by Rachel Hauck
ELEVEN
You must be joking.” Corina leaned over the VIP reservation desk, iPhone in hand, her hotel reservation displayed on the screen. “Here’s my name, the date, and confirmation number. Corina Del Rey. Look again.”
After an eight-hour flight from Atlanta to Cathedral City, she wanted nothing more than a hot, soaking bath, scrumptious room service, and a nap. Not a cheeky hotel clerk who claimed she had no reservation.
The clerk shook his head. “D-e-l-R-e-y?”
“Yes.”
“Again, I apologize, but I do not see your name or reservation number.”
“How about under Beaumont Media? I listed them as my company name.”
The clerk brightened, his fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. But his hope faded. “No Beaumont Media.”
“But I have a confirmation number.” She waved her phone under his nose.
“I see that, but if I don’t have it in the system I can’t let you have a room.”
“Are you saying there are no rooms available? At all?” Corina loved this hotel. Walking across the white marble-and-stone lobby floor was like a stroll across a snowy street in heaven. The suites were luxurious. The food, divine.
The clerk winced. “I’m sorry, Miss Del Rey, but we’re all booked. It’s tourism season what with the art festivals, the summer internationals, the youth rugby tournament, and of course, the premier of King Stephen I. In fact, I’m surprised you were even able to make a reservation on such short notice.”
“Apparently I did not make a reservation.” Corina collected her wallet and phone, tucking them into her handbag.
“June is very busy in Cathedral City.”
“Yes, I know . . .” She leaned over the desk and lowered her voice. “My father is Donald Del Rey.” Never before in her life had she used her daddy’s name. It wasn’t how the Del Rey’s rolled. But desperation drove her over her boundary lines. “Are you sure you don’t have any rooms?”
“Oh, I see.” The clerk leaned closer still, whispering. “Is he on The Wellington board?”
“No.” She grimaced. So, The Wellington had forgotten the Del Reys. In five and a half short years. Corina looked to where a bell cap waited with her things, the morning light cascading through the glass ceiling and pooling at his feet. “Can you tell me where I might find a room?”
“We’ve a computer in the guest center, Miss Del Rey, and a phone book. But most hotels, if not all, will be booked.”
“Let’s hope somewhere in this big ole city there’s a cancellation.”
“I’m sure there is, but”—he leaned toward her—“not at an establishment up to your standards.”
“Right now, any room with a bath and bed sounds perfect.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll find something. After all, your father is Donald Del Rey.”
Oh fine, now he mocked her. Whatever happened to customer service? Across the lobby, Corina met the bell cap and tipped him generously. Can you carry my things outside?”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
The bell cap collected her suitcases and rolled them through the giant sliding doors, depositing them and Corina next to the bustling guest driveway, where two vans loaded with young rugby players had just arrived.
She watched them for a moment, envying their freedom and exuberance, their passion. She needed her passion back. Her exuberance for life.
Daisy’s dream drifted across her thoughts from time to time, pieces of it starting to become Corina’s own. The part where she was happy.
As for Prince Stephen? She wasn’t strong enough to hope on him yet.
“May I help you, miss?” The bell captain approached, his starched white shirt already sweat stained.
“Yes, a taxi please.” She’d cruise around the city until she found a decent hotel. She’d start with the Royal Astor and go from there.
“It will be a moment. We’re quite busy.”
Another van rounded into the hotel drive and deposited more rugby players. Corina watched as they hoisted their gear to their shoulders, laughing, full of camaraderie.
The air around them, in the city, was electric. Summer in Cathedral City. There wasn’t anything like it.
Corina inhaled the scents and sounds. She should’ve done this a long time ago. But she allowed herself to be locked away. Allowed herself to feel rejected, scared, and frail.
Across the city, cathedral bells chimed the hour. Nine o’clock. Corina closed her eyes, listening to the clarion tones, grateful there was no one to stop it.
Three . . . four . . . five . . .
The gothic and Romanesque cathedrals with their heavenward bell towers were enchanting. The pride of the city. Of Brighton.
