On the Right Side of a Dream Page 18

  I went through the chores to keep me awake and take my mind off of the test that I had just flunked. When I’d finished downstairs, I headed up to the Mauve Room to put out the “welcome” package for the Florida guests and check the bathrooms again. Elva Van Roan had been good but you never knew when she’d get a bug up her butt and lock herself in.

  I met Mr. High-Up Butt in the hall near the third-floor landing. He had kind of appeared out of nowhere. I shrieked. The house was as quiet as a tomb. For such a large man, he moved like a . . . well, like a ghost.

  “Oh! Excuse me, Mrs. Louis! I’m so sorry,” he said politely. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I swallowed my heart and tried to pat my hair down where it was standing straight up.

  “Oh, that’s OK,” I said, trying to sound as if he hadn’t scared my intestines clean. “I, um, can I help you with something?”

  “Yes, please. I was wondering . . . well, I know how busy you are, but, if you have some time, could I have a word, Mrs. Louis?”

  Please . . . I’m so sorry . . . if you have some time, I stared at Hayward-Smith. The stiffly starched white shirt had been replaced by a neat blue one, no tie. The pin-striped suit was gone; he wore khaki slacks and brown shoes. He didn’t look like the hoity-toity tight ass that I had been sparring with for weeks. He didn’t sound like him either. And there was something else.

  Asim, the Siamese, was nestled in his arms, purring loudly, blinking his large, azure-colored eyes at me. I couldn’t remember Hayward-Smith doing more than shooing the cats away before, not cuddling them.

  Hayward-Smith took my silence for a “no.”

  “You’re busy, perhaps another time . . .”

  “Now is all right. More special requests, Mr. Hayward-Smith?” I asked. In my experience, when this man stooped low enough on the social scale to speak to me, he usually wanted something, like more toilet paper or another doily on the chair in his suite. “And I have two more days on that proposal.” I thought I’d better remind him in case he was trying to rush me.

  Hayward-Smith’s cheeks reddened and he smiled slightly.

  “Yes, my . . . proposal. No, Mrs. Louis, I just wanted to talk with you about something. If you have a moment.”

  Well, this was new: politeness, a slight stammer. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well. We headed down to the back parlor. I’d left my notebook there on Millie’s desk and figured that I would need it. Just inside the doorway, I stopped and stared. Millie’s portrait was presiding over the room once again.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Hayward-Smith?” I asked him. Polite or not, I wasn’t dropping my guard. Asim continued to purr.

  “Well, you see . . . ,” he cleared his throat nervously. “I want you to know that I have dropped my petition to break Mrs. Daniels’s will. I have instructed my solicitors to file the appropriate documents but they have notified Mr. Black. However, I wanted to tell you . . . personally, since it was your efforts that . . . encouraged me to do it. Your inheritance is free from any interference from me, Mrs. Louis. My mother knew what she was doing when she left the inn to you. However, if you decide to sell it, I hope that you will give me the right of first refusal. And I will honor my original offer to you. I have put that in writing to Mr. Black.”

  You could have knocked me over with a feather. OK, maybe with a passel of feathers, not just one.

  “Dropped it? You . . . wh-what did I do? Uh, you dropped it?” Yep. I made a lot of sense.

  I was so relieved and surprised that I plopped down onto the red velvet settee. It had always been Millie’s favorite perch. Hayward-Smith took the chair across from me, scooping up Louis and cuddling him. Cuddling. That was something else that I didn’t associate with this man. What was going on?

  “I don’t understand.”

  Louis yawned and went back to sleep. He stops his naps for no one. Asim gave me a long, deep blue-eyed stare, then closed his eyes. Hayward-Smith smiled.

  Smiled.

  I looked at the portrait above the fireplace.

  Broderick Tilson Hayward-Smith looked just like his mother.

  “Don’t you?” he asked. “You are the woman who threw a handful of papers into my face? A file folder that included a story written by . . . my mother?”

  It was the very first time I had ever heard him use those words.

  I felt my cheeks getting hot.

  “Oh. Well, I was having a bad day . . .”

