it was unlike any hall Sara had ever seen in America. It easily could have accommodated several apartments, complete with furniture, in its breadth and depth, and even though their footsteps were muffled by the carpet, every movement echoed. There were deep alcoves and high windows, elaborately carved wood moldings and panels, but almost no furnishings, which Sara thought was odd for a place as luxurious—and large—as this. At the far end, the corridor branched right and left, presumably leading to the separate wings, but before they got that far the maid stopped, and opened a door. Sara followed her inside.

  “Oh . . . my . . . goodness,” she said softly.

  It was like a picture out of a coffee-table book entitled World’s Most Luxurious Suites. The most prominent feature was the bed, raised on a dais and adorned with a puffy white silk comforter, blue silk pillows trimmed in gold fringe, and gold silk curtains, lined in blue, that dropped from a ceiling coronet and were pulled back in graceful drapes on either side of the tall, slim headposts. There was a marble fireplace with elaborately carved flowers, butterflies, and scrollwork, and a fire burned cheerily in the grate.

  A blue velvet settee and matching Queen Anne chair were drawn up before the fire, and between them was a small, elegant table, on which was arranged a tiered dish of chocolate-dipped fruit. Beside the settee was a silver ice bucket on a stand, which held a bottle of champagne and a flute glass. In the center of the room a marble-topped table sported another enormous vase of flowers, this time lilacs and white roses. The room was filled with their fragrance.

  She hardly knew where to look, it was all so overwhelming. Surely this was not all meant for her. How much must a room like this cost per night, anyway?

  “Um . . .” She turned to the maid, who had already made it clear she did not speak English, but Sara wasn’t sure what she would have said even if she could have made herself understood. Do you have a smaller castle? Maybe there’s a more affordable room in the gardener’s shed?

  The maid opened a door and stood aside, her smile inviting Sara to look inside. Almost tiptoeing, Sara ventured to the door. She caught her breath at what she saw.

  The bathroom was approximately the size of her bedroom in Dixie’s basement. The ceiling was frescoed with cherubs and clouds, and trimmed with intricately carved moldings that were painted white and brushed with gold leaf. The room had its own fireplace, in which another fire danced and sparked. A plush white robe was draped over a velvet-cushioned stool, and an elaborately scrolled dressing table was topped by a baroque gold-framed mirror. A careful arrangement of lotions, oils, and toiletries was displayed in cut-glass bottles atop the table. But the centerpiece was a sunken marble bathtub as big as a child’s swimming pool. A teardrop chandelier was centered over it, reflecting prisms of light off the aqua water that filled it and the gleaming marble steps that led into it. As Sara watched, slack-jawed, the maid opened one of the jars on the dressing table, and sprinkled a handful of red rose petals over the steaming water.

  Sara pulled the French phrase book from her purse, frantically flipped a few pages, and finally came up with the words she wanted. “Pour moi?” She pointed at her chest. For me?

  “Oui, madame.” The maid proceeded to rattle off a litany of French, to which Sara merely smiled and nodded dumbly, feeling as dazed as she no doubt looked. Finally, with something that must have been her closing statement—Sara hoped it wasn’t anything important—the woman gave a small bow of her head and left the room.

  A marble bathtub. A marble bathtub filled with scented water and rose petals. In a castle. Sara debated for only another moment.

  “I don’t care how much it costs,” Sara decided out loud. “I’m going to take a bath in a castle once before I die.”

  And so she did.

  “And then,” Sara said into her cell phone, swinging her feet up over the arm of the settee and adjusting the folds of the luxuriously soft robe around her knees, “I came out of the bathtub and all my clothes had been unpacked and put away! They had even been steam pressed! And my dirty clothes were gone, whisked away just like that to the magical laundry or wherever dirty clothes go. Even my shoes were polished! Can you imagine how many elves must have been working while I was in the bathtub? Dixie, are you sure you didn’t have anything to do with this?”