Seven cathedrals, built over a period of four hundred years, were a monument to the nation’s Christian history. To faith in Christ. To prayer. For over two hundred years, the bells rang out at 6:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m. in an orchestrated, syncopated, glorious sound. Corina never tired of hearing them.
The tradition began when one of the ancient archbishops wanted to remind the people of morning and evening prayers the year Brighton sided with the newly formed United States against the British during the War of 1812.
Tourists came from all over the world to experience the choreographed melody of the cathedral bells.
Meanwhile, Corina waited for a taxi. She checked with the bell captain, but he was busy with a limousine full of guests.
“I’ve not forgotten you, miss.”
Corina tipped her head to the pale patch of blue peeking down between the buildings and listened to the last chime. The last beckoning to prayer.
Lord, thank you for getting me here. Thank you for a place to sleep.
She laughed, breaking the cobwebs from her tired soul. Just. Need. A. Bed. And. Bath.
Still waiting for her taxi, Corina dug her phone from her handbag and texted Gigi that she’d arrived safe and sound. Then she found the number of her friend Sharlene in her Contacts, wishing she’d arranged ahead of time to see her. When Sharlene’s voice mail came on saying she was on holiday and would respond when she wasn’t napping or on the beach, Corina hung up.
Between helping Mark step into his director role, and preparing for the premier and the interview with Clive, Corina had not organized the personal side of her trip very well. What friends did she want to see? If any at all? What memory lanes to stroll down? Most important, when and how did she contact Stephen? What would she say to him when she did?
Hey, dude, I came to love well. Whatever that means. You game?
She was about to check on her taxi when a woman approached, wearing a white overcoat with a fur collar and wool cap. In June? Corina stared a moment beyond polite.
“You’re looking for a room,” she said, making a statement, not asking a question.
Corina monitored the woman’s movements. “And you are?”
“A friend.” Her voice was thick and powerful, yet smooth and easy.
“My friend? Have we met before?” She didn’t look or feel familiar.
“In a manner of speaking.” She offered Corina a simple, cream-colored card. “There’s a place for you right down the avenue. One block south.”
“Excuse me? A place for me?” Corina hesitated but then took the card and read the simple lettering. “The Manor.”
“Go to the corner of Market Avenue.” The woman pointed toward the south curb. “Cross at the light and go down one block on Crescent. You can’t miss it. A quaint little place in the shade of Gliden and Martings.”
“Gliden and Martings? The department stores?” Corina checked to see if a bell cap was within shouting distance. “Look, I’m tired and not interested in whatever you’re doing.” Really? A huckster in the shadows of the great and grand Wellington?
“The Manor has a room for you. Please, go. With faith.”
With faith. Corina’s sense of eerie was balanced by a flood of peace.
Stepping back, the woman tipped her head toward
the corner. “The traffic is stopped. You’re clear to go.”
With a gaze toward the avenue, then the hotel bell station, Corina sensed a sort of celestial pause, as if the world was waiting for her to move. The traffic in both directions was stopped at the light, mounting up, idling.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Corina stuck out the cream-colored card, willing the woman to take it back. “I–I don’t think this is for me.”
“You’re in very safe hands. Remember why you came.” She nodded toward the street, her hands buried in the deep, creamy pockets of her coat. She was ethereal, exuding a rapturous peace. “Best go or the opportunity will be lost. Lean into your faith. It’s brought you this far.”
“O–okay.” Corina collected her luggage. While she had no intention of staying at the Manor, she was confident she wanted away from this woman in white wool and fur. In June!
Rolling luggage behind her, she crossed at the intersection, the woman watching. She’d go a block, then hail a cab and find a hotel. Never mind the weirdness of the world being in slow mo, even stopping for her while she made her way to the other side.
What was happening?
The city must be working on the lights. Yes, that must be it. Otherwise, traffic would not stop in all directions on a Friday morning.
