Christmas at the Hummingbird House (10 page)

She turned and almost tripped over little Mimi, who was standing at the door to the office, watching solemnly.  “Didn’t I tell you to wait on the porch?” she scolded.

“I did,” replied the little girl reasonably. “Now I’m waiting here.”

Purline took the child’s hand and hustled her toward the door, pausing to glance back over her shoulder with a rueful shake of her head. “Do you know how many goats that thing would buy?” she said, indicating the package still clutched in Derrick’s hands.  “I swear, you two beat everything.”

When they heard the front door close behind her, Paul said, “Well.  That was rude.”

“She clearly has no understanding whatsoever of the spirit of Christmas,” agreed Derrick.  He set the package on one of the bookshelves behind him and opened the desk drawer, taking out the colorfully decorated gift card they had intended to present to Purline for Christmas.  “What should we do about this?”

“Cash it in, I suppose. I told you we should have just written her a bonus check.”

“This seemed more personal.”

“Not to her.  Apparently the poor thing hasn’t a clue as to how the rest of America celebrates the holidays.”

Derrick gazed at the gift card thoughtfully.  “Well, we have to get her something.”

“Do we?” Paul was still annoyed.  “She lost my crepe pans.”

Derrick gave him a stern look and Paul shrugged uncomfortably.  “I suppose we could trade the gift card for merchandise.”

“Jewelry,” suggested Derrick.

Paul grew thoughtful.  “I was browsing online the other day and saw a darling little tennis bracelet.”

“Who doesn’t like a nice tennis bracelet?” agreed Derrick.

“This one had stones in it.  Semi-precious, of course.”

Derrick clasped his hands together in delight.  “We could put the birthstones of her children in it!”

Paul considered this.  “Do you know when the little darlings were born?”

“Easy enough to find out, “Derrick said, “since they’ll be here every day this week.”

They both considered this unhappy possibility for a moment, and then Derrick said, “We’ll have to put a rush on the order.”

“The company ships overnight,” Paul assured him, “and UPS is very good about deliveries this time of year.”

Derrick looked thoughtfully at the gift card in his hand for a moment, and then, with a flourish, produced an envelope from his desk drawer.  He tucked the gift card inside, scrawled the name of the UPS driver on the outside, and declared, “There!  Our Christmas shopping is officially complete.”

“Except,” Paul reminded him, “for one puppy puzzle and two picture books.”

“And, of course, a tennis bracelet,” said Derrick.

Paul frowned.  “Life is a great deal simpler when you handle it with gift cards.”

“So true,” Derrick agreed.  “But maybe Purline is right.  In the spirit of the season, we could try to be a bit more creative.”

“Oh, please.  Next you’ll be telling me it’s not the gift but the thought that counts.”

“Don’t be absurd.”  Derrick looked insulted.  “It’s always the gift.”  Then he shrugged.  “At any rate, there’s no point fretting about it.”  He glanced at his watch and frowned.  “I’m calling Harmony again.”

“I told you, she can’t …”

He broke off at a sound coming from outside the window, the rumbling and sputtering of an unmuffled engine accompanied by a sound like cow bells clanging up the driveway. The mutual puzzlement in their eyes quickly turned to alarm as they hurried to the window. They pushed back the drapery just in time to see the most peculiar-looking vehicle either of them had ever beheld lumber toward the parking lot of the Hummingbird House.

“What in the world …?” murmured Paul.

It was, in fact, two vehicles.  The first one was a tan Blazer, circa 1980, with rust-colored fenders and no hubcaps.  Behind it, bouncing like a puppy on a leash, was a cylindrical object that almost resembled an Air Stream camping trailer, except that it was painted from top to bottom in an exquisitely rendered mural of what was unmistakably the Taj Mahal, complete with reflecting pool and gardens. The two men stared, open-mouthed, until, with a screech of worn brakes and a creaking protest from shock absorbers long past their replacement date, the strange contraption came to a halt.

“No,” managed Derrick when he regained his breath.  “Oh, no.  We have a houseful of extremely well-paying guests due to arrive at any moment and we cannot have—I mean, simply can
not
have—a gypsy caravan blocking our entire parking lot.  Not possible.  No.  Not going to happen.”

