Miss?" I asked as pleasantly as I could. "I mean, check-in isn't for another three hours."
The mousy moth opened her medium-sized mitt and revealed a folded fifty-dollar bill. "For your extra trouble," she said in her nondescript voice.
"Come on in, dear," I cried warmly. "Here, let me help you with your luggage."
But there was only one, tan, medium-sized suitcase, and the woman insisted on handling it herself.
"Name, please?" I asked when we were at the desk. "Heather Brown."
"That figures."
"Pardon me?"
I had to lie slightly to cover for my rudeness. The Lord, I'm sure, understands that kind of thing. Maybe two wrongs don't make a right, but sometimes that's all there is left. "What I mean is, you were the first of this week's guests to make your reservation, and now you're the first to check in. The early bird catches the worm, like they say, and you've just caught yourself one of the larger rooms in the new wing."
Instead of being pleased, Miss Brown looked more like I'd given her a real worm. "This is the PennDutch Inn, isn't it? In
Hernia, Pennsylvania?"
"None other," I said with justifiable pride.
"And I was the very first one to make reservations for the coming week?" Due to the inn's immense popularity amongst well-heeled culture seekers, especially on the East Coast, I insist that all guests pay up front for a minimum of one week. It saves on washing sheets.
Miss Brown began to fumble for something in her camel-colored purse. "Why, then I'm very surprised. I mean, I only made the request a few weeks ago, and I've heard that your inn is very popular, especially with the 'in crowd.' " She laughed, the innocuous sort of chuckle one hears on TV laugh tracks.
"Of course it is," I assured her.
"I've even heard that movie stars sometimes stay here."
"Barbra Streisand was very nice," I said modestly. "And of course, since you're only hours away from D.C., I suppose you see a fair number of those folks as well?"
"You bet your bippy! As a matter of fact, Congressman Ream and his wife are expected today." Honestly, I didn't mean to let that kind of information slip out. Normally, I'm as tight-lipped as a pickle sucker when it comes to my current guests. But there was something about Miss Brown, maybe it was her very blandness, that made me want to impress her.
How do you tell when a moth is impressed? Miss Brown said, "Gee, that's exciting," but she sounded as about as excited as Susannah does when I ask her to help me fold laundry. I dislike people who speak in monotones almost as much as I dislike people who sneak up on you.
"Do you want the Amish Lifestyle Plan Option?" I asked pleasantly, nonetheless.
Miss Brown had finished fumbling in her camel- colored purse and was displaying a wad of bills big enough to choke a hog fresh off a two-day fast. "For my bill," she said. "And what I really would like is to be left alone."
"Sure. thing, Miss Brown." After all, she wasn't being nasty, and I've yet to hear a boom box that can put out anywhere near as many decibels as do-re-me.
"Now, where do you want me parking my car?"
"Just leave it where it is for now and I'll park it," I said. To be too proud to take tips is a sin in itself.
I showed Miss Brown to her room, after a brief tug of war over her tan suitcase, which she, I regret to say, won. Unlike most guests, Miss Brown seemed oblivious to the quaint surroundings. Even the impossibly steep stairs that lead up to the second floor didn't seem to perturb her. It was obvious that she hadn't come for the ambience, yet I didn't see hide nor hair of any sort of hunting equipment.
"Would you like me to bring in your guns when I move the car?" I asked.
For the first time I saw emotion - perhaps amusement - flicker across her face. "I haven't any guns."
"But on your application you stated that you were a hunter." Mennonites are not big on hunting, but if someone was going to do it, I would just as soon it was a woman. A woman hunter, in my opinion, would simply shoot her deer and then go home. No need for male bonding and the ritual downing of six-packs. For some men, on the other hand, bagging a buck has developed into a week-long religious experience that follows its own complicated liturgy. Surely only someone possessing male gonads could possibly hope to understand what really goes on. For example, several years ago I foolishly allowed Susannah to put a ceramic deer out on the lawn as an ornament. The first day of deer season it got shattered to smithereens. And Susannah had painted it pink!
Anyway I was disappointed when Miss Brown informed me that she had never hunted deer, and never intended to do so.
She was a photo-hunter, she said, and her bag was filled with expensive photographic equipment. She had come to shoot pictures of the hunters shooting the deer. She was a photographic essayist for some magazine that had "Illustrated" in the title.
Did I want to see her credentials, or perhaps even read one of her articles?
I did not. Because of the PennDutch's enormous m success amongst the moneyed crowd, I had become quite inured to famous people, and I certainly didn't count bland little Miss Brown as a celebrity. Now if Paul Theroux wanted to show me his latest manuscript, that was something else.
"And I won't be taking my meals here," said Miss Brown. "Remember, I said that on my application?"
I did remember then, and with gratitude. Miss Brown probably ate like a moth, and whatever it is that moths eat, I'm sure
Freni doesn't cook it. I made a mental note to examine the bed linens for holes before Miss Brown checked out.
I cheerfully parked her car for her, and, as expected, received a nice fat tip. Miss Brown's car, incidentally, was about as flashy as her person. It was certainly not a status car for a crack reporter. Frankly, it was as ugly as sin, even one of Susannah's sins. I don't know about car makes, but this one was asphalt gray, with mud-brown seats. Surely driving a car like that on a foggy day would be a risk taken only by bungee-jumpers. Even though I'd parked the car myself, on my way back to the house I looked over my shoulder twice just to make sure it was really there.
