The Heart of a Fox

by T. Isilwath

  The prospect made her feel bad because she didn’t want him spending that kind of money. Then she thought of Akihiro being dead, and her mood soured even more. She wanted to tell him to forget the trip, to save the money and turn around, but when she glanced at him, he looked so excited that the words died on her lips.

  ‘He’s probably taking me to one of the B&B’s Asheville is so famous for or one of the rental cabins. They’re not too expensive…’ she reasoned.

  When he took Exit 50 onto Route 25 North, she sat up a little straighter.

  There was one major place to stay off Route 25…

  She could see the famous 2 1/2 story Lodge Gate that marked the boundary of the Biltmore Estate looming just to the left, and she held her breath when Michael turned onto the gate house road.

  “Michael…” she began, but he wasn’t paying any attention. Instead, he drove past the Reception and Ticket Center and went to the security gate.

  “Name please?” the guard asked, peering out of his guardhouse.

  “Pharr. Reservation for two nights at the Inn,” he replied, ignoring her shocked intake of breath.

  The guard checked his list and nodded, opening the gate. “Welcome, Mr.

  Pharr. Have a pleasant stay.”

  “Thank you. Have a good night,” Michael replied and drove the truck through the open gate. From there he turned to the right and followed the signs that pointed towards the Inn.

  She gripped the edge of the seat. The Biltmore was once the home of the famous Vanderbilt family, and they had built an incredible mansion on the sprawling property. The family hadn’t lived there for years, and the estate had been allowing visitors to purchase admission to the vast gardens and monstrous house. There was a winery, stables, and numerous shops and restaurants on the grounds, and tours of the gardens and mansion were popular tourist attractions.

  In 2001 the estate opened lodgings in the form of the Inn on Biltmore, and, in keeping with the estate’s reputation of style and luxury, The Inn was one of the most expensive places to stay in the Asheville area.

  “Michael, what are we doing here?” she asked in a harsh whisper even though there was no one around to hear the note of disbelief in her voice.

  “We are checking into our room at the Inn, then we are going to dinner.

  Tomorrow we are going on a tour of the Biltmore House and the gardens, and attending one of the Christmas concerts tomorrow night.”

  “But…”

  “Relax. It’s all arranged.”

  “But…”

  He looked at her, his eyes dancing with pleasure and mirth, and reached one hand over to grip hers.

  “Relax, Jo-Jo. It’s all arranged,” he repeated earnestly.

  “But how are you affording all of this!” she blurted, unable to contain her apprehension. “A weekend here costs more than you make in a month!” He smiled. “I told you. I have money saved from when you were gone.”

  “But… What did you do? Eat ramen noodles all day?” He laughed. “Not quite. And Elisi fed me. And I saved money on the utilities because I was never at the apartment. Trust me, Jo-Jo. It’s fine. Really.” But it wasn’t fine. It wasn’t even close to fine. She hadn’t wanted to go anywhere for the weekend at all, and the Inn on Biltmore was the last place she wanted to be. But once again, she held her tongue because she didn’t want to upset him. She could appreciate the amount of effort he had put into planning the weekend, if not the ungodly amount of money he was spending, and it was the thought that counted. After everything she had been through, it was logical for Michael to want to pamper her for a couple of days.

  ‘And this is the height of pampering…’ she thought darkly.

  The drive to the Inn was almost three miles, but she could see the stone and stucco walls of the building looming ahead of them. Michael took the truck around the circular driveway and parked it under the carport. A bellman in a black, double-breasted coat came forward as Michael offered him the keys.

  “Checking in, Sir?” the man asked, accepting the keys.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Do you need help with your luggage?”

  Michael looked at her as she pulled her gym bag from the rear of the truck.

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  He reached in, grabbed his own black bag, and slung the strap over his shoulder. He came around the front of the truck, smiling a wide grin, and reached to take her bag for her.

  “I can carry it,” she said a little sullenly.

  In truth she was deeply embarrassed. The Inn was a venue for the rich and famous, and she felt very much like a fish out of water. Michael might not have noticed the look of disdain the valet had given them when he saw their old truck and cheap luggage, but she certainly had, and it made her all the more self-conscious.

  “C’mon. Our dinner reservation is at 6:30. I know you’ll want to shower and change before we have to head down to the dining room.” Without waiting to see if she was following him, he headed to the main entrance where another uniformed man opened the door for them. She gave the man an apologetic look as she passed. Michael went directly to the checkin counter, and a friendly woman checked them in. While he was registering them, she looked around the grand lobby with its wood paneling and huge windows.

  “Would you like to put a credit card on the room for purchases and incidentals, Mr. Pharr?” the woman asked.

  “There should be an account number already on file,” Michael answered.

  Hearing Michael’s response, she turned to him with a questioning look, but he just smiled as the woman looked something up on her computer. There was a pause as the woman read her screen, and Joanna noticed that her demeanor changed.

  “Yes, Mr. Pharr, I’ve found it,” she said. “Will all charges go to this account?”

  “That would be fine, yes.”

  “Very good, Sir.”

  Joanna watched as the woman (perhaps a little nervously) assembled their welcome package and room information.