  “It was a good day for me,” Hayward-Smith commented. “I read that story. I read it over and over. And when I finished it, I called my solicitors. I knew that my efforts to take revenge on . . . her estate were baseless and stupid. And mean.” His dark-blue eyes were steady and serious. Then Hayward-Smith was silent for a minute before he continued.

  “Isn’t it amazing how much we carry with us from our childhoods? We pack these slights away, both big and small, and carry them around long after we have gained the wisdom and knowledge to put them in their proper perspective.”

  He was asking me a question but I got the impression that he didn’t want me to answer him. I looked at him and nodded. Something else about this man had now struck me. Strange as it seemed, he even sounded like his mother.

  “You see, I was raised by David Hayward-Smith. A great statesman. A financier, philanthropist, and pillar of London society. And one of the biggest bastards who ever lived. Please excuse my language, Mrs. Louis. He never loved me. He didn’t care about me at all. He only wanted me because I was a son. Had I been a daughter, I would have been thrown onto a scrap heap. I was a trophy for him just like the stuffed rhino and antelope heads he collected from his safaris. He turned me over to nannies and governesses and then packed me off to boarding school when I was eight.”

  Inside, I cringed at the thought of such a little boy being sent away from home.

  “He allowed me to come home for the holidays. If you can call it a home. His London town house was exquisitely and expensively decorated and as cold and empty a place as you can imagine. My father was cruel and manipulative. It was only when I was grown that he allowed me the privilege of being in his presence for longer than fifteen minutes at a time. And that was only because I could be useful to him, manage his business interests so that he could retire and become a country gentleman. But by then, I hated him. And . . .”

  Hayward-Smith paused and looked down at the cats that were snoozing in his lap. Then he looked up at Millie’s portrait.

  “And I hated her, too. For leaving me with such a man. For abandoning me to a life with this unfeeling person who never showed me a day of love or affection. I knew nothing about her and by the time I was grown, I didn’t care anymore. My father had managed to poison my mind against her.” He gave me a rueful smile. “So, now you have a case for a talk show. Man raised by cold, unfeeling father, abandoned by free-spirited mother.”

  “She didn’t want to leave you!” I exclaimed.

  “I know that now,” Hayward-Smith replied. “Truthfully, I think I always knew it. My father married twice more and both of his wives left him. He was abusive, stingy, and mean. I knew what kind of man he was; I really couldn’t blame them. I couldn’t blame my mother, either. I just never knew what had happened to her. I never really even knew her real name. Father always referred to her as ‘Rose.’ ”

  I thought about the rose-bordered wallpaper in Millie’s rooms. Around Paper Moon, she was Millie Tilson, the dotty old woman who lived in the big old house on the hill. But in her Paris days, she’d been “Rosie Tilson,” and I remembered hearing some of the old showgirls fondly calling her “Millie Rosie” as they recounted their exploits.

  “She loved you,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “I know she did,” Hayward-Smith said, sadly. “I wish that I had known her. From what I’ve heard and from what I’ve read, she was quite a lady.”

  It was interesting to hear him talk about his mother that way, to hear anyone talk about Millie that way. I’d heard folks say “she wa
s quite a gal.” Her friends had called her a “great old broad” in their testimonials at the funeral. Everyone thought highly of Millie, even those who thought she had a screw loose. But I had never really heard anyone say that she was “quite a lady.” She would have been thrilled to hear those words from her only child.

  “Yes, she was,” I agreed.

  “I know that I haven’t been the easiest guest that you’ve had,” he commented. Yes, when he smiled, he looked just like his mother. “I would like to make it up to you. You’ll have your hands full these next few months with running the inn and going to school. I put myself and my staff at your disposal. Just tell Amy what you’ll need.” He looked around the room for a moment. “It is important to me to keep this place going. As a tribute to my mother.”

  “Thank-you, Mr. Hayward-Smith,” I told him. Now, all I had to figure out was what the hell I was going to do with it!