With Miss Brown tucked quietly away in her room, I ate a quick sandwich, and then settled down for my favorite Sunday afternoon activity - napping. If I time it right, and things work out the way they are supposed to, I can get a good two-hour nap in between church and the arrival of my first guests. Of course I don't really sleep the whole two hours; that would be far too decadent, even on a Sunday. Normally I just sit back in my favorite rocker, and alternately doze, read a book, and worry about
Susannah. This Sunday, however, thanks to the early arrival of Miss Brown, my schedule was thrown off, and the sudden commotion at the front door caught me in mid-doze.
I could tell instantly that the two women who lurched through the outside porch door at precisely three p.m., each carrying one large and one small suitcase, were not hunters either. Or even groupies. These women had never been outdoors longer than the time it takes to get from the mall to an outlying parking spot.
I immediately vacated my favorite rocker and ambled to my welcoming position behind the front desk. My office is merely the front left comer of the main sitting room, which is the first room you enter off the front porch. In the old days this was the dining room, where our large, extended family would congregate regularly for meals.
Mama wouldn't recognize it now. Gone is the massive oak table that it took four men to lift. In its place is a large oval braided rug that took Freni and me six months to make. The furniture, which now rings the walls, is a hodgepodge of old rockers and hard, high- backed chairs. Only one of them is comfortable, and I grab it whenever I get a chance. Mixed in with the chairs are the occasional spinning wheel, butter chum, and the like. Securely fastened to the walls, so that no one need worry, are such things as washboards, horse harnesses, and even a two-man tree saw. Usually people gasp when they first see this room and mutter complimentary phrases that include the words "quaint" and "homey."
The two women staggered in from the porch, and, like Miss Brown, seemed oblivious to their surroundings. But it didn't take a genius to figure out that they'd been arguing.
"Goot aftahnoon," I said from behind the counter. I'm always careful not to sound too friendly, because when people pay a lot of money they expect at least a little condescension. Why else do you think Paris is so popular?
"We're the Parker party," said the older of the two women. "I'm Ms. Jeanette Parker, and this is my friend, Linda
McMahon."
"Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch," I said. "I'm Magdalena Yoder, proprietress." Now don't get me wrong. I hate talking in a fake German accent, and as for being a "proprietress," doesn't that sound like the night job some women take when they move to the big city? But, my guests seem to love it.
Ms. Parker was not impressed. "You should have our reservations for two rooms in the new wing.
Her companion began to shift her weight from one foot to the other, and her face reddened considerably. "I - uh - I think I only booked one room for us, Jeanette."
"You what?"
"They are supposed to be very large rooms. Aren't they, Mrs. Yoder?" She looked beseechingly at me for confirmation.
"It's 'Miss.'" I dropped the accent. It's too hard to maintain in the midst of conflict, and I could smell conflict coming as surely as I can smell Freni cooking sauerkraut on a hot summer day.
'What?" demanded the older woman. She was in her mid-forties, and seemed to be very self-assured. For some reason red hair intimidates me, and this woman's carrot-orange do was no exception.
I swallowed a couple of times. "It's 'Miss,' not 'Mrs.' I've never been married." Susannah delights in reminding me of this.
Ms. Parker's blue eyes stared coldly at me through her pale red lashes. It was the kind of stare teachers give you just before they accuse you of being a smart aleck. "I'm not interested in your marital status. Do you by chance have an extra room?"
"But, Jeanette, I already checked when I sent in the application. She doesn't have any other rooms." The younger woman, perhaps only in her early twenties, was still blushing. Frankly, the emotionally induced infusion of red was an improvement over her otherwise anemic appearance.
"Is that true? Are you all out of rooms?"
"Technically," I said.
"Technically? What's that supposed to mean?"
"'Well, I could give you my sister's room, I suppose. It's in the new wing. But it is an imposition."
"Would double the rate make it less of an imposition?"
"It's no trouble at all," I said, and then smiled sweetly.
Actually it was going to be more trouble than it was worth. Ever since her divorce, Susannah had taken up residence in one of the three bedrooms in the new wing. These are the largest, most comfortable rooms in the inn, and of course the most expensive. The reason I had not put up a fight was because the only sensible alternative was to have Susannah move in with me.
Before I give you the impression that I'm a whiner, let me explain about Susannah. She is, without doubt, the messiest adult in the world. Susannah would be an inspiration to any teenager. And in addition to the mess, and the fact that Susannah keeps immorally late hours, there is the matter of her dog. If only it were a real dog, like a shepherd or a collie. But Susannah's dog is one of those rat-sized things that yips constantly in a high-pitched voice when it's not nipping at your ankles. I'll even confess that I've been tempted, on more than one occasion, to aid the dog in some mysterious disappearing act, but alas,
Susannah is never more than five feet away.
"Linda, pay her for the room so we can get settled," Ms. Parker ordered.
'Well, you do realize," I said quickly, "that it will take a few minutes before housekeeping can get around to cleaning the extra room?"
"She can wait in my room," Ms. Parker said irritably. I thought I saw the hint of a smile play across Linda's kind, but rather plain face. "Linda, pay her, and let's get a move on.
Linda scurried to obey, proffering me both her Visa and Mastercard. I selected one of the cards and took down the number. "Would you be wanting the Amish Lifestyle Plan Option with this room?"
"Pardon me?"
"We don't clean motel rooms," said Ms. Jeanette Parker curtly.
I noted that by upping the price. "Three meals a day?"
She brusquely nodded her affirmation. "I'm a vegan, Linda's a lacto."
"I think I'm a Virgo," I said, trying to cooperate.
"She means we're vegetarians," said Linda quickly. "I eat dairy products, but no eggs or fish. Jeanette eats only fruits and vegetables. And of course grains."