  “Here is your welcome packet. Mr. Pharr. Since you’ve purchased the Romantic Getaway plus Candlelight Christmas Evenings, breakfast at the chef’s buffet and dinner at the Dining Room or the Bistro, and all of your tickets, are included. I see that you have a dinner reservation for The Dining Room at 6:30

  this evening. Dress is collared shirts and slacks for men, but no jacket is required,” the woman said, handing Michael a folder across the marble counter.

  “Thank you,” Michael answered, accepting the package.

  The woman pointed to a set of elevators. “You’re in a Deluxe King room with a balcony. Take the elevator up to the sixth floor and turn left once you get up there. I hope you enjoy your stay here at the Inn on Biltmore.” Michael gave the woman a brilliant smile, then turned to her.

  “C’mon, let’s go up to our room, shall we?”

  He reached for her hand and she allowed him to lead her to the elevator.

  “What was all that about an existing account number?” she asked as they got into the elevator.

  Michael shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just a friend who offered to let me use his business account.”

  “So you aren’t paying for this?” she pressed as the elevator stopped.

  They got out and started walking down the hall to their room.

  “Yes, I am. I gave him the money and he put it on his account,” Michael replied.

  “Who?”

  “No one you know,” he commented distractedly, reading the room numbers until they got to theirs.

  His answer intrigued her because she thought she knew all of his friends, but it was possible that he had met someone while she was gone. She would have pressed him for more information, but they had reached their room, and Michael was putting the key card in the lock.

  The door opened onto a lovely, spacious room decorated in tones of soft blue and tan with a large King-sized bed and a small balcony with two wrought iron chairs. Michael held the door open for her, and she en
tered, surveying the room and its amenities. Michael dropped his bag on the carpet and flopped down on his back onto the bed, his arms behind his head.

  “It’s just five now. We’ve got an hour and a half before dinner.”

  “This is why you wanted me to bring Long Person, because you knew we would be eating here.”

  He gave her another of his signature grins and winked. “Guilty.” She sighed and sat down next to him on the mattress. “Michael… You didn’t have to do all of this. It’s…”

  He sat up and took her hand gently. “It’s the least I can do,” he corrected.

  She fell silent, unwilling to argue, and after a moment he went on.

  “You’ve told us about how you were stranded in the wilderness with only your gear and your wits to keep you alive. After months of not having indoor plumbing and hot water, I wanted you to have the best of everything.” She chuckled and looked at the room. “This is definitely the best of everything,” she agreed.

  He laughed softly. “Yeah, it is. And don’t worry about the cost, Jo-Jo. Like I said, it’s all covered. All you need to do is relax and let me take care of you.” She sighed and rested her forehead against his. “Okay,” she promised.

  About thirty minutes later she got into the shower to get ready for dinner.

  When she was finished, she exited the bathroom to find Michael bare-chested and ironing a new long-sleeved shirt. He had his back to her so she took a moment to admire his muscular form, but then felt guilty for doing so.

  “All done in the bathroom?” he asked, turning to face her and smiling.

  “Until my hair is dry enough to braid, yes,” she replied.

  He put the iron down and shook out the shirt before placing it on a hanger and putting it in the closet.

  “That’s new,” she commented.

  “Yeah. I like the collar because it doesn’t cover my choker.” She nodded and took Long Person out of the closet where she had hung it earlier. The great thing about Long Person’s crushed velveteen was that it never had to be ironed. She went into the bathroom and put it on, feeling guilty for being modest in front of him. There had been a time when nakedness between them was natural and easy, but now… things were different now, awkward, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

  Michael gasped when she came out of the bathroom and smiled, but she could see the thin line of tears in his eyes.

  “You’ve always looked so stunning in that,” he said.

  She lowered her eyes and stroked the soft fabric of the skirt self-consciously.

  “Thanks.”

  “I remember the first time I ever saw you in that. You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

  She nodded. “I’ve always loved it. Thank you for buying it for me.” He shrugged. “I had to. It was made for you. I saw it on the rack and I knew I had to get it for you.”

  She smiled but said nothing. After a moment, he sighed and took a step towards her. “If your hair is ready, I’ll braid it for you.” She reached back and felt her hair. It was damp but no longer soaked.

  “Yeah, it’s ready. I’ll get the brush and hairpins.”

  “Okay.”

  She fetched a brush, a packet of hairpins and some hair ties, and moved to sit down at the small table in the room.

  “Why don’t you sit on the balcony? The view is magnificent from there,” he suggested as he took the items she was carrying.

  “Sure,” she agreed and let him guide her to the balcony where she sat on one of the wrought iron chairs.

  As she looked out over the mountains and forest, Michael took her long hair in his hands and began to brush it. The act brought back so many memories. Her mother used to brush her hair when she was a little girl, and Michael had always loved to play with it. He ran the brush through the long strands, smoothing out the tangles and massaging her scalp. She closed her eyes and sighed. The small comforts were the ones she had missed the most.

