by Edward Lee
But levity aside, Paul felt glum in disillusionment. These places were packed every night; plus, he’d seen many of the same people in a lot of the bars he scouted already. It seemed a way of life for them. How could anyone expect to find a true relationship in one of these dance catacombs?
Now the dj put on The Cure, a song called “Give Me It,” which about said it all. The crowd danced happily under the shroud of grim lyrics. Paul considered the dichotomy.
Then he considered himself.
I’m free of all this.
He was. It seemed an absolving realization. What made him more complete than anything else was Vera; his love for her was the last piece of his life fit firmly into place. He looked around him in this den of falsehoods, this den of lies, and knew how lucky he was. Paul had something real; these people didn’t.
I’m in love, he thought.
This realization, too, dazzled him. It seemed to purge him of mankind’s flaws. Love. Real love. Could there be any greater or more complete truth? He proposed to her only a week ago; she’d said yes immediately. It had been murder waiting, though: they’d been involved for two years but Paul knew in the first week that she was the one. Sometimes you just knew. You knew at a glance, you knew in a heartbeat—the essence of real love. It made him feel very grateful, to God, or fate, or whatever.
No relationship was perfect; too often couples failed because one side was left holding the bag of responsibility—one person making all the effort, the other making none. But Paul and Vera had grown into each other. They’d each made the effort to overcome life’s obstacles. It was almost too easy. That was how he knew it was real—the manner in which their bond had developed. Sometimes he could melt just thinking about her, seeing her in his mind: her beauty, her kindness, her ideals. He could not imagine being with anyone else in the world.
Paul’s love made him feel exalted.
“Excuse me. Aren’t you Paul Kirby? The writer?”
Paul glanced up. Two women stood to his right, a redhead and a blonde. “That’s right,” he said. “How did you know?”
“I saw your picture in the Capital once,” explained the redhead. “I’ve read a lot of your stuff.”
Paul felt distantly flattered; he was not used to being picked out of a crowd, especially in a bar crowd. He tried to think of an erudite reply, but some distraction pecked at him. Dots of light from the glitterball roved the redhead’s bare shoulders. She wore a short strapless black dress with a sash, black nylons, black heels. A knockout. The blonde looked less formal: a shiny blue blouse and designer jeans. She was slim, wan. Straight white-blond hair had been cut straight just below the bottom of her earlobes. She smiled meekly and said, “The City Paper said you were doing some articles on singles bars.”
“And that you’d be here tonight,” the redhead finished.
“Ah, so you girls came here just to meet me,” Paul joked.
“Maybe,” the blonde replied.
That was it. That was his distraction. Guilt. Single guy. Singles bar. Two single girls. Subconsciously he felt in violation. I’m an observer, he reminded himself, not that he needed to. He knew he wouldn’t cheat on Vera under any circumstance—he had no desire for anyone else. It was just the ideal that haunted him. But this was a good thing. He could talk to these girls, try to analyze them for their perceptions. It would make the article better.
“Actually, my name’s Dan Quayle,” Paul said. “Can my father buy you two a drink?’’
The girls laughed and sat down on either side. He ordered them each White Russians, a Heineken for himself, and rolled his eyes when the suspendered barkeep brought him a Corona.
Then the redhead leaned forward, eyes alight, and said, “So, Paul, tell us about your article.”
««—»»
At precisely the same moment, Vera Abbot strode through the entrance of another bar, a small brick-and-mortar tavern called The Undercroft. “The ’Croft,” as it was known to regulars, existed quite apart from the downtown hangouts and dance clubs. It was a bar with brains which attracted a specific patronage: beer connoisseurs, artists, writers, academicians, etc., not drunks, floozies, and sex predators. Ceiling rafters sported hundreds of imported beer coasters. Pennants decorated the front walls, from breweries as obscure as George Gale, Mitchell’s, and Ayinger. The long polished bar accommodated ten taps, and their inventory boasted over a hundred beers from all over the world. The ’Croft was not a place where one came to drink Bud.
