“Come on in, let me get a pen. And sorry about the way I’m dressed, I just got out of the shower.”
“You smell really good!” she enthused.
Collier frowned at the odd comment as he went to the desk, found a pen.
“Could you make it to Carol and Dan, please?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to show my sister! She’ll be jealous!”
Collier rolled his eyes and scribbled on the napkin. “Here you go, Carol,” he said and turned around.
He gulped. She’d come all the way in and closed the door and was now divorced of her blouse. She sat smiling on the edge of the bed. “I’m game if you are…”
Collier just stood there.
The white bra cups blared. Her eyes were huge. “Come here,” she whispered. “We don’t have much time.”
Collier hesitated, then stepped forward till he was standing right before her.
She rubbed his crotch, finagling her hand inside the robe. Collier hissed. Then, with one hand, she expertly reached around, was just about to unhook her bra, when Collier winced and said, “No, don’t. I…” Then he stepped back.
Her shoulders slumped. “Shit. I’m sorry, I feel like an idiot.” And then she blushed and put her blouse back on.
“It’s just that”—his mind reeled. “I’m married,” he said, as farcical as the notion was. There were dozens of reasons not to proceed with something like this, a giant liability chief among them. She could be crazy. But worst of all was that he’d actually been one hair’s width away from going through with it. “It’s not you,” he mumbled. “You’re very attractive—damn! But…”
“I understand.” Now she was clearly embarrassed, keeping her eyes down. “Nothing wrong with being faithful. Guess that says a thing or two about me…”
“But here’s your autograph,” he said and handed the napkin to her. “I’m glad you like my show…”
“Thank you,” she said and sheepishly took it. “’Bye,” she began but Collier stopped her before she got to the door. It was the oddest sensation, but he pulled her forward and kissed her. She seemed surprised.
“If I weren’t married, we’d be getting it on right now…Carol…”
Her embarrassment dissolved; she smiled. One finger traced up his leg through the robe. “Maybe you’ll change your mind later.”
Collier said nothing but the look in his eyes said, Maybe you’re right.
She left the room.
Collier stood there, staring at the closed door. “Unbelievable…”
As more minutes ticked by, he twinged at pangs of guilt and regret. Guilt that he’d actually considered having sex with her, and regret that he hadn’t. It would’ve been a shitty thing to do, he told himself. It would’ve been exploitative. But then a voice like an alter ego yelled, What kind of a pussy are you? You’d have been doing her a favor by putting some spice in her drab, boring life. A REAL man doesn’t say no to free sex, you asshole!
Collier blinked, frowning. No, I guess not. But it simply wasn’t like him to do something like that. If anything, he was on the shy side.
He banished the odd episode from his mind, then started to get dressed.
For a split second he thought he smelled something foul—the stench of old urine—but then he blinked and it was gone.
CHAPTER FIVE I
“You’re more than welcome to join us,” Collier was telling Mrs. Butler at the front desk while he helplessly stole glances at her bosom, hips, and plush pelvis.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Collier but I’ve got more folks checkin’ in tonight. It’s a wonderful little restaurant, though, and I doubt that you’ve got anything close to it in California.” Her bosom jiggled a bit; she quickly rose at the sound of people entering the vestibule. “These must be my Philadelphians.”
Collier stepped aside as another tourist couple stepped perkily to the desk. He found himself looking up at the oil portrait of Harwood Gast…
Stereotypical Southern plantation guy, he thought. The stern face had been painted with detail—the eyes seemed to look specifically at Collier with disdain. What’s so evil about this dude? He was still piqued by Mrs. Butler’s comments. Just an old racist slave-driving stick in the mud.
Several old-wood bookshelves flanked the large portrait, and between two of them Collier noticed a recess, about a yard wide. He figured it used to be an alcove where one might put a statue, but instead there was an old veneered table there, with an odd arrangement of small drawers and letter slots. A tag read: ORIGINAL MAPLE WRITING TABLE—QUEEN ANNE-STYLE—SAVERY AND SONS—1779. When Collier looked harder, he noted an elaborate webwork of minute carvings. Yet on the side of the alcove hung a small oil painting he hadn’t noticed before. Strange…It almost seemed to be hung in that spot so as not to be noticed. MRS. PENELOPE GAST, a tiny plaque read. Gast’s wife…An attractive woman with eyes that seemed wanton looked off the canvas, standing before a landscape of trees. A bonnet, a great billowy dress, frilly knickers; the plunging neckline offered a creamy bosom. So this was Gast’s version of the American Dream? This woman, and this house… Yesterday’s version of a corporate magnate. I guess they’re all assholes when you get right down to it. He wondered if they’d had kids.
Mrs. Butler’s twang reverberated as she jabbered of the house’s historical wonders. The man asked, “Would it be possible to get one of the second-floor rooms facing the mountain? We’d love that view in the morning.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the old woman informed, “all those rooms are taken. But I’ve got a lovely room for ya on the west wing that opens right on the garden. And you can still see the mountain a bit…”
The oddity struck Collier at once. The room right next to his faced the mountain. He remembered Jiff telling him they didn’t rent that one out. I wonder why…
Another display case showed more relics; one caught his eye immediately. HAND-CHISELED STONE MOLD FOR WOOLING SHEARS, and there was a flat piece of stone with a recess shaped like half a pair of big scissors. Beside it lay an actual pair of shears. THESE SHEARS WERE MADE AT THE GAST IRON FORGE LOCATED IN THE BACKYARD—1859.
That’s some real work, he thought. He couldn’t contemplate how hard things were back then. Even something as simple as a pair of shears took many steps to produce. Smelting ore, skimming slag, pouring molten iron into a mold without burning the living shit out of yourself or becoming brain-damaged from poisonous fumes. More handcrafted items from the family forge lay in the case: nails, hinges, door latches. That stuff must’ve been hard as hell to make.
He overheard the Philadelphia woman whisper: “Oh my God! Is that the Prince of Beer over there?”
Shit! Collier had been made again. He acted like he hadn’t heard them and slipped out the vestibule doors.
The sun was turning orange as it lowered, a blaze on the horizon. Collier gazed across the well-landscaped front court, smelling mint, moss, and wildflowers. The quiet beauty almost stunned him.