  Traditional Cherokee women wore their hair long, only cutting it when they were mourning a loved one. Elisi had cut her hair three times in her life: once for her son who died, a second time for her husband’s passing, and a third time for her daughter, son-in-law and their children who had all died on 9/11.

  But she hadn’t cut her hair for Joanna.

  “Elisi didn’t cut her hair,” she commented suddenly, opening her eyes.

  There was a pause in his brushing, then he resumed. “No,” he answered carefully.

  “She must have known I was still alive.”

  “I kept her from cutting it. I told her that if she did, she was giving up all hope,” he finally admitted, his voice subdued.

  “Yes.”

  She felt him begin to separate the hair into sections, and it felt like he intended to make a 7-strand braid. She smiled. Michael’s braids were the envy of many Cherokee women.

  Michael had been brought up as the only boy in a household of women.

  His mother’s only child, he had been raised in close proximity to his female cousins, and they had taught him well. Normally his mother’s brothers would have been responsible for teaching him the ways of the men, but, in his case, his mother had no brothers and he had never known his father. In fact, part of why Michael had come to live in North Carolina was because it was where the only living male relative in his family could be found. After his mother’s death in 2000 (a mere year before she had lost her parents), his aunts contacted James Chiltoskie, the great-grandson of their great-grandmother’s sister and requested that Michael be allowed to come live with him so he could learn the proper traditions. Obviously, James had agreed.

  But Michael was a modern, “sensitive” man, and he had no qualms about braiding hair, and it didn’t hurt that he was so good at it. For their Senior Prom, he had been in high demand to do hairstyles for a number of her friends. Tonight he was doing a seven-braid, seven being one of the two most sacred numbers for the Cherokees because it represented the seven directions and the seven sacred ceremonies. In a seven-braid, he separated the hair into seven sections and weaved them into an elaborate, wide French braid.

  She sat quietly gazing out at the mountains while Michael did her hair. She felt him create the braid, then twist it into a spiraled bun at the back of her head, pinning it in place. Then he took the few tendrils he had purposefully left free and twisted them into double-helix ropes that he used to create drapes and loops that crisscrossed the bun. When he was finished, she stood and went into the bathroom to survey his handiwork.

  “Oh, Michael,” she whispered, turning her head to see the braid. “It’s beautiful.”

  It truth, it was more than beautiful. His expert fingers had created a stunning up-do that would’ve had many Hollywood movie stars envious. It was too bad she felt completely unworthy of it, and the reminder of her situation only dampened her appreciation of his talent.

  He came into the bathroom, strands of dark blue and silver beads dangling from his fingers. “Here. Final touches,” he said.

  She had to close her eyes to keep from crying as he pinned the strands into the creases of the braids. His touch was so gentle and so loving that it almost undid her, and she didn’t know how she was going to make it through the night, let alone the weekend, without falling to pieces.

  “There,” he announced. “Perfect.”

  She had to crane her head around, and use the magnifying mirror on the wall of the bathroom to be able to see the entire hairstyle, but she managed.

  “It’s lovely. Thank you, Michael.”

  He smiled and kissed her on the top of her head as he put his arms around her. She looked at their reflection in the mirror and tried to remember a time when life was simpler, and she was happy.

  “I should get dressed,” he commented. “It’s almost time for us to go.”

  “Okay.”

  He left her in the bathroom to put on her make-up while he dressed in his white shirt and black dress pants. He did a quick double-braid of his own hair, putt
ing it into the traditional two-braid style most Anglos were used to seeing Indian men wear, and they headed down to dinner at 6:15.

  The Dining Room at the Inn on Biltmore was a grand and elegant restaurant with a stone fireplace and an impressive menu. Unfortunately, due to her recent problems with her diabetes, and her general poor mood, she wasn’t all that interested in much of the culinary offerings. Their package included a full three-course meal, and Michael took full advantage of it, but she found herself ordering a simple broth based soup and baked chicken for her dinner, and even that tasted like ashes.

  It didn’t help that their obvious heritage was earning them more than a few odd looks from the other patrons in the dining room, and their thinly veiled stares did nothing to improve her mood. Their waiter was gracious and prompt, but she could tell that he was uncomfortable with serving them. When she mentioned it to Michael, however, he dismissed her concerns with a shrug.

  “Let them stare,” he said. “You’re the most gorgeous woman in the room.

  They’re just envious.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I don’t. I think all the men in this room wish you were with them, but you’re not. You’re with me,” he stated with a grin.

  She snorted. “I’m no great beauty.”

  “Yes, you are. I think you’re magnificent,” he countered immediately, a little frown on his face.

  She lowered her eyes, uncomfortable with praise she felt she did not deserve. “You’re biased.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m allowed. I’m marrying you.”

  She had nothing to say to that, except that it made her feel worse, and she looked down at her right hand where she still wore her engagement ring. She’d never moved it back to the left. Oddly, Michael hadn’t asked about it and she didn’t question why.

  Dessert was the highlight of the meal. She ordered a fruit crostata made with kiwi, raspberries and nectarines, and ate about half of it. Michael topped off his decadent dinner of filet mignon and crab cakes with a scrumptious crème caramel that sent her blood sugar soaring just by looking at it.