Winter now had its teeth firmly set; Vera nearly shuddered in relief when she entered the ’Croft’s warm confines. Here everybody was everybody’s friend—almost everyone in the place, staff too, greeted her as she hung up her overcoat. Being here suddenly reminded her of the other less admirable bars in the area, and that reminded her of Paul, and the series of articles he was writing about local singles bars. Part of her didn’t like the idea of her fiancé surveying such places on his own, but that was selfish. Jealousy was one of many negative emotions that had never shown its face to their relationship. He was a professional writer; he’d been commissioned to write the series, and he was therefore committed to do so as effectively as possible. His dedication to his work was just more proof of his love. Before, he’d endeavored to be a good writer for himself—now it was for Vera too, and for their future together. She’d never had such easy mutuality in a relationship before, nor such unselfishness. It made her feel very stable with Paul, a verifier of his love.
It made her very happy.
Feldspar, the name seemed to pop upright in her mind. She’d almost forgotten why she’d come. Feldspar. The job offer.
Vera scanned the modest crowd. Down the bar three guys proposed a toast with Windex shooters. A couple at a side table leaned forward to kiss, while two art students argued over who was the more important writer: William Faulkner or Kathy Acker. Maybe Feldspar’s not here, Vera considered. Several friends who worked at the Radisson waved into her confusion. Maybe he lost interest. But what was his interest? Just what kind of job did Feldspar have in mind?
A smudge of darkness seemed to move, nearly glimmering; Vera sensed more than saw the squat figure rise. The back corner table by the fireplace, over which hung the ’Croft’s famous painting—a classically depicted nude woman lying in the woods before a ram and a goat. Feldspar, in his black Italian suit, smiled subtlety at her and bid the table with his jeweled hand.
“I got out a little early,” Vera hurried to explain. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Feldspar replied. “And again I’m grateful for your time. Please.”
Vera took her seat. Feldspar seemed to sit himself with some difficulty, as if he had a trick knee or something. It was the diaphanous black material of his suit that gave his shape the elusive shimmer. “I realize your time is precious,” he went on, finally settling himself. “But first, what would you like?”
Feldspar was drinking a Chimay Grand Reserve: Trappist ale in a huge bottle. He’d had several Courvoisier’s at the restaurant, plus two Remy’s, and now this. Yet he didn’t appear fazed at all. If Vera had drunk all that, she’d be on the floor. He’s paying, so what the hell? ”A GM would be nice,” she said.
“Fine.” Feldspar signaled the tablehop and ordered. He wasted no more time with subtleties. “I work for an investment company of sorts, one department of which is involved in exclusive resort facilities. We’re opening one in this propinquity.”
Vera opened her mouth, then closed it. He’s something, all right. “I hate to seem stupid, Mr. Feldspar, but I don’t know what propinquity means.”
He’d nearly flinched, as though the confession were absurd. “What I mean is, my superiors are opening a similar resort nearby. We’d like you to run it, or I should say, we’d like you to run the resort’s restaurant.”
Before she could make any response, the waiter brought her Grand Marnier. She sipped from the large snifter, luxuriating in the sharp taste and aroma.
“I need to know more—”
“Details, but of course.” A thread of foam touched one side of his moustache when he sipped his ale. The ale looked murky, nearly crimson, with fine white sediment sifting in the glass like a snow orb. “We’re a renowned chain, and an exclusive one… Also a very private one. In other words, the name of my firm would be meaningless to you.”
“Try me.”
“Magwyth Enterprises,” he said.
“You’re right, I’ve never heard of it.” He must be exaggerating. Vera read all the hotel journals and trade magazines; how “renowned” could this company be if she’d never even heard of it? She made a mental note. Magwyth Enterprises. Look it up.
