Bed and Breakfast
Authors: Gail Anderson-Dargatz
Bed and Breakfast
Grass Roots Press
Copyright © 2013 Gail Anderson-Dargatz
First published in 2013 by Grass Roots Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Grass Roots Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Alberta through the Alberta Foundation for the Arts.
Grass Roots Press would also like to thank ABC Life Literacy Canada for their support. Good Reads® is used under licence from ABC Life Literacy Canada.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication (Print)
Anderson-Dargatz, Gail, 1963-, author
Bed and breakfast / Gail Anderson-Dargatz.
(Good reads)
ISBN 978-1-77153-000-2 (pbk.)
1. Readers for new literates. I. Title. II. Series: Good reads series (Edmonton, Alta.)
PS8551.N3574B43 2013 428.6’2 C2013-902651-7
For Vincent, my own handyman
Chapter One
I waved goodbye to my first guests of the summer. My busiest season had just started. I run a bed and breakfast in my big old house. Travellers rent my bedrooms, and I serve breakfast in the morning. I love welcoming visitors, but I don’t do it for fun. Without my paying guests, I would have to sell my home.
The couple I was waving to was about my age, in their mid-forties. The man put a hand on his wife’s back as he opened the car door for her. Joe, my husband, used to do that for me, before he died.
After the couple drove away, I stood on my porch, thinking of my husband. Joe was a handsome man who took pride in his appearance. Every Saturday night, we went out to dinner together. We often walked along the lakeshore
later in the evening. We always stopped and kissed under the stars.
But Joe was killed in a car accident five years ago. I had been alone ever since. Now I wanted to share dinner with someone. I longed for a man to talk to during the long nights of winter. I wished now for the kind of romance I had shared with Joe.
I was lonely, but I wasn’t alone. I had friends. In this small town, everyone looked out for everyone else. Steve was my closest friend. Before Joe passed away, Steve was his best friend. Now that Joe was gone, Steve watched over me.
In any case, this morning I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself. I had dishes to wash and beds to make. I knew at least one new guest would arrive that day. A man named Brent Henderson would stay overnight at my bed and breakfast.
I turned to get ready for my guest and walked right into Steve. “Steve!” I said, “You surprised me.” As always, he had come in through the kitchen door at the back without knocking. I hadn’t heard him walk through the house to the front porch.
Steve was dressed in his grubby work jeans and T-shirt. His brown hair was a mess. There was stubble on his chin. He usually came to my place to
repair something. Today, he looked the same as he always did, ready to get to work.
Steve grinned and held out a handful of lilacs. “Here you go, Annie,” he said.
I took the flowers. “For me?” I asked him.
Steve brought me something from his garden nearly every day. I knew his gifts were an excuse for a visit. He also pretended to forget his tools at my place a lot. That way he could come back, pick up his tools, and have another chat over coffee.
But this was the first time he offered me flowers, so I was a little worried. Steve and I were old friends. I didn’t want him to think we were anything more than that.
He must have seen the concern on my face. “I thought you might like flowers for the guest rooms,” he explained.
I blushed. I felt silly for worrying that the lilacs were just for me. “They’re lovely,” I said. “Thanks.”
Steve and I went inside the house. I ran some water into a vase for the lilacs. Then I poured cups of coffee for Steve and me. We sat at the kitchen table to drink them and talk.
“So I’m fixing the leak under the sink today?” he asked me.
I nodded. Steve was the best handyman in town. He could fix anything that was broken. My house was a hundred years old. Guests said it had “character.” In other words, it needed a lot of work. Steve had to repair something almost every week.
“I sure appreciate everything you do for me,” I said.
“You pay me well enough,” he said. “Besides, what are friends for?”
Steve and I were friends, good friends. We were best friends. That is, until Brent Henderson arrived.
After I did my chores, I helped Steve with the plumbing under the sink. We had almost finished taking the old pipes apart before putting in new ones. I was on my hands and knees beside Steve when I heard an unfamiliar voice, a man’s voice.