  “Just ‘Rick,’ ” he said simply. “I actually prefer to be called Rick.” Then he got an impish expression on his face. It looked so out of character that I almost laughed. He looked just like Millie had when she was about to do something mischievous. “Unless you want to keep calling me ‘Mr. Pointy-Nose High-Up Butt’ I can answer to that name, too.”

  “No, no, Rick will be fine,” I said quickly. When had he heard me call him those names? Now, it was my turn to feel embarrassed.

  “Oh, and Mrs. Louis?”

  “Juanita will be fine, thanks,” I said, my cheeks still burning.

  “Montana has given me quite an appetite. I’ll have to watch my weight while I’m here. I would like to spend a certain number of weeks at the inn every year. And, when I’m here, do you think you could prevail upon Mr. Gardiner to include catfish and collard greens on the menu more often?” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh, and extra rolls next time, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Louis.” He added in the stiff cadence that only Hayward-Smith could use. “I didn’t have enough to sop up the gravy with.”

  “I don’t know what you did or how you did it,” commented Geoff Black, the attorney for Millie’s estate, “but Mr. Hayward-Smith is being very, very generous.”

  Not only had Rick dropped the will contest but he had also supplemented the annuity that his mother left to keep up the old house. It was over one hundred years old and there was always something going wrong. Right now, it needed roof repair, a new air-conditioning unit for the top floors and new sidewalks. Rick’s ideas were like Millie’s—practical and creative at the same time. Later, when I told him that he reminded me of his mother, he blushed.

  “You don’t know what it means to hear you say that,” he told me. He looked so happy, so different from the man who I had made fun of by calling him names. I kinda felt bad about that. “Funny thing, though . . .”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Elva Van Roan said the very same thing, just the other day,” he said thoughtfully.

  I almost fell through the floor. He was talking to Elva. As far as I knew, the only person around this house who had ever had a conversation with Elva was Millie. I didn’t count myself, of course.

  I could have sworn that Millie winked at me from the portrait over the fireplace.

  Wednesday’s class was out of control. Because of the Memorial Day holiday, we’d had a long weekend, which was both good and bad. Good to have the time off, Jess and I had spent it visiting his relatives in Boise, bad because it stretched out the time before we got our grades on the test. Chef sauntered into the classroom as he always did, always on time yet never appearing to be in a hurry. He greeted us all and reached into the black leather portfolio that he carried his class notes in. Like second-graders, we got real quiet now that the teacher was here.

  “Ladies, gentlemen,” Chef greeted us in his usual continental way. “I am very pleased to return your examinations. I must say that I was surprised at the results but I think I can safely say that this group has promise. Some of you will have done much better than you thought, some of you did as you expected, and others of you will be disappointed.” He looked around the room as he said this. Olympia flipped her hair over her shoulders (it’s a wonder she didn’t snap her neck doing that) and straightened her body a little when Chef’s glance fell on her.

  I sighed. Marc, who sat next to me, was antsy. He was drumming his fingers on the desk and bouncing his knee up and down. The tapping and the smacking of his sneakered foot on the floor were more than I could take in my state of nerves.

  “Will you quit it?” I whispered loudly, glaring at him. I have adopted Marc. He reminds me of Randy and Rashawn rolled up into one. He has Rashawn’s focus and tenacity (unfortunately, of course, Rashawn is using his focus on illicit drug sales) and Randy’s playfulness and sense of humor. And he’s hyper. Randy could never sit still for a minute.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Chef handed Marc his paper and moved on to me. I held my breath. I didn’t want to look at it. Chef said, “Hard work and persistence always pay off, Madame Louis.”

  B-plus.

  I got a B-plus!!!!

  “Good shit!” Marc exclaimed, looking over my shoulder. “You’ve been holding out on me! You’ve got this stuff down cold!”

  He had squeaked by with a C-plus but he was grateful for that. I glanced around the class. Some of the other students were grinning, some were not. And, which was very interesting, Olympia looked as if she was about to cry. I found out later that she’d gotten a D. I was stunned.

  Marc was not surprised, though.

  “High expectations, low preparations, mediocre results,” he said, using uncharacteristically scholarly words.