  “Are you kidding?” Her sister, an ocean away, sounded as though she could be in the next room. “I wish I’d thought of it! A castle,” she repeated for what must have been the sixth time. “You’re staying in a castle! Wait until I tell the boys!”

  “The chauffeur said the law firm had changed my reservation. Why would they do that?”

  “Maybe something went wrong at the other place,” suggested Dixie. “A flood or something.”

  “Their loss, my gain.” Sara bit into a lush, ripe strawberry coated in white chocolate and barely repressed a moan of delight. “Did I tell you about the towels? They were so fluffy it was like drying off with kitten fur. And they were heated with these flat stones that were packed in the bottom of the basket. And the whole room smells like roses. What’s the name of that fairy tale, where the princess goes to this mysterious castle where food magically appears and the fireplace magically lights itself and beautiful gossamer garments are magically laid out for her?”

  “You mean the one that was an animated classic and an international hit musical?”

  “Yes, yes, that one.”

  “Here’s a hint: Watch out for the Beast.”

  Sara paused in the act of reaching for a cherry dipped in dark chocolate. “Oh,” she said. “Beauty and the Beast. Right.”

  “The downside of living a fairy tale,” Dixie pointed out. “Sara, who’s paying for all this?”

  “I have a theory about that,” Sara said, examining the label on the champagne bottle. It looked expensive, and on second thought, she decided not to open it. “The only thing I can guess is that the law firm must own this place—like a corporate retreat or something. And whenever they have clients from out of town, or out of the country, this is where they put them up. What I can’t figure out is why I would rate a room in the castle.”

  “Don’t ask too many questions,” Dixie advised. “Enjoy yourself.”

  “Well, until the Beast shows up, anyway.”

  Dixie chuckled. “Just make sure they don’t try to charge you for the champagne and flowers when you go to sign the settlement papers. Sara, it sounds like you’re having a good time.”

  “Despite my best intentions,” Sara admitted. She returned the champagne bottle to the ice bucket. “I only wish you could have come with me.”

  A continent and a lifetime away, a screen door slammed and a clamor of shrieking voices filled the background. Dixie said, “What? And give up all this?” Then, sharply, “Boys! Mommy’s on the telephone!”

  Before Sara could succumb to the prickle of nostalgia she was starting to feel, there was a knock on her door. She swung her feet to the floor. “I have to go, Dixie, someone’s at the door. Tell the boys I love them.”

  “We love you, too,” replied Dixie, shouting a little to be heard over the ever increasing excitement level in the background. “Send photos!”

  “I will. Bye, Dixie.” She flipped the phone closed and swung open the door, expecting the maid with more food, wine, or flowers.

  It wasn’t the maid. It was a tall, blond man of about her age in a gray cashmere sweater and perfectly creased charcoal slacks that looked Italian, and custom-made. His features were patrician; his light hair was thick and wavy and worn just long enough to curl slightly around his ears. The sleeves of his sweater were stylishly pushed up to bare his forearms, and the shine on his oxblood loafers—which again looked Italian, and handmade—was a deep gloss. He had deep
blue eyes and wore the beginnings of a polite smile. He looked like every American’s idea of a European aristocrat, and was so perfectly suited for these surroundings that he might have been hired for the part.

  Good God, she thought, a little dazed. It’s Prince Charming.

  But what she said was, “Um . . . you must be the Beast.”

  FIVE

  He replied smoothly, “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think, on such short acquaintance?” His accent was British, his expression amused and slightly quizzical. “Which is not to say,” he admitted with a small, considering tilt of his head, “that you won’t yet be proven right.”

  “Lawyer,” Sara amended quickly. “I meant lawyer. Owner, that is.”

  “Part owner,” he corrected politely, and extended his hand. “I’m Ashton Lindeman. Welcome to Château Rondelais.”