“Hello?” he said through the screen door of the kitchen.
I jumped, bumping my head under the sink. “Oh!” I said, holding the back of my head.
A
very
handsome man stood at the screen door. He was so good-looking that he could have been a movie star. His hair was blond and his eyes sparkled blue. Something about him made me feel both thrilled and nervous.
“I knocked at the front door, but you didn’t hear me,” he said. He opened the screen door and came
into the kitchen. “I phoned yesterday. I booked the night here.” He carried an overnight bag.
Now I knew who he must be. “Mr. Henderson,” I said. I got up off the floor and offered him my hand. We shook hands before I realized that slimy stuff from the old kitchen pipes covered my fingers.
“Call me Brent,” he said. He looked down at his hand. It, too, was now dirty with slime.
“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” I said. Already I had embarrassed myself in front of my attractive guest.
Brent looked disgusted. I gave him a towel, and he wiped the slime off his hand. He wore an expensive suit and a colourful shirt and tie. No one dressed like that in our town.
I felt very poorly dressed next to him. I wore jeans and a T-shirt with a silly happy face printed on it. What would such a stylish man think of me?
“I didn’t catch your name,” Brent said as he handed back the towel.
“I’m Annie. Annie Clark.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off Brent. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and he carried himself with confidence. He was clean-shaven and smelled good. Expensive aftershave, I thought.
Steve was on his knees at my feet. He smelled like the slime in my old kitchen pipes. He looked like a plumber. When he saw me staring at Brent, he cleared his throat so I would notice him.
“Oh, and this is Steve,” I said.
“Steve Armstrong,” Steve introduced himself. Without standing up, he held out his hand to Brent. Slime from the pipes also dirtied Steve’s fingers. He knew it, too.
Brent paused a moment before shaking Steve’s hand. He didn’t want to get his hands dirty again. But he shook Steve’s hand anyway.
I handed Brent the towel again and apologized for Steve. Brent wiped his hands once more. “The drive up here from the city went faster than I expected,” he said. “There wasn’t much traffic. This town is pretty quiet, too, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “For now,” I said. “The tourist season is about to start.”
For most of the year, our town is so quiet that deer, rabbits, and foxes live here with us. They walk up the roads and come right into our yards. Then, in June, the tourists arrive. People travel here for the sandy beach and the sun. They come for the
peace they don’t find in the city. Then they drive their motorcycles back and forth along our quiet country roads.
“This is a great place to relax,” I told Brent. Then I couldn’t think of anything more to say. I just stood there, gazing at Brent like a love-struck teenager. Brent’s eyes were such a pure, clear blue that I wondered if he was wearing coloured contact lenses.
Brent looked from me to Steve and back again. He smiled as if he thought we were very strange. I imagine we did look odd to him. We were two country bumpkins, staring at this handsome stranger from the city.
“May I see my room?” Brent finally asked me.
Steve elbowed me in the leg to get me to respond. “Yes, yes, of course,” I said. “This way.”
Brent picked up his overnight bag and followed me down the hall. I put him in the largest guest room. The room had a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and a desk. My guests shared the main-floor bathroom. If they wanted to watch TV, they joined me in the living room.
“I hope this is all right,” I said.
“Its perfect,” he said. “It’s exactly what I pictured.” He put his bag on the bed. Then he looked around at the flowered wallpaper. “I feel like a kid on vacation at Granny’s house.”
I was sure Brent didn’t mean to insult me. I didn’t take his comment that way, anyway. The house was old, so I had decorated it with antiques, flowered wallpaper, and matching bedspreads. The
house was charming, but it did look like a granny’s house.
“Your towels are here,” I said. I pulled out the top drawer of the dresser. “If you forgot to pack anything, let me know. You’ll find toothpaste and shampoo in the guest bathroom just down the hall.”
“That’s wonderful,” he said. “Thank you.”
He was politely sending me away. I knew I should have left the room at that moment. A good bed and breakfast host gives her guests privacy. But I felt drawn to the man. I struggled to think of something to say so I could stay with him a little longer.