As he spoke he was rushing toward the door, with Paul close behind. “Spirit of the season,” Paul reminded him in a singsong voice, and Derrick glared at him as he jerked open the door.

“Excuse me!”  Derrick called out, starting down the steps toward the vehicle. “Hello!”

An Asian man in khakis, a Hawaiian shirt and straw hat climbed out of the Blazer, followed by a woman, also of Asian origin, with a sleek dark bob and slender figure, wearing purple harem pants and a peacock-printed kimono.  Both smiled broadly when they saw Derrick.

“Excuse me,” Derrick said again, rubbing his arms against the cold.  “But this is a private parking lot.  Are you lost?”

The man bobbed his head in an affable way, still smiling.  “Park Sung,” he said. He looked at the woman next to him.  “Kim Gi.”

The woman bobbed her head as well, her smile steady and brilliant.

It took Derrick a moment to understand the introduction.  “Oh.  Well, Mr. Sung …”

“Park,” said Paul beside him.  “Mr. Park.”

Derrick stared at him.

“It’s a Korean name,” Paul explained, regarding the newcomers curiously.  “Korean surnames are always first.” He proved it by stepping forward and offering his hand.  “Mr. Park,” he said, “I’m Paul Slater.”

“Paul Slater,” repeated Park Sung happily.  His accent was so thick it sounded more like “Pawsladder.”

“This is Derrick Anderson.”

Again the stranger repeated the words, and even Derrick didn’t recognize it.

Paul pressed on.  “Can we help you with something?  You see, we’re expecting guests and we really need our parking lot.”

“Really,” emphasized Derrick.  “You see, this is the most important week of our entire business year.  We’ve planned for months, people have paid us a good deal of money, they’re coming in from all over the country, we have carolers on the way, and sleighs, and we still have to find a massage therapist, and …”  He stopped, staring at the two Asian faces which were nodding and smiling happily at him.  “You don’t speak English, do you?”  He turned to Paul in despair.  “They don’t speak English.”

“It would appear not,” agreed Paul.

“But they have to leave!” cried Derrick. “Tell them they have to leave!”

Paul gave him a single dry look, then turned back to Park Sung.  “You have to leave,” he said.

Derrick blew out an exasperated breath. “Mr. Park,” he began.

“Park Sung.”  The other man thumped his chest.  “Hoppy fee.”

Neither Paul nor Derrick could find a reply for that.

Park Sung tried again, more slowly.  “Hah. Mo. Nee.  Hoppy fee.”

A breeze shook flakes of snow from an overhead branch, and Derrick shivered in his Mark Jacobs wool suit.  The two newcomers, in their light summer clothing, did not acknowledge the cold.

Derrick said, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Park Sung repeated patiently, “Ha.  Mo.”

“Nee!” exclaimed Paul suddenly.  “Harmony!”

“Hahmonee!”  cried Park Sung excitedly.  He lifted one foot and pointed to it proudly. “Make hoppy fee.”

“Happy feet!”  Paul turned to Derrick, looking enormously pleased with himself.  “Harmony sent them,” he said, and waited for comprehension to dawn on Derrick’s face. When it did not, he explained, “Our massage therapists!”

Park Sung nodded enthusiastically. “Hahmonee!”

“He makes happy feet,” Paul went on, clearly pleased with himself.  “Didn’t Harmony say he was a certified reflexologist?”

Derrick looked at him blankly for a moment, and then back to the two strangers.  “Harmony sent you? To do massages?”

Park Sung beamed at him.

Paul clapped Derrick on the shoulder.  “There, you see?  You were worried for nothing.  Merry Christmas.”

Derrick nodded slowly, still looking a little stunned. “Right.  Merry Christmas.”

Park Sung smiled at them both beneficently.  “We Buddhist person,” he said.

