Room at Heron's Inn

by Ginger Chambers

  There were no televisions for the guests’ use and the only telephones in the large house were the one in the family quarters on the top floor and the one installed in a shallow niche under the main stairway. Cell service was all but nonexistent. Normally, the guests reveled in getting away from the frantic pace of modern life. Frank Whittaker acted as if such inconveniences were directed specifically against him.

  “What kind of place is this?” he demanded of anyone who would listen. “What do you mean, you don’t have a big-screen TV? I thought you had one right over there last year.” He jabbed a finger toward the far corner of the living room. “What did you do with it? Why don’t you bring it back out? I don’t care if it’s too foggy, I’m going to walk to the Overlook! If I can’t watch TV and I can’t have a private telephone conversation and you recommend I not walk to the Overlook, then why am I here? Pack our bags, Alma! We’re going home!”

  Alma took her husband’s rantings meekly, but she made no effort to pack their bags and he didn’t truly seem to expect her to. Frank Whittaker was the kind of person who liked to hear himself talk—the louder the better. He seldom followed through with any of his threats. At least, that was the conclusion Robin came to after being forced to listen to him for most of the day. She was amazed that there hadn’t been an uprising, with the other guests tossing him over the cliff.

  After dinner, when her nerves seemed stretched to their limit, he went to sleep in one of the wing chairs in the living room and started a quiet, rhythmic snoring.

  Eric was engrossed in a game of cribbage with Donal Caldwell, who, as usual, planned to spend the entire summer at Heron’s Inn. Samantha was upstairs in the family quarters, and Barbara, her wedding back on schedule, was out with Timothy.

  Robin had originally planned to use her free time that evening to start making the decorative sugar flowers for the test cake, but she just didn’t feel up to it. It was intricate work, requiring a much steadier hand than she had at the moment. Instead, once the kitchen was secured for the night, Robin made her way upstairs.

  The third floor of the house had been cleverly converted from what might have been depressingly small rooms in which servants did little else than sleep to a warm and friendly place in which the family could relax and socialize. The bedrooms remained small, but the ones that Robin had seen were comfortable. The long room at the front of the house, now used as the family’s common room, had been created from two smaller rooms.

  Samantha was curled into her favorite place on the camel-colored couch, an oversize book spread open in her lap. With her long legs tucked beneath her, she absently twisted a curling length of blond hair. She looked up when Robin came into the room. “Has Eric told the Whittakers to leave yet?” she asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Too bad.”

  “How long are they going to stay?” Robin asked.

  Samantha made a face. “Until the weekend. I don’t know if I can stand it if this fog doesn’t clear. Morning and evening fog in summer, that’s typical here. But not like this, where everyone has to listen to Frank Whittaker complain all the time.”

  Robin settled on the couch. At times, she still had difficulty making herself mingle freely with the Marshalls. She couldn’t forget who she was, who they were.

  “Would you like to read Bridget’s letter?” Samantha asked, surprising her.

  “Certainly,” Robin agreed.

  The letter was full of what the older woman had seen and done, and her excitement concerning a story she’d heard about the English earl she was trying to trace. It seemed the earl truly did exist and spent most of his time at his house in London. On rare occasions, though, he returned to his ancestral home in County Cork, which had been constructed adjacent to the crumbling fortlike castle that members of his family had owned since the late twelfth century. Bridget felt she was related to him on his mother’s side, his Irish side. Her excitement sprang from the fact that he was rumored to be planning a visit before the summer was out. She closed her letter with admonitions to the family to take proper care of themselves and with a question as to how her substitute was working out.

  Robin smiled at the doubt evident in the question. Bridget didn’t think anyone capable of properly filling her position with the family, and if it wasn’t for the possibility that the earl might come, she would probably cut short her trip and return immediately.

  “She’s quite a character,” Robin murmured.

  Samantha thrust the photo album she was holding toward her. “This is Bridget,” she said, pointing to a tiny woman with a round face, white hair and a determined expression. “She’s really much more of a marshmallow than she looks. I hope she gets to meet her earl. It will mean so much to her.”

  “She mentions Barbara’s wedding in the letter,” Robin said. “How is it that she’s in Ireland when the wedding is so close?”

  Samantha found a more comfortable position for her folded legs, though she kept them beneath her. “That was a huge problem. The trip was set for earlier in the spring, but Maureen—that’s Bridget’s traveling companion—broke her leg, so it had to be postponed. The only time Maureen could go was summer—she’s accepted a teaching position in the fall. So Bridget was forced into it, if she wanted to go at all. We practically ordered her to go, because she’d been planning the trip for so long. Years, actually. She didn’t want to at first, but Barbara promised to film the wedding so she wouldn’t miss any of it.”

  Robin studied the other photos on the page. There were recent pictures of Barbara and Samantha and others she knew must be Benjamin, Allison, and Allison’s two children.

  “That’s our sister Allison,” Samantha confirmed, pointing her out. “And the twins, Colin and Gwen…they’re ten. That’s Benjamin, our other brother.” She encouraged Robin to look through the book. “Our Disneyland trip. The Grand Canyon. Yellowstone. We went to Yellowstone with our mom and dad. See? That’s our mother. And that’s our dad.”