  “Where did you get that pearl of wisdom?” I asked him as we moved into our teams to tackle petits fours.

  “My father,” he said glumly. “He was always telling us shit like that when we were growing up.”

  “Sounds as if your father is a very wise man,” I told him. We both found out later that Marc was right—Olympia hadn’t studied as much as the rest of us because advanced mathematics was her forte and she felt confident that she would do well. Marc and I had studied our butts off. Our confidence had only extended as far as putting the right name on the paper. Beyond that, we had just said a prayer and hoped that we had done enough.

  I guess we had.

  “Don’t swish the cake around in the fondant,” Chef instructed, the Irish lilt in his voice rising as he belted out the message. “Just give it a good dip, turn it slightly, and let the mixture drip down the sides. Good, Alisa.”

  Marc’s first effort barely had any of the sticky white icing on it at all. His second was at the opposite end of the spectrum; there was fondant dripping down the fork. Dipping petits fours is a two-handed operation, not one of my strong points. So I watched Marc for a few moments then took a deep breath and moved to try a few myself. Just as I grabbed the fork, I heard Chef’s voice from behind me.

  “Ah, Juanita. Let’s see them.”

  I sighed. Speared the little square one, said a quick prayer, and held it over the creamy white icing. As I dunked it in, it promptly slid off the fork. Oh, no! For half a second, I didn’t know what to do! But, just as the bottom half of the cake started to disappear into the quicksand-like icing, I stabbed at the little cake cube, speared it, and rescued it from the quagmire. Marc and some of my classmates applauded.

  “Good save,” Marc said with admiration.

  Chef cleared his throat.

  “You’ll get the hang of it sooner or later,” he said, not commenting on my miraculous rescue.

  I decided that I had done something marvelous. Let’s face it, you haven’t lived until you’ve dropped a petit four into a bowl of fondant and recovered it, one-handed, using a plastic fork.

  Chapter Fifteen

  * * *

  Montana finally shrugged off winter and plunged right into a summer for the weather record books: hot and dry one minute, hot and steamy the next. For the first time in twenty years, there were forest fires north of
Paper Moon near Glacier. It got pretty scary. The rains were very slow in coming. And when they did come, the moisture they brought wasn’t enough to put out a Girl Scout campfire. I could smell the dark, peatlike aroma of the burning trees when I stood on the porch of the diner in the morning. Some days, the air was light and sweet like a spicy French perfume—woodsy, dark, full of amber, and trimmed with smoke. On the other mornings, the burning timber smoke was thick and persistent. It glued itself to my lungs and made me cough. It stung my eyes. Sometimes I wondered if Montana would burn up and blow away on a future breeze. It didn’t. The fires eventually burned themselves out. Montana remained.

  The fires painted the early evening skies of late summer the colors of fresh peach and strawberry ice cream but we knew that the beauty was dangerous and false. Arcadia Lake rose and fell like a yo-yo. I watered my geraniums first thing in the morning and last thing before sundown. Many days, it was too hot to be outside at all. At dusk, it cooled down, but you had to box with mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds. They had the flying expertise of World War II pilots swooping down out of the sky, making a perfect landing on an uncovered arm or neck. You needed a baseball bat to swat at them. There were a lot of days when the weather felt more like Paper Moon, Arizona, than it did Paper Moon, Montana. And, as people always do, we complained about the weather. We’d whined when the snowdrifts were up to our butts. Now we whined again because the thermometer was stuck at ninety degrees and we daydreamed of cooler days.

  August came and, as the calendar moved into double digits, the evening temperatures began to drop, half a degree at a time, hardly noticeable at first, except at night. Sometimes, I thought I smelled frost on the evening air, just a hint of ice. A whisper to us that fall was on its way, that seasons change and nothing stays the same.

  Peaches’s Purple Passion roared into the parking lot of the diner one late-August afternoon. I hadn’t seen Peaches in three months but we’d traded e-mails. Well, she had, anyway. I’m better at pressing “delete” than “enter,” a problem if you’ve deleted the message you are supposed to reply to.