By 7:30 A.M. Wilcox had showered, dressed, flipped through
all eight of the travel magazines that were fanned out on his bedside table and
again tried to gather up some remorse for his father but failing. After having
opened the curtains at 6 o’clock he realized that the storm that he had hoped
would merely ‘blow over,’ would be doing no such thing. Any thoughts of taking
a walk were swept from his mind when he looked out of the small bay window and
saw the destruction that the storm had already created. Halves of trees that
had been struck down were either laying vertical against the rocky cliff down
to the ocean or else were being ripped apart by the vicious waves. The clouds,
still black in the sky, were seething and spraying rain, the wind picking it up
and throwing it forcefully against the small white inn. Lawrence was rarely
frightened of storms when he was a child, often enchanted with the aftermath
that provided; the clear skies and calm waters. However, this storm seemed different
from any he had seen, the ominous feeling that began in the back of his mind
crept down his spine, nestling in the root of his back, quivering, waiting.
Finally,
the smaller of the two hands on his watch crept closer to 9 o’clock. At 8:45
A.M., Lawrence made his way down to the main lobby in which Tara Daley had
checked him in, the previous night. He passed the reception desk and opened two
dark cherry wood French doors with a sign posted above, in the same font as the
decorative sign above the front door that read DINING HALL. A long
table made of a rich oak with matching chairs greeted him. The table, meant to
seat twelve, was set with six place mats, plates, napkins and silver wear,
crystal glasses sitting directly above the knives. There was already a man,
close to his own age he guessed, sitting adjacent to the head of the table,
reading the London Evening Standard. To this man’s right sat a young girl,
pretty and almost whimsical, no older than 25, to be sure. When Wilcox closed
the doors to the dining hall, both heads glanced upward, their reactions unique
from each other. The man glanced down at his newspaper yet again and, while
still with his eyes focused on the page, said in a noticeably Irish accent, “You’ll
be the bloke from London, then?”
Before
Wilcox could say so much as a “yes,” the young woman shot the newspaper reading
man a look and said in a voice delicate as a whisper, “Are you finding the inn
to your liking, Mr. Wilcox? It is so beautiful when the sun is out. This storm
is just awful. Breakfast should be out any minute, so just grab a seat,” All of
this was said very quickly and Lawrence had to breathe a moment to take it all
in.
The
first to register in his mind was that the young woman knew his name. This
struck him as odd, this being the first time he had met any of the other guests
in the bed and breakfast. The realization that he was still standing and the
placid stare from the deep green eyes of the black haired girl forced him to
take the seat opposite her. Through this the man with the newspaper never said another
word.
Soon the
doors opened again, this time no one looked up, as an elderly woman with a
three-pronged cane each with a tennis ball on the end crept into the hall,
taking the seat to Wilcox’s right. Less than five minutes later Mrs. Daley came
in through a side door pushing a trolley. A top the trolley was a plethora of
food: a large plate of scrambled, two bowls of meat, one sausage and one bacon,
a plate with pancakes and another with waffles, hash browns and multiple plates
of toast. Jellies and jams, syrups and gravies and multiple plates of butter laden
down the second level of the breakfast trolley. Tara Daley placed plate after
plate on the table along with the many condiments, finally sitting down next to
the black haired girl with the green eyes.
“This
looks marvelous, Tara,” the old woman sitting to Lawrence’s right spoke for the
first time.
“Thank
you, ma dear, just a little extra time in the kitchen this morning, I had a
difficult time falling asleep last night.”
“Again?”
chimed in the youthful girl.
“Aye,
my arthritis in my fingers is getting’ on towards worse I’m afraid,” said Mrs.
Daley shaking her head, and then, “Have you all introduced yourselves to our
newcomer yet?” and everyone’s head turned to look at Lawrence, who was just
cutting up his sausage. There was a short pause, until finally Mrs. Daley was unable
to stand the silence. She pointed to each person as she said their name as if
they could not hear her, “To your right is Collette Montel, then across from
her is Taylor Michelson and next to him is the lovely Meredith Cartwright,” she
finished beaming around the room. “Oh and of course our in house judge, James
Cameron ,but he hasn’t been down since the day before yesterday. Says he’s
working on a large case and does not wished to be disturbed. Very important man
in America, you see?”
The
final name pricked at the back of his mind, he was sure he had heard that name
before, but where? After all, he had only been to America once and that had
been when he was a boy. Instead of saying any of this he nodded and smiled at
each of the guests as they were introduced. It seemed perfunctory, as if
everyone already knew his name, but nonetheless he said, “It’s nice to meet you
all, my name is Lawrence Wilcox.”
xoxo,
The Blonde and the Bullshit
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