Feldspar stroked his trimmed goatee. “And I must add, in all due appropriateness, that our resorts are extravagantly successful.” He took another sip of his ale, held it in his mouth as if deliberating a fine wine. “To the extent that we have considerable capital at our disposal. We’re prepared to spend it, without restraint, in order to facilitate the best exclusive resort hotel in the area.”
Was Feldspar really a businessman, or a dreamer? Such endeavors, these days, cost multiple millions. This sounded like big talk to Vera, but then she reconsidered. Feldspar’s jewelry glittered at her; he was probably wearing enough rocks to pay her rent for a year. And she remembered the Lamborghini.
“Most of the renovations are complete,” he continued. “The restaurant is all that’s left to be finished, just minor details, which we’ll leave to you.”
“What exactly are you renovating?”
“An old manor just north of here.” He quickly produced a slip of paper, squinting at it. “Waynesville— that’s the name of the town.’’
Just north of here! Waynesville was north, all right—about a hundred miles north, right on the state line. Then…Old manor… Waynesville…She had read something now that she thought of it. “Not Wroxton Hall,” she said.
“Yes,” he beamed. “You have heard of it.”
God! “Mr. Feldspar, Wroxton Hall is a dump, I’ve seen it—” And that she had, last year on a drive up to Eerie to visit some relatives. “Dump” was a compliment; the great Gothic mansion had been gutted, vacant for decades. And the location…“Why on earth did you choose Waynesville? It’s so…” She faltered; she mustn’t insult him. It’s the sticks. It’s the boondocks. Vera couldn’t think of a worse location for this sort of resort. This was mountain country, the northern ridge, and no major cities in a fifty mile radius at least. Just destitute little farm towns and some logging burgs. Fine dining would never make it up there. The whole idea was crazy.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Feldspar, again, produced that bewildering smilelike facial gesture. “And I understand your perplexity. As I’ve stated, our resorts are very private; a remote locale is an essential prerequisite for our patronage. You needn’t worry about an insufficient following.’’
But how could she not? And that wasn’t all Vera was worrying about. The locale was bad enough, but there was one thing even worse than that—
“You’re aware that Wroxton Hall has quite a past, aren’t you, Mr. Feldspar?” She twirled the pretty liquor around in her snifter. “In the twenties and thirties Wroxton Hall was a rather notorious—”
“Sanitarium,” he finished for her. His next chuckle was the most genuine yet. “Yes, Ms. Abbot, I’m quite aware of that, and the things that supposedly went on. But that was over fifty years ago.”
Vera wondered if that mattered. You could paint over a stain all day and the stain would still be there. “And you’re also aware ”
Feldspar maintained his chuckle. “Yes, Ms. Abbot, I’m well aware of the stories. But, really. We’re an enterprise, we’re business people. We don’t believe in ghosts.”
Neither did Vera, but that was hardly the point. “I just don’t think that anyone’s going to cater to a resort with a history like that.” Like…what, though? Vera didn’t know all the details, but she got a fair gist from the little she read of Wroxton Hall’s history. The hall had been leased by the health department as a convalescent domicile for the state’s most hopeless mental patients, and evidently some things went on that probably wouldn’t qualify as ethical health-care protocol. Questions arose as to exactly why the bodies of deceased patients wound up in military research labs, and still more questions arose as to exactly how these patients came to be deceased. There were also reports of the ward staff taking some considerable liberties with female patients. There was something about sadism, torture, pregnancies.
And, of course, something about ghosts…
It didn’t matter that this drivel had been fabricated by lore mongers and demented imaginations. Bad reputations had a way of lingering. Vera could see the ads now: Escape to Waynesville’s Romantic New Resort, Wroxton Hall, a Dreamy Little Getaway Complete with Torture Chambers and Luxury Suites in Which the Mentally Ill Were Raped and Murdered. Just the Place For You and that Special Someone to Get Away From it All and Mingle with a Delightful Coterie of Ghosts.
Christ, Vera thought.
“What is your current salary?”