TEN

Welcome to the Hummingbird House

F
our hours later Paul and Derrick flanked the foyer, nervously straightening their cuffs and checking their ties.  Behind them, on either side of the gold-lettered door that read “Spa” stood Park Sung and Kim Gi.  They had changed into what were apparently their working uniforms: white cotton pants and white wrap jackets, which might have been appropriated from either a chef’s locker or a karate school.  Their feet were bare.  Derrick, worried about the cold floors, and Paul, worried about sanitation, had tried to offer them a variety of slippers and socks, but they had refused all. “It must be a religious thing,” whispered Derrick at last.

“Hoppy feet,” agreed Paul, sanguine.

Kim Gi held a tray filled with hand-painted ceramic cups of wassail.  No one had asked her to do it, and in fact Derrick, not wishing to impose on her good will, had tried to take the tray away from her, but she, with her unwavering cheek-to-cheek smile, was resolute.  “It must be a religious thing,” Paul had decided, and Derrick uneasily agreed.  “I just don’t want to be a stereotype,” he added.  “After all, they’re massage professionals.”

To which Paul agreed unenthusiastically, “Presumably.”

The first airport limousine arrived at 3:45 with passengers Amanda Hildebrand and Geoffery Allen Windsor, whose flights from different parts of the country had arrived within fifteen minutes of each other.  Mick, in motorcycle leathers, tattoos, and big friendly grin, called “Welcome to the Hummingbird House!” as he trotted around to get the luggage from the trunk.  Paul and Derrick, who always greeted their guests personally upon first arrival, came down the steps with hands extended.

Amanda Hildebrand emerged first, a jewel-topped mahogany cane preceding her. She was a straight-backed, elegant woman with a lush chignon of thick silver hair, high cheekbones, and makeup so expertly applied that it seemed to glorify, rather than attempt to disguise, the fine network of lines that mapped her face.  She wore oversized amber-tinted glasses, an emerald coat trimmed with red fox at the cuffs and collar, and sleek black suede boots.

Derrick reached her first.  “Welcome to the Hummingbird House, Mrs. Hildebrand,” he exclaimed. “I trust your trip was pleasant?”

“Dreadful, just dreadful.”  She grasped Derrick’s arm firmly to lever herself out of the car and onto solid ground.  “Thank heavens someone’s here to rescue me from that awful writer in the backseat.  The trouble with writers is they just can’t stop talking about themselves, don’t you agree?” She shifted her weight to rest one hand on the cane and looked at Derrick assessingly from behind the tinted glasses. “Now who are you, young man,” she demanded, “and why should I like you?”

Geoffery Allen Windsor followed her out of the car with a dry smile.  “Don’t let her fool you,” he said.  “She doesn’t like anyone.  Fortunately, her bark is worse than her bite.  Isn’t that right, Mrs. Hildebrand?”

“Nonsense,” she retorted.  “I have neither a bark nor a bite, but if I did I can assure you my bite would be nothing to scoff at.  I do still have my own teeth, you know, which is something to remark upon in a woman my age.”

There was a twinkle in his eyes as Geoffery passed her envelope purse to her with a small, rather courtly bow. “Don’t forget you promised to let me escort you to dinner this evening.  You didn’t finish the story about the reporter and the bullfighter in Madrid.”

She gave a small dismissive sniff.  “Well, I rather hope to do a good deal better than you by dinnertime.”

She frowned abruptly as Mick came abreast of them, suitcases beneath each arm.  “What are you doing here?” she demanded sharply.

Derrick, alarmed, drew a quick breath to say something soothing, but Mick paused and smiled. “I’m just here to carry your luggage, ma’am.”

She looked him up and down. “You’re sure about that?”

His eyes twinkled.  “I am.”

“Well,” she returned, regarding him with narrowed eyes, “you just see that you do, then.”  She turned away from him and to Derrick she said, “Who did you say you were, my dear?  You’re not a writer, are you?  And how long are you going to keep me standing in the damp and the cold? I’m an old woman, you know.”

Derrick bustled her off, and Paul, recovering himself, rushed forward to shake Geoffery’s hand.  “Mr. Windsor, it’s a pleasure to meet you.  I’m Paul Slater, we spoke on the phone.  Thank you so much for coming.  I hope the drive out from the airport wasn’t too unpleasant.”