  She was confused. That was the name of the law firm, which meant he was partner. Why would they send a partner all the way to France to meet her? Moreover, she was meeting him for the first time wearing nothing but a bathrobe.

  She fumbled self-consciously with the open collar of her robe, trying to pull the two pieces a little closer together. “But—I’ve been dealing with a Mr. Winkle.”

  He smiled. “I hope I won’t disappoint.”

  She noticed his still-extended hand and took it quickly, still clutching the collar of her robe. “No, of course not. I’m Sara Graves. Sara Graves Orsay.” The name sounded clumsy when she said it out loud, and she probably blushed a little, because he gave her an odd look.

  “Yes,” he murmured. He held her fingers another moment, still smiling, but regarding her with a strangely curious look on his face. Then he said, “It’s the oddest thing. I don’t suppose we might have met before.”

  She said, “I don’t think so.” He was still holding her hand, and it was beginning to make her a little uncomfortable. He must have noticed, because he released her fingers, and the puzzled expression on his face smoothed into easy courtesy.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “For a moment you must have reminded me of someone; I can’t think who. At any rate, it’s delightful to meet you, Sara. So sorry to disturb. I just popped by to make certain you were comfortable, and to place myself at your service.”

  “Oh. Yes, thank you.” She felt foolish, clutching her robe together like a schoolgirl, so she dropped her hand and instead tightened her belt. “What I mean is, how could I not be?” She gestured backward into the opulent room. “This room is . . . unbelievable.”

  He nodded, smiling a little. “Yes, it is a bit over the top, isn’t it? We had a wedding here some years back and the bride insisted on redoing the entire suite for her wedding night.”

  Sara’s eyes widened. “For one night?”

  “Indeed. No insult intended to the lovely bride, but there is a saying, I believe, about a fool and her money. Nonetheless, we made out rather well for it, wouldn’t you say?”

  That made her laugh a little. It occurred to Sara that he was far too charming to be a lawyer—or British, for that matter. He was not at all what she had expected. But then, neither was anything else about this trip.

  “I would,” she agreed. “And, whether it’s thanks to her, or to you, I definitely appreciate the accommodations.”

  “My pleasure to arrange. I thought we’d dine in about an hour, if that suits. And they’ve set up drinks on the terrace, whenever you’d like to come down.”

  “Oh,” she said, glad that she hadn’t opened the champagne . . . and wishing she hadn’t sampled quite so liberally from the cheese, fruit, and chocolate platters. She had forgotten the European tradition of dining late. “That sounds lovely.”

  “Shall I meet you downstairs, then?”

  “It will only take me a minute,” she assured him. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all.” He started to turn away, but then turned back as she was closing the door, a forefinger raised as though in caution. “You weren’t by chance thinking of blow-drying your hair, were you?”

  Sara fingered the few damp strands of hair that had escaped from her top knot, wondering if that was a suggestion. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Excellent.” He smiled. “See you downstairs, then.”

  She closed the door and rested against it for a bemused moment. This entire trip was turning out to be one puzzle after another, and she had quite a few questions for the elegant Mr. Lindeman.

  But first, the big question. What did one wear to dinner and drinks with Prince Charming?

  He was on the telephone when she descended the wide marble staircase a few minutes later. Sound carried perfectly in the vast hall, and she could see him leaning casually against the ancient, elaborately carved, and timeworn banister with a cellular phone to his ear. What she could not do was understand a word he was saying.

  He murmured a few clipped and indecipherable words into the telephone when he saw her on the stairs, and disconnected. “A woman of her word,” he observed, smiling as she reached him. “I admire that. And you look lovely.”

  Sara doubted that, since she had been far too anxious about keeping him waiting to spend much time fussing with her appearance. She had drawn her hair back from her face with a butterfly clip, hastily applied foundation and lipstick, and pulled on a white silk shirtwaist that Dixie had insisted she bring “just in case.” She shrugged a little at the compliment.

  “I wasn’t sure what to wear to dinner at a castle,” she said.