She struggled not to smirk. But as ludicrous as it seemed to her now, this was still business. Why not at least see what Feldspar had to offer?
“Twenty-eight,” she said.
He stared back. “Well, I assure you, Ms. Abbot, we routinely pay our R.M.s many times more than that. More in the vicinity of a hundred thousand or so.”
Now it was Vera’s turn to stare. This was preposterous; no one paid R.M.s that much. ”A hundred thousand a year? Are you serious?”
“Quite.” He seemed to shrug. “In addition, there are many other benefits which, I should think, are rather standard.”
“Such as?”
“Well, two weeks paid vacation, travel expenses included. Free health insurance, free life insurance. Free room and board—”
“You’re kidding?” she questioned, astonished.
Again, Feldspar appeared as though nothing were amiss. “The inn has one hundred and sixty rooms. Some of them we’re reserving for staff. As upper management, of course, you would be entitled to a suite of your choice. They’re quite nice, I assure you. And there’s always the company car, for which we assume all expenses—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Vera interrupted. She could fathom none of this. She held her hands up, thinking, trying to assess this unassessible circumstance.
“If the money’s insufficient,” he added, “I’m sure we can come to a mutual agreement. Say, a hundred and…fifteen thousand?”
Vera flagged the tablehop for another drink. This must be a sham, she concluded. It MUST be.
“And, naturally, we will assume your moving expenses, plus a cash compensation.” From the black jacket, Feldspar next produced a check, which he slid across the table.
Vera picked it up. Stared at it. Gulped. pay to the order of Vera Abbot the amount of Ten Thousand Dollars—$10,000.00.
This was not a personal check; it was a precleared certified bank check. Unbouncable. Start-up compensation and moving remittance, it read on the for line. It was dated today.
“You’re offering me all this?” Her breath felt short. “You don’t even know me.”
“Personally, no,” he said. He poured more Chimay very steadily, careful to run the murky ale down the side of the glass to forestall a rise of head. “But as a manager myself, I know what I need to know about you with regard to my company’s business interests. I’ve dined in every restaurant in the city. Yours is by far the finest. I’ve made extensive inquiries as to the most efficient restaurant manager in town. Your name came up more than any other. That is all the knowledge of you I need. You, Ms. Abbot, are the person we want to run our restaurant.”
But Vera was still gaping at the check.
“And there’s another consideration, isn’t there?” Feldspar removed a black-and-gold cigarette case, then lit a Sobraine with a diamond-studded Cartier lighter. “I’v
e been all over. I’ve been doing this for years. And I know that everyone has their dreams. What are your dreams, Ms. Abbot? I have yet to meet a restaurant manager whose ultimate long-term aspiration was not to one day own a restaurant of his or her own. With the money that we’re paying you, if you’re sensible financially, you would have sufficient funds to purchase your own establishment, most anywhere you like, in four or five years. Many of our R.M.s have gone on to do just that. Am I correct in my surmise?”
Vera could not dispute this; Feldspar was right. This was Vera’s dream, to some day own a place of her own…
And I could, she realized. At that salary, with all her major expenses paid by the company, she’d be able to save enough to buy her own place in cash. No assumed loans, no mortgages. If she invested the majority of her net, in four or five years she’d have more than enough.
But—
The image crumbled, a house of cards exposed to a sudden draft.
What are you thinking, you idiot? she asked herself.
“I’m engaged,” she said.
“I foresee no problem in that regard,” Feldspar promptly replied. “Your fiancé can move with you. The suites are not only well restored but quite large—”
“I’m engaged to a metropolitan journalist,” she explained. “He writes about cities, not farm towns. There’d be nothing for him to write about in Waynesville. His career would fall apart.”
“Then he can commute.”
“Waynesville is a two and a half hour drive at least.”
“Then he can remain here during his assignments, and be with you on weekends or some such. This is not an uncommon occurrence. Many upwardly mobile professionals maintain relationships around their separate careers.”