water.”
They sure loved the word welcome here at Bromfield’s, but his offer to walk Fargo sold me. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll do it your way.”
We walked into the elegant lobby with its marble floor and impressive chandelier, and I assume Cindy felt as scruffy as I did. A young lady at the registration desk greeted us with a professional smile. “Welcome to Bromfield. May I help you?”
“I’m Cindy Hart, Ken Willingham’s cousin. I believe he left an envelope for me.”
“Indeed he did.” The receptionist turned to a bank of cubby holes behind her and extricated a manila envelope with Cindy’s name on it.
As she took it, she thanked the clerk and turned to me. “We’re in. One more mile to the cabin and we are out of that car for at least twenty-four hours.”
“Oh, please,” the clerk sounded distressed. “Don’t leave quite yet. Mr. Bromfield wants to meet you both. He’s coming right down and asked that you wait in the bar.”
“Oh, of course. We’d be delighted.” Cindy had on her social voice. I don’t know where she found it. I could feel fatigue suddenly settling on my neck and shoulders like a giant pouting toad.
We followed the clerk’s pointing finger into the large room with a beautiful curving mahogany bar and comfortably sized red leather barstools with black backs and arms, and a dozen matching tables. We looked at each other and headed for the bar. A table looked more like you were going to set and stay a spell and I hoped we’uns would be movin ’ shawtly . I was getting into my mountaineer mode. I also might just have been overtired.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Hart, Ms. Peres.” The bartender smiled as he placed napkins in front of us. “Welcome to Bromfield, my name is Joe. And what is your pleasure?”
Well, at least I could remember his name. I just had to think of Joe at the shabby old Wharf Rat, for which I felt a sudden wistful pang. And I wondered how this Joe knew our names…probably a fast phone call from the receptionist. One more “welcome,” though, and I might say something I’d regret.
“Do you serve anything but beer?” Cindy was asking. I wondered what she thought all those bottles along the mirrored wall held, cleaning fluid?
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Joe reassured her. “The county is dry except for beer, but we are a private club and can serve drinks and wine. Mr. Bromfield says you are his guests this afternoon. And if either of you wish to use any of our services or facilities later on, all you have to do then is sign the tab. It will go to Mr. Willingham’s account. Do order whatever you please.”
Cindy ordered a Cosmo; I opted for a bourbon old-fashioned. Nothing had ever tasted better. Joe moved away, having the good sense to let us recuperate in silence.
After a sip or two, I looked around me to note our fellow customers. There weren’t many in this still off-season weekday afternoon. A woman and two men at one table, an elderly woman at another, a tough-looking man at the end of the bar, and standing at the other end of the bar, a young man in jeans and T-shirt, whose gaze drifted from Cindy to me and back again.
He looked to be about eighteen, with unruly blond hair and a sweet face. His clothes were clean, but damp in spots, and at his feet was a canvas bag that seemed to be leaking something that looked like water. I looked at him more closely, and his expression made me think he might be slightly mentally challenged.
When I caught his eye, I spoke. “Hi, young man, I’m Alex. Can I help you with something?”
He blushed and grinned. “Oh, no ma’am. I am sorry if I was staring but you must be Mr. and Miz Willingham’s cousins, and I wanted to tell my mom you’re here, and how pretty you both are. And Jerry says that big black dog is yours. He’s pretty, too.”
I laughed. “He may be the prettiest of all. His name is Fargo. Mine is Alex, and the other lady’s is Cindy. She’s the Willingham cousin. I’m
They sure loved the word welcome here at Bromfield’s, but his offer to walk Fargo sold me. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll do it your way.”
We walked into the elegant lobby with its marble floor and impressive chandelier, and I assume Cindy felt as scruffy as I did. A young lady at the registration desk greeted us with a professional smile. “Welcome to Bromfield. May I help you?”
“I’m Cindy Hart, Ken Willingham’s cousin. I believe he left an envelope for me.”
“Indeed he did.” The receptionist turned to a bank of cubby holes behind her and extricated a manila envelope with Cindy’s name on it.
As she took it, she thanked the clerk and turned to me. “We’re in. One more mile to the cabin and we are out of that car for at least twenty-four hours.”
“Oh, please,” the clerk sounded distressed. “Don’t leave quite yet. Mr. Bromfield wants to meet you both. He’s coming right down and asked that you wait in the bar.”
“Oh, of course. We’d be delighted.” Cindy had on her social voice. I don’t know where she found it. I could feel fatigue suddenly settling on my neck and shoulders like a giant pouting toad.
We followed the clerk’s pointing finger into the large room with a beautiful curving mahogany bar and comfortably sized red leather barstools with black backs and arms, and a dozen matching tables. We looked at each other and headed for the bar. A table looked more like you were going to set and stay a spell and I hoped we’uns would be movin ’ shawtly . I was getting into my mountaineer mode. I also might just have been overtired.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Hart, Ms. Peres.” The bartender smiled as he placed napkins in front of us. “Welcome to Bromfield, my name is Joe. And what is your pleasure?”
Well, at least I could remember his name. I just had to think of Joe at the shabby old Wharf Rat, for which I felt a sudden wistful pang. And I wondered how this Joe knew our names…probably a fast phone call from the receptionist. One more “welcome,” though, and I might say something I’d regret.
“Do you serve anything but beer?” Cindy was asking. I wondered what she thought all those bottles along the mirrored wall held, cleaning fluid?
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Joe reassured her. “The county is dry except for beer, but we are a private club and can serve drinks and wine. Mr. Bromfield says you are his guests this afternoon. And if either of you wish to use any of our services or facilities later on, all you have to do then is sign the tab. It will go to Mr. Willingham’s account. Do order whatever you please.”
Cindy ordered a Cosmo; I opted for a bourbon old-fashioned. Nothing had ever tasted better. Joe moved away, having the good sense to let us recuperate in silence.
After a sip or two, I looked around me to note our fellow customers. There weren’t many in this still off-season weekday afternoon. A woman and two men at one table, an elderly woman at another, a tough-looking man at the end of the bar, and standing at the other end of the bar, a young man in jeans and T-shirt, whose gaze drifted from Cindy to me and back again.
He looked to be about eighteen, with unruly blond hair and a sweet face. His clothes were clean, but damp in spots, and at his feet was a canvas bag that seemed to be leaking something that looked like water. I looked at him more closely, and his expression made me think he might be slightly mentally challenged.
When I caught his eye, I spoke. “Hi, young man, I’m Alex. Can I help you with something?”
He blushed and grinned. “Oh, no ma’am. I am sorry if I was staring but you must be Mr. and Miz Willingham’s cousins, and I wanted to tell my mom you’re here, and how pretty you both are. And Jerry says that big black dog is yours. He’s pretty, too.”
I laughed. “He may be the prettiest of all. His name is Fargo. Mine is Alex, and the other lady’s is Cindy. She’s the Willingham cousin. I’m
Similar Books
