“But it was the North, Mr. Collier, who begged for it by charging high tariffs on cotton exports,” she snapped.
“I see…” Collier looked at the check again, imagining it being signed nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, when the solidity of the nation was dangling by a thread.
“Where is that silly child with your bags?” she asked, frowning at the door.
“I better go help her. They’re pretty heavy—”
“No, no, please. Believe me, it’s a thrill for the poor thing. It’ll tickle her pink to carry a celebrity’s bags.”
Collier frowned when she wasn’t looking. I was a minor celebrity at best, and now I’m a has-been celebrity. He didn’t have the fortitude to tell her his show was being canceled. Then the myth would be shattered, and all I got is the myth…
The bell at the desk rang. Collier noticed two guests—a couple in their thirties. Tourists, he discerned. A camera slung around the man’s neck. He was nondescript in a tasteless striped short-sleeve shirt and beige Dockers strained at the waist. He held a finger up to Mrs. Butler.
“Oh, the Wisconsin folks,” she muttered. “They must want a tour brochure. I’ll be right back, Mr. Collier.”
“Sure.”
Some unknown force commanded Collier’s eyes to fix on her rump as she hurried to the desk. If she only had a face that wasn’t quite so…OLD! He felt prickly sweat at his brow…
He pretended to survey more oddments in the case: a hand-scraped burl bowl from the early 1700s, a debarking iron from a century later. The next item looked intimidating: a brass-hilted knife that had to be a foot and a half long. GEORGIA ARMORY SABER BAYONET—CIRCA 1860—OWNED BY MR. BEAUREGARD MORRIS OF THE EAST TENNESSEE AND GEORGIA RAILROAD COMPANY. The sheer size of the blade gave Collier a twinge. The blade looked almost new and didn’t show a speck of rust. I wonder if anyone was ever killed by that thing? the question blared into his mind.
He scanned more items as Mrs. Butler’s charming drawl engaged the new couple. She was passing them some local tour brochures…Now Collier was eyeing the tourist woman. A plain Jane with a little paunch but still shapely. Wide hips stretched her own beige slacks—also too tight, like the husband’s—and Collier’s vision focused at the bosom, and then an image barraged his mind: Collier pulling her top off and pressing his face between her breasts…
He winced until the dirty image was gone.
When he looked again, the woman was on her tiptoes, a great big white dental-bleached smile. She was waving at him.
“Pardon me, pardon me,” she was saying.
“Yes?”
“You’re Justin Collier, aren’t you?”
Collier tried not to sigh. “Why, yes.”
“Oh, we’re big fans! Look, honey, it’s the Prince of Beer!”
The husband waved, too. “Love your show, Mr. Collier.”
“Thanks.”
The wife: “Could we get your autograph?”
He could’ve groaned. “It would be my pleasure—” But then the vestibule doors opened, and in trod Lottie with his suitcase and laptop bag. Off the hook for the moment, Collier thought. “But let me catch you later today. I’m just now checking in.”
“Of course,” the giddy woman said. “Nice meeting you!”
“Last room on the stair hall, Mr. Collier,” the old lady added.
A fake smile; then he rushed to Lottie.
“Here, let me take one,” he said, but she just grinned and shook her head no.
The old lady’s right, she’s strong as a mule. She effortlessly hauled the cumbersome bags up the staircase. Lean legs took the steps two at a time. Collier wasn’t sure why at first—he deliberately lagged several stairs behind her—but then…
More pervert instinct, he assumed.
He was trying to look up her denim skirt. For only a second he caught white panties bunched up the crack of a delectable little rump.
What is WITH me today?
Maroon carpet took them down the main stair hall; over the rail Collier could hear Mrs. Butler’s jack-jawing with the Wisconsin couple. He fought the urge to look down, hoping for a cleavage view of both women but this time he gritted back the impulse. How come I’m suddenly obsessed with sex! he demanded of himself. When no answer came, he took to eyeing Lottie’s rump and the backs of her toned legs. He felt crazed by the imagery, and could imagine no reason why. Even her Achilles tendons and her bare heels seemed enticing, and the drab shanks of hair, the backs of her arms, her fingers wrapped around his suitcase handles seemed inexplicably erotic…
When she stopped and set the cases down, he stalled, then remembered he’d already been given his key. Last room on the stair hall, he’d been told. He put the key in—
Lottie tugged his arm, shaking her head. She pointed to the door she stood beside.
“I thought your mother said last room on the—”
She seemed to lip something he didn’t catch—
A strong male voice intervened, “What my mom meant is the last regular room.” A tall man, thirtyish, stepped up, wearing a confident smile and jeans, work boots, and a T-shirt. “Howdy, Mr. Collier. I’m Helen’s son, Jiff.”
Collier shook a toughened hand. “Hi, Jeff.”
“No, sir, that’s Jiff—you know, like the peanut butter?” The tight T-shirt sculpted a toned upper body; he had a blond buzz cut and similar drawl. “This room here ain’t yours. We don’t rent it out.” He pointed to the next door. “This one’s yours, and it’s our best.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jiff.”
“Lemme take these bags from my little pipe cleaner of a sister, and get’cha set.”
Collier unlocked what was actually the second-to-last door, but he quickly noted that the third door stood more narrowly and sported a plaque, which read ORIGINAL GAST BATH AND WATER CLOSET. “So what’s this here, Jiff?”
Lottie glared as Jiff yanked the cases from her; she may have even mouthed Fucker!
“That room we never renovated ’cos a lot of tourist folks like to see what a real bathroom from the old days looked like. I’ll be happy to show it to ya, and give ya a tour of the whole house when you’re ready.”
“Thanks, I’d like a tour.”
Collier entered his room, and heard Jiff mutter “out’a my way, dopey!” to his sister behind him. They seemed to be fighting over Collier’s attention. “Yes, sir, I seen your show many times,” Jiff assured him. “It’s a real pleasure to have such a famous TV fella staying with us.”
Collier couldn’t have felt less genuine when he replied, “Thanks.”
“You here for anything to do with your TV show?”
“No, Jiff, actually I’m here to finish a book. Besides my Prince of Beer show I also write books about the art and craft of beer—” And then he quickly said, “Ah, perfect,” of an antique scroll-top desk, which sat before a broad window. “I can work on my laptop right there.”
Jiff put the laptop case on the desk. “I hope the room’s to your likin’.”
“It’ll do just fine.” Cozy, Collier thought. Heavy rust-colored carpet wall to wall, and furnishings of the expected post-Colonial bent. The four-poster bed sat unusually high. Gold and maroon wallpaper covered the half-paneled walls. “Oh, and let me check out this view your mother promised.” And he went through a pair of French doors out to an elaborately railed balcony. Jiff stepped out with him.
The second-story view showed him an impressive garden bisected by flagstone trails. “Beautiful garden,” Collier commented. The meld of fragrances reached him on a warm breeze.