He said, “Oh, she’s a charmer.  You just have to get used to her sense of humor.”  He smiled, but his eyes looked tired.

Paul took the briefcase that Geoffery carried and led the way toward the house.  “Your books arrived earlier this week, and we have over thirty people scheduled to attend the reading tomorrow.  I know it’s nothing like the crowds you’re used to,” he apologized, “but it’s quite a treat for our little community to have you here. We’ve put you in the Sunflower Room,” he went on, opening the front door and gesturing Geoffery inside.  “It gets marvelous morning light.”

“Actually,” said Geoffery, glancing around disinterestedly, “I prefer to sleep in.  You have blackout draperies, I presume?”

Paul looked momentarily nonplussed.  “Well, of course.  Whatever you prefer.  Breakfast is from six to nine, but of course we’ll be happy to make you a bite whenever you request.”

“Good,” said Geoffery, still sounding less than interested.

“Dinner will be at seven thirty tonight,” Paul went on, “served family style, and afterwards caroling and hot chocolate in the gardens.  They’re really quite spectacular—the carolers, I mean—but do bundle up to enjoy the show.  Meantime, I hope you’ll join us for wassail and cheeses in the parlor as soon as you’re settled in.”

By this time they had reached the reception area, where Derrick was introducing Mrs. Hildebrand to the massage therapists.  Park Sung and Kim Gi nodded enthusiastically as the older woman rattled off a confident string of Oriental words and Derrick’s eyes lit up.

“You speak Korean!” he exclaimed. Then, lowering his voice confidentially he added, “Could you possibly ask them to move their trailer from our parking lot?”

Mrs. Hildebrand accepted a cup of wassail from the tray offered by the persistently smiling Kim Gi and replied, “Nonsense. I don’t speak Korean.  I thought they were Japanese.”  She moved off toward her room.

Geoffery took a cup as well, bowed his head, and said, “Domo arigato.”  To Paul he said, “Thank you, but I’m rather tired.  I believe I’ll rest until dinner.”

Paul and Derrick barely had time to exchange a puzzled shrug before the next limo arrived. Bob and Sheila Matheson were not, as Paul had assumed, young honeymooners, but newlyweds who were slightly beyond middle age and on their second marriage for each.  He was comfortably plump and bespectacled, she was obviously no stranger to the gym or to the wonders of Botox.  Both seemed cheerful and easygoing, ready to throw themselves wholeheartedly into everything the weekend had to offer.

The Bartletts arrived before the Mathesons had even been properly checked in, a big, messy family whose glassy eyes and rumpled exterior testified to the past two weeks spent in close confines with people they obviously didn’t like—each other.  Carl Bartlett was so subdued as to almost fade into the background while his wife, Leona, kept running her fingers through her hair and muttering about never being able to get the smell of that car out of her hair. The oldest girl, Pam, had a bizarre haircut that was shaved on one side and fell in a lank purple curtain on the other, while Kelly, the younger daughter, looked almost normal—except for the short shorts, tee shirt and ankle boots she wore in thirty-five degree weather. Both girls were attached to their phones via earphones through which tinny, atonal music could be heard, and their thumbs never stopped texting.  They each wore sullen, self-absorbed expressions that appeared to preclude the possibility of their either acknowledging or responding to the spoken word. Twice Paul had to remove a cup of strongly alcoholic wassail from the teenage Pam’s hand and replace it with spiced cider, and he was mightily glad to see the Bartlett family settled in their suite.

Angela Phipps was a lovely blond-haired woman with faded denim eyes and a quiet grace that somehow seemed designed to complement the tired, automatic smile that continually flitted across her face.  She wore a sensible London Fog and Burberry plaid scarf for traveling, and beneath it wool slacks and a pink cashmere sweater.  By the time their limo arrived at five o’clock, it was almost twilight, and a light misting snow drifted through the air, catching the twinkling lights that decorated the house and surrounding bushes like dancing fireflies.  Her husband Bryce, a good-looking, well-tailored man of distinguished bearing and a quiet expression, offered his hand to assist her from the car, but she just sat there, staring out at the snow.