Yet the moment Corina cleared the lane and stepped onto the sidewalk, the west-bound traffic light turned green. Cars zipped past. Pedestrians skipped along, their heels cracking against the concrete. The bell captain’s whistle pierced the air.
And the woman in white? Gone. No sign of her on Market or Crescent. The swirl, like the one from last Sunday, a touch of the divine, coated Corina.
She paused, listening. Waiting and watching. But she was too weary to contemplate any further. Chalk the last few minutes up to jet lag. Or the way of summer in Brighton.
Of course, that was the answer. Weariness. And a bit of the wonder of this fine isle.
Adjusting her grip on her luggage, Corina made her way toward what should be the Manor, fully prepared to drop everything and run. If anything, anyone, jumped out at her, she’d be nothing but heels and elbows.
A few more tentative steps passed the end of Gliden and into the light of a Martings display window. See, there was nothing between those two . . .
Then she saw it. A small building nestled in the morning shadow of the retail giants. A rough and crudely carved sign hung above the door.
The Manor.
Corina stepped back to survey the establishment from the curb. But there wasn’t much to see. Just the front of the inn, which was nothing more than a door and a large, single-paned window filled with a soft yellow light.
Adjusting her tired grip on her suitcases, Corina moved forward and tried the door, snatching back her hand when it yielded with a squeak. She pressed on inside, dragging her suitcases over the threshold. “Hello?”
The small lobby consisted of a sitting area, a stone fireplace, and a vacant reception desk. The wide board floor matched the dry wood of the fireplace mantel—dark and worn, without any gloss or sheen.
A piquant, cheerful woman with white hair floating above her heart-shaped face appeared behind the narrow registration desk. “Well, there you are. I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”
“Changed my mind? I’m sorry, but I don’t have a reservation. I’m—”
“Corina Del Rey. Yes, yes, we know. Come on in. Don’t hover by the door.” She came around the desk, hand extended for Corina’s large suitcase. She wore a white peasant blouse and a black skirt with a laced tunic overlay.
“You know? Who knows what? And h–how do you know?”
The woman offered a sweet, bow smile, which weakened Corina’s defenses. “We have your room all ready. Lovely it is too. On the fifth floor with a grand view of the city. Quite stunning, I says.” She crossed her hands over her heart and sighed. “My favorite place on earth. I hope you don’t mind the stairs. We’ve no lift. Or elevator, as you say in America.”
“The clerk . . . at The Wellington . . . Did he called you?” How nice of him. And surprising, since he didn’t seem all that eager to help. But what other explanation could there be?
“The Wellington? No, no one from The Wellington called.” The woman snickered, covering her mouth with her delicate hand. “I really must walk round and see the city close up. I’ve not been here in quite a while. Now, shall I take you to your room?”
She was crazy. Certifiable. “Listen, I appreciate your cozy little establishment, but I think I’ll try the Royal Astor.” Or maybe a park bench. Surely there was one with Corina’s name on it.
But the eccentric hostess paid no attention. She snapped her fingers and twisted her lips, pointing to a closed door beside the fireplace. “I always forget this part.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Brill! Come for the luggage, eh, my good man? She’s here.”
No, nada, not doing this. The Manor was just too weird. Out there. Maybe Cathedral City’s Hotel California. Corina stepped back once. But why did she feel peace? At home in the light and the space?
A drop of perspiration slithered down her temple. “Know what?” she said with a raspy croak. “I just realized I have a place to stay.” She reached for the large suitcase, but the woman did not let go.
“My name’s Adelaide.” She offered her hand. “Please, don’t go.” Her tone canceled Corina’s rising fear.
“All right . . .” Corina took the woman’s hand in hers with a light shake. “I–is this place on Cathedral City’s hotel register?” She didn’t know what else to ask for proof of the hotel’s validity other than to see their city license. Which felt slightly insulting. If the woman said yes, then she could exhale, relax. Enjoy this quaint, out of the way, back-in-time hovel.