  He chuckled. “My constant dilemma as well. We’ll bring out the beaded cloaks and scepters another time, shall we? Since it’s just the two of us tonight, I thought we’d keep it informal.”

  She said, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but was that Japanese you were speaking on the phone?”

  “It was. I’ve always found it much easier to persuade someone around to your point of view if you actually speak their language. We’re to the left, my dear.”

  He touched her shoulder lightly, guiding her toward a doorway at the far end of the enormous room. He brought with him the subtle scent of an expensive cologne when he moved close—or perhaps it was a hand-milled soap—that was mildly suggestive of citrus and leather.

  The marble hall through which they had been walking was cool and churchlike, filled with nothing but the sound of their echoing footsteps. As he turned her easily through a doorway and into another massively proportioned—and completely empty—room, he added, “I thought I’d take you on a proper tour of the place tomorrow. It’s not something you want to attempt on your first night in.”

  “How big is this place, anyway?” Sara inquired. She didn’t even attempt to keep the awe out of her voice as she tried to take in everything at once—the buttressed ceiling, the paneled walls, the two fireplaces, each of them big enough to hold an entire tree and the truck that delivered it.

  “Rondelais is one of the smaller châteaux in the valley,” he replied. “Only forty-seven rooms.”

  She stared at him. “Forty-seven?”

  “Of course, a good many of them are unrestored.”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  They had reached a set of paned glass doors, and he opened one, stepping back for her to precede him. “Here we are.”

  Sara stepped out onto a wide flagstone terrace lined with geometrically sculpted topiaries in stone pots. There was a fountain on one corner, its water cascading musically into the half-moon pool below. Near it was a round table that appeared to be carved completely from a single piece of white limestone, with cushioned chairs drawn up around it. Teak furniture, looking oddly modern in this ancient setting, was arranged in comfortable conversation groups across the terrace. Beyond them, the Loire Valley spread out its rippling shades of emerald green, spring green, hunter green, indigo blue, and deep lavender. The angle of the sun was gentle, bathing the terrace in a golden glow and reflecting warmth from the pale stones underfoot. Sara inhaled a deep breath of honeysuckle-scented air.

  “This,” she said, som
ewhat overawed, “is magnificent.”

  “It is, rather.” He stood beside her, and she noted the surprise in his voice. “I haven’t been here in ages. I’d forgotten.”

  She glanced at him, and though there were a dozen questions battling for attention, what she said was, “I have to thank you for going to so much trouble to make me feel welcome here. The flowers, the champagne . . . it was really too generous. And completely unnecessary,” she added. “I’m sure I would have been perfectly happy at the B&B in town.”

  The glow of the sun planed one side of his face in gold, and deepened his eyes as he looked down at her. “It was absolutely necessary,” he assured her with a smile. “First impressions are everything, you know, and I wanted you to see the old girl at her best. “

  Before she could respond to that, a frown creased his brow and he brought his cell phone from his pocket to read the screen. “Forgive me,” he said, but was already turning away. “I should attend to this.”

  She caught snatches of his conversation as he walked across the terrace: “Terribly sorry, but I thought we were clear on that . . . Those are the terms . . . Well, then, my darling, I suppose you will simply have to go back to your board with our counteroffer . . . No, it’s quite firm, I’m afraid . . . Do let me know. But within twenty-four hours, yes? Ciao.”

  He returned to her with his hands turned palms up and an apologetic smile on his face. “A thousand pardons. Where were we?”

  “I thought it was only rude Americans who couldn’t bear to be parted from their cell phones,” Sara observed.

  He looked amused. “Actually, Europeans are decades ahead of you in that regard. It’s because the technology is so much more advanced.” But as he spoke, he removed his phone from his pocket and made a show of turning it off. “However, you’re right. It’s rude to ignore a guest and I am properly chastised. I forget sometimes there is such a thing as being too involved in one’s work.”