Mick, with one of their cases under each arm and snow mist sheening his face and hair, paused to smile down at her.  “Everything okay, Mrs. Phipps?”

She blinked, and the automatic smile stretched her lips and was gone.  “Fine.  Thank you for asking.”  She placed her hand in her husband’s and climbed out of the car.  “It’s all quite lovely, isn’t it?  Just like a postcard.”

She started toward the steps, then glanced back at Mick, a small line of puzzlement between her eyes.  “Excuse me.  You look familiar.  Have we met?”

His eyes twinkled. “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised, a lovely lady like you and myself, known to have an eye for such things.  There’s a little club in Perth I used to frequent in the nineties.  Did we tango?”

She laughed, and her husband, glancing down at her, looked surprised, then he smiled.  She said, “No, I don’t think so.”

He smiled.  “Then it’s my loss.”  He gestured the two of them to precede him.  “You’re in the room with the purple door.  Your bags will be waiting for you there.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Phipps, welcome!”  Paul hurried down the steps with an umbrella to shield against the mist.  “Mind your step, now.  You look chilled.  Mick will light the fire in your room straight away, but in the meantime we have hot drinks and snacks waiting for you.  Come in, come in.”

By the time the last arrivals crossed the threshold at six fifteen, the public rooms of the Hummingbird House were brilliant with lights and chatter as guests wandered from their rooms to gather around the fire, admiring the Christmas trees, sipping wassail and tasting the cheeses.  It was, for the most part, an amenable group, although in an ideal world, Geoffery Allen Windsor would have joined them and the two sullen texting teenagers would have stayed in their rooms.

William and Adele Canon arrived on a breath of winter air, rosy-cheeked and laughing and clearly ready to enjoy their holiday.  “What a darling place!” exclaimed Adele.  “I love it, I just love it! But how on earth did you arrange for the snow?”

“We had to order it in July,” Derrick confided as he helped her off with her coat, and she burst into more laughter.

“You’re darling!”  she declared.  “Isn’t he darling, Will?”

Paul came forward.  “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Canon!  Come in by the fire and have something to drink.”  He extended an arm to usher them forward.  “Let me introduce you to our staff.  You’ve met our man, Mick?  If you need anything at all, he’s your fellow.  And here we have Park Sung and Kim Gi, specialists in reflexology and Oriental massage.  Of course the steam room and the hot tub are available twenty-four hours, but we do ask that you book your massage time the night before …”

“Hold on there, young fella!”  William Canon had a genial manner and a booming voice that echoed even over the sound of music and voices. “All I want to know is where the first hole is!”

Paul hesitated.  “The, uh …?”

“That’s what I came here for, isn’t it?  To play golf?”

When Paul, completely nonplussed, just stared at him, the other man gave a big roaring laugh and slapped him on the shoulder so hard that Paul staggered.  “Got you with that one, didn’t I, old boy?”

Paul smiled weakly, and Adele Canon gave her husband a look of affectionate exasperation.  “Oh, Will, really.  It’s never funny.”

From behind them a female voice, rich with disbelief, said, “Will? Adele?”

Sheila Matheson stood at the door to the parlor, a cup of wassail in her hand.  Her husband came to stand beside her, and his smile faded when he saw the newcomers.  “Adele,” he said flatly.  “Will.”

It seemed to take a moment for Adele to find her voice.  “Bob,” she said.  Then she looked at his wife.  “Sheila.”

For the longest time the two couples just stared at each other, and the tension that crackled between them was palpable.  Derrick instinctively moved between them, trying to find a smile.  “You two know each other?”

Will said, without expression, “You could say that.  I was married to Sheila for twelve years.”

Bob Matheson said, “And I was married to Adele for twenty.”

Adele Canon did not take her eyes off the other woman. “I thought you were on your honeymoon.”

“We are,” replied Sheila.  “I thought you were skiing in Maine.”

“We were,” answered Adele.  “Now we’re here.”

The stare-down went on another beat.  Paul rubbed his hands together nervously.  “Well,” he began, forcing enthusiasm.  “What a coincidence.”