“My dear lass, we were the first inn built in Cathedral City. By King Stephen I himself.” Adelaide puffed out her chest. “Fifteen fifty-five.”
“Fifteen fifty-five?” Four hundred and fifty years ago? Ah, realization dawned. This must be publicity for the movie. Surely. Which explained Adelaide’s costume. And the lady in white. An actress trolling the streets looking for confused tourists to send here. Corina took a sly gaze about the room, hunting for hidden cameras.
“But never you worry. The place has been fixed up. Modernized, if you will. Save for the adding of a lift. But we got Brill. Ha. He’s our lifter. Brill!”
“Here, here. Where’s the girl?” A tall, big-boned man with a jocular face and thin, greying, curly tufts of hair squeezed through the side door, entering the lobby. “There she is. Well, how do you like that? Fit and pretty. None worse for the wear. How’s the girl a-doing? What say you of this place?”
“F–fine.” Corina’s thoughts were on a crash course with her emotions, debating to the quick rhythm of her heart. Run-stay-run-stay. But this Brill? She liked him. Felt drawn to him as if she’d known him her whole life.
“Stop badgering her, Brill, and leave her be. She needs her rest.”
“Then let’s get her settled.” Brill picked up the large suitcase and nodded toward the stairs. “Ladies first.”
“Adelaide? Brill?” Strange how their names rolled off Corina’s tongue so easily. Like she’d said them a thousand times. “How did you know I’d be coming?”
“It’s our job to know.” The twinkle in Adelaide’s eyes bloomed as if God had created them from stars.
“Your job?”
“Come, love, we’ve plenty of time to chat after you’ve rested.” Adelaide took hold of the smaller roller board, a thick gold chain with a gold medallion swinging out from under the pale purple tunic.
Corina hesitated. Follow or flee? Follow or flee!
Adelaide paused on the first step. “Are you coming?”
Follow. “Y–yes, yes I’m coming.” With faith.
As they climbed the stairs, Adelaide ran a narrative. “Like I said, the Manor was built by King Stephen I, for his true love.”
“Magdalena?”
After brushing up on her history, Corina had high expectations for Hollywood’s depiction of the larger-than-life King Stephen I and his queen.
“Oh yes. Weren’t they the greatest of loves? Together they built the House of Stratton, established this kingdom. Oh, such was a trying time for the newly independent nation, but Stephen I and Magdalena loved well through—”
“Excuse me? What did you say? Loved well?”
“Yes, they knew how to love well. Magdalena was the woman who won the king’s heart.” Adelaide prattled on without answering, pausing on the third-story landing, breathing deeply. “She fought in King Stephen’s army against Henry VIII. Their love was the foundation of the new kingdom. Such a gift, such love.” Her blue eyes peered through Corina. “Don’t you agree?”
“I–I suppose I do.” Why did this woman speak as if she knew something?
Adelaide smiled down at her. “It’s important to know history.”
“Ladies, these burdens don’t get any lighter standing here listening to you gab.” Brill huffed and gruffed, but the tender old man would never blow down anyone’s house.
“Hold your horses, Brill. We’re going.” Gathering her wind and her skirt, Adelaide bounded up the steps, the gold medallion rocking from side to side, the keys in her pocket jangling.
Corina followed, rounding the narrow curved staircase to the next landing. “I’m looking forward to the film’s portrayal of Magdalena.” Come to think of it, the first queen would make a great sidebar to go along with her premier piece, and this woman seemed to be somewhat of an expert.
“Oh, they won’t do her justice. You can’t contain a woman like Magdalena on a movie screen. Such a beauty, she was, very much like you.” Adelaide glanced back at Corina. “Dark hair, olive skin, eyes like amber stones. Independent. Brave, taking up her brother’s sword when he was killed in the serf war.” Adelaide paused on the fourth-floor landing for a deep breath, her eyes glossing over with a faraway gaze. “Oh how King Stephen loved her. Enough to defy his privy council. He wanted her at their table but his generals did not. She was too strong for those men. It was Stephen’s first test at loving well.”