  Robin’s stomach twisted sharply. Martin Marshall. Not in the business suit and studio pose she was familiar with from her newspaper clippings. Not with his silver blond hair plastered wetly to his head, a look of forced good cheer in his pale blue eyes as he fought for their lives. Not lying on the beach, unmoving. In this picture he was with his family, relaxing in tan shorts and a blue-and-white striped polo shirt, frozen in time as he laughed with his pregnant wife and four of his five children. Eric wasn’t in the photograph. Robin wondered numbly if he had taken the picture.

  She stared at Martin Marshall for a long time before allowing her gaze to move on to his wife. Like her husband, she was tall and blonde, and they even had a similar look. No wonder their children so resembled one another. She must have been pregnant with David. About seven months, Robin guessed. She was smiling broadly at the camera, while one child—Samantha—clung tightly to her leg.

  They looked so alive! So happy!

  “I was three when that picture was taken. To tell you the truth,” Samantha admitted, “I don’t remember it. I don’t remember very much about my mother, either. I remember when she died, but not…her.” She sighed sadly. “I remember a little more about my dad.” She looked expectantly at Robin. “Has anyone told you about our dad?”

  Robin nodded. She couldn’t speak.

  “I was five years old when he died,” Samantha continued. “I remember he’d promised to take us to the park. I was just getting over the chicken pox and the lady who was taking care of us then had left. I didn’t like her. All she did all day was sit and watch TV and tell us to be quiet. Eric came home early from college and found her asleep while Benjamin and David and I were in the kitchen trying to make lunch. Eric told Dad, and Dad dismissed her. Anyway, Dad thought we needed a treat that day. I was still a bit scabby from the chicken pox, but Dad didn’t care. He said I looked like I was wearing a polka-dot body suit! Allison helped us get ready and we waited. And waited. It was a Saturday, but Dad had to meet a man for an appointment before
we could leave. He never came home.”

  Robin pushed the book away and stood up. She couldn’t look at it anymore. Nor could she continue to listen. She knew what had happened. She had happened.

  Samantha struggled to her feet. “Oh! I didn’t mean to upset you! It’s okay. Really, it is. It’s been so long. We’ve all…adjusted. It was bad for a while, but Eric took over and made things right for us again. Our dad was a hero. He saved someone’s life. That’s something to be extremely proud of, Bridget says. She thinks Eric is wrong to blame the girl. It wasn’t her fault.”

  Eric blamed the girl. Robin felt her stomach lurch. What would he do if he was to find out…

  “What are you two doing?” Eric asked from across the room.

  Both women jumped.

  “We were just—I was showing—” For the first time since Robin had known her, Samantha was at a loss for words. She didn’t seem to want Eric to know what they’d been talking about.

  “Samantha was showing me your photo album,” Robin said, filling the silence. For her own reasons, she didn’t want him to know what they’d been discussing, either.

  “Which one?” Eric asked. He came across the room, picked up the discarded album and started to thumb through it. “At least it’s not the one with all our baby pictures. Mom had a penchant for bare bottoms and sheepskin rugs. She even managed to get one of David before—” His words broke off, but the unsaid thought hung in the air.

  “It’s blackmail,” Robin inserted with forced cheerfulness. “Parents use them for blackmail. Mine’s not on a sheepskin rug. I’m skinny-dipping in my blow-up pool.”

  “How old were you?” Eric asked, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Five. I was a water sprite with flowers in my hair.”

  “I’d like to see it,” he teased softly.

  “No way!” she teased back.

  Samantha pulled the photo album from her brother’s grasp and returned it to the nearby bookcase. “I think I’ll go to my room now. I have a letter to write…to Bridget.”

  Eric’s gaze didn’t waver from Robin. “Tell her I’ll write to her soon,” he said.

  A knowing smile tilted Samantha’s lips as she looked from one to the other. “So if you two will excuse me…”

  “Scat!” Eric ordered when, after a moment, she still hadn’t left.

  Samantha giggled, then did as he said.

  Robin moved uneasily about the room. She couldn’t stay still after what she’d just heard…and seen…and learned. Possibly her parents and Dr. Mays had known what they were talking about when they advised against her meeting the Marshalls all those years ago. Possibly there were some things a person just shouldn’t do—ever.

  Eric sat down on the couch. Nothing she did escaped his notice. Robin knew she should excuse herself, as well, but she couldn’t make herself do it. He was like a flame, and she the moth. She continued to dance around him.

  He blamed her. He blamed her. The words replayed themselves in her mind. But he didn’t know it was her!

  “Why don’t you ease up a bit?” he suggested. “It’s been a hard day. I had to restrain myself to keep from telling Frank Whittaker to take that little hike in the fog he wanted so badly. There are at least three places along the trail to the Overlook where he could fall off. Maybe he’d have found one.”

  “I can’t imagine being married to him.”

  “He’s a lucky man.”

  Robin frowned. “Why’s that?”

  “Because he isn’t married to you. I saw the way you looked at him when he complained about dinner.”

  “That was only because he’d already complained about his dinner last night, and his breakfast and lunch today. He even said his sandwich yesterday tasted funny.”

  “If he only knew,” Eric murmured.

  “I should have found some moldy cheese.”

  Eric laughed and patted the cushion at his side. “Come on. Sit down.” Then he added softly, “I promise I won’t bite.”

  “I’m fine where I am, thanks.”

  “I’ll get a crick in my neck trying to see you back there.”

  She had stopped behind the couch to finger a pale pink rose petal that had dropped onto the table from the small bouquet, one of many scattered freely throughout the inn.

  “Then don’t look,” she retorted, and had to look away herself because he was so attractive with his head leaning back against the camel-colored couch, the natural unruliness of his thick blond hair just begging her to trail her fingers through it, his blue eyes half-closed in lazy estimation.

  “You aren’t, are you?” he asked.

  “Aren’t what?”

  “Married.”

  She laughed shortly. “No!”

  “Don’t you expect to be…one day?”

  Robin moved away from the couch to a window. She parted the curtains to look outside, but she saw nothing, not even the fog. Her concentration was focused solely on this room. “What about you?” she asked instead.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “And you didn’t answer mine.”

  He sat forward, his elbows on his knees. “No, I’m not married.”

  “Ever expect to be?”

  His gaze was quizzical. “That’s a fairly personal question.”

  “It’s what you asked me.”

  “You laughed,” he accused her. “You made me curious.”

  “So am I…curious.”

  He stood up and came to the window, stopping directly across from her. He didn’t pretend that his interest was in the view. Instead, his hand came out to cover her cheek, his fingertips spreading into her hair, touching the sensitive curve of her ear. “Why?” he asked softly. “Why are you curious? I know my reason. Do you know yours?”

  She had been close to him before. Yesterday, when he’d kissed her. But yesterday had been unexpected. Was this unexpected, too? Or had she wanted it to happen, waited for it?

  “Don’t,” she breathed, unable to raise her voice above a whisper. She felt as if every nerve in her body was stretched in anticipation. She was aware of him—of the warmth emanating from his long, lean body, the power behind his gentleness, the promise of what might happen if she allowed the moment to play itself out.

  “Why not?” he murmured huskily. He shifted closer.

  Robin’s senses reeled. She had to break this off. He blamed her—her!—for all the troubles that had befallen his family. She couldn’t let… An overpowering thought suddenly occurred to her. She could ignore everything. He didn’t know who she was, and he might never find out. Not if she didn’t tell him.

  His arms encircled her. His lips took the place of his hand on her cheek, before moving on to the sensitive skin of her neck, of her ear, then finally to her mouth.

  Long, conflicting moments later she broke contact. “No…no…I can’t!” she cried raggedly, gasping for air. “I—I can’t!” She tried to push him away.

  At first he didn’t move, then eventually he set her free. She rocked unsteadily on her feet.

  “You can’t say you didn’t enjoy that,” he challenged unevenly.

  Her gaze slid away. “I—I—” She felt him watching her, waiting for her to express a coherent thought. “I make it a habit never to get involved with—with anyone at my place of employment, especially my employer,” she finally managed.

  He absorbed what she’d said, then countered with, “Has this been a recurring problem?”

  “No.”

  “Not that I would doubt it,” he added quickly. “A woman as appealing as you would—”

  “Let’s just forget it, okay?” she interrupted him, desperately wanting the moment to be over.

  A self-deprecating smile touched his lips as he shrugged lightly. “That’s the trouble. I don’t think I can forget it.”

  Robin reminded herself of the need to resist his charm.

  “We’ve already taken the first step,” he continued.

  She shook her head. “No, we haven’t
.”

  His slow smile spread. “If you insist.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop mocking me.”

  “I have three sisters, remember? I know when a woman is covering her tracks.”

  “You think you know so much.”

  “If I do, I’ve learned it the hard way. Raising three girls isn’t the easiest thing in the world for a man on his own. A young man. One who isn’t sure about anything!” He paused, shifting away from his brief flare-up of anger. “Barbara told me she explained about our father.”

  Robin’s nerves tightened. “Yes,” she replied, moving back behind the couch. For something to do, she collected the fallen rose petals. She didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not with him. She’d already been through enough. But she couldn’t make herself leave.

  “It was a stupid thing to have happened,” he said tightly. “Such a waste. He was only forty-one. Four years older than I am now.” He shook his head, his anger slipping free. “Forty-one.”

  Robin’s throat constricted. Forty-one seemed old from the perspective of a twelve-year-old. As an adult, she had come to appreciate its relative youth. At forty-one a man had barely entered into his prime. Heads of government that age were considered unseasoned.

  “It must have been very hard,” she sympathized, once she could speak.

  “It wasn’t a picnic.”

  “But…you must be very proud. Proud of what he did. To have saved a life!” She unconsciously repeated Bridget’s counsel.

  His laughter was hollow. “That’s what people kept saying.”

  “Didn’t you believe them?”

  “I was a little busy at the time.”

  “Other people might not have done what you did.”

  “Don’t try to fit me into the same mold as my father!” he snapped. “I did what I had to do, nothing more.”