by A W Hartoin
“Oh,” chirped Jilly and a fierce blush crept up her neck. Sorcha tossed her hair and Bridget just stared. I stared too, but I recovered quicker.
Sorcha whispered to me, “He looks like he should be on the cover of Forbes.”
“Or Rolling Stone,” I said.
Leslie smiled, showing even white teeth so perfect they had to be caps. “Morty.”
“Leslie.”
There was a grunting behind me and I spun around. Uncle Morty heaved himself out of the limo. Crumbs rained down on the pristine pavement.
Bridget yanked on my arm. “Mercy, please.”
“Um…right. Uncle Morty,” I said in a wheedling tone that I wasn’t going for but couldn’t control. “What are you doing out of the limo? You said you were staying in there and not coming out.”
“I changed my mind.” He wasn’t looking at us but at the facade. Oh no. The creative wheels were turning. It was nearly impossible to stop him once his brain latched on.
“But I bought you burritos,” I said.
“They sucked.”
“I’ll buy you more burritos. Better burritos.”
Uncle Morty scratched his belly, exposing the hairy expanse and I could feel the panic in Bridget. Uncle Morty and his…stuff was not good in an isolated castle for four days or ever, if I’m being honest. Morty was an acquired taste and my cousins had not acquired him yet.
I peeled Bridget’s hand off my arm and threw my hands up. “Darn. It’s too bad you didn’t pack anything. You don’t have any of your stuff. Your dragon models, your swords, your helmets. And clothes. You don’t have clothes. Clothes are essential to the writing process.”
“No, they ain’t,” he said. “I’ll just wear this.”
“For four days?” asked Jilly. Her mouth hung open wide enough for me to see her dental work.
“That ain’t nothing. When I’m on a writing streak, I’ve been known to wear the same shit for two weeks.”
“Oh my god,” said Sorcha.
“Oh my god is right. My damn book ain’t working and this place is already getting my juices flowing. I’m all juicy.
Ew.
“I’m sure the castle is booked. Way booked.” I glanced back at Leslie, who gave me a slight shrug.
“Leslie can find room for me. Can’t you, Leslie?” said Uncle Morty.
What’s that about?
“How do you guys know each other?” I asked.
Morty got his laptop, tucked it under his arm, and belched. “We met in another life. One of many.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re old friends,” said Leslie.
Uncle Morty snorted.
“And we understand each other. We’d be honored to accommodate Mr. Van Der Hoof.”
“Damn right.” Uncle Morty stomped past us and whipped open the big arched door to take up residence.
“But…” said Bridget.
“Our weekend,” said Sorcha.
“And the smell,” said Jilly.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’ll…I’ll…”
Leslie touched Bridget’s shoulder. “The bride-to-be, I presume.”
She nodded like crazy.
“You need not worry. If I know Morty, he’ll hole up in a tower and you won’t see him at all. He’ll be working. Isn’t that right, Miss Watts?”
“Yes. He does hole up when he’s on a streak,” I said.
“Okay,” said Bridget. “You don’t think he’ll want to go to the spa with us, do you?”
“Not on your life.”
She blew out a breath. “It’s going to be great. He can work and we’ll do our activities.”
Leslie took Bridget’s hand and looked deep into her eyes. “It will be perfect.”
People said my dad and Chuck were charming, but them combined couldn’t hold a candle to Leslie. He morphed into exactly what Bridget needed and then he did it with Jilly and Sorcha. He said all the right things. No. Not the right things. Perfect things.
When he was done, they were smiling and going through the front door without a care in the world. Five Mortys couldn’t have ruined it. The only one who wasn’t charmed was Pick, who sniffed the around Leslie and backed up, making a throaty noise.
“You’re in good hands, Miss Watts,” he said, turning his spotlight on me.
“Who are you exactly?” I asked.
He smiled. “Leslie.”
“Right. How do you know my dad? What did you do?”
“What makes you think I did something?”
“It’s a given. I know my dad. If you were a cop, he’d have said so. That means you’re on the other side of the coin.”
Leslie leaned in, his breath caressed my cheek and a prickle of fear went through me, a reaction to I knew not what. “There are no sides. Only results.”
“What do you—”
A guard stepped up. “Leslie, the limo is clear to leave.”
Leslie nodded at Terrance, who hesitated by the driver’s side door. He glanced at me with uncertainty and I felt another prickle of fear zip up my back.
“Goodbye, Terrance,” said Leslie. “See you in four days.”
“Yes, sir.” Terrance gave me a meaningful look. “I’ll be here right on time or early if you need me.”
“Good to know,” I said.
He got in and drove away. Very slowly to my mind.
A group of people walked around the side of the castle and a man with a greying crew cut said, “It is you.”
“Yeah, it is,” said a teenaged boy, obviously his son. They had the same broad cheekbones and thin lips.
“Who is she?” asked the woman with dark brown hair, curled and sprayed. She had extra-long fingernails that made me think of claws even though they were painted with blue orchids and had tiny jewels along the tips. She was one of the few women who could wear a jumpsuit and made it look like a good idea.
“Mercy Watts.” The other man wore a faded Cardinals’ baseball cap and had the heavy look of an athlete who’d forgotten how to move.
“DBD’s cover girl,” said the boy. “She’s hot.”
“Quinn,” said the woman.
“Mom. She knows she’s hot.”
Leslie extended his arm to bring them closer. It was a good thing, too. I felt a bit like I was in a zoo. “Mercy Watts, this is Nicole, Cory, Quinn, and Bill. They’re with the Steel Vipers.”
“Steel Vipers?” I asked.
“Baseball. Best traveling team out there,” said Cory, the one with the crew cut.
“Dad,” said Quinn. “The Grizzlies are good, too.”
Cory snorted. “Enrique is good.”
“Speak of the devil,” said Nicole, looking down the drive as a couple of Cadillac Escalades came into view.
“Prepare to be dazzled.” Bill whipped off his cap, slapped it against his beefy thigh, and then settled it back on his head.
“I’ll be dazzled by Enrique,” said Cory.
“That’s a guarantee. That kid’s got it together. He’s in another league.”
Nicole elbowed Cory. “Quinn is a serious contender.”
Cory nodded and slung his arm over his son’s shoulders. “He is, but we got our work cut out for us. Remember, son, you’ve got the potential to be another Bob Feller.” Cory spouted off a mind-boggling amount of statistics comparing his kid to everyone from Oliver Jakes to Tom Terrific, whoever that was. Quinn disappointed his father by not being able to remember Sandy Koufax’s ERA in 1963. Who would? What a freak.
Nicole leaned over to me. “Quinn is competing for the Pickford Prize.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
All three of the adults gaped at me. Quinn gave me a perfect teenager look. Adults. What idiots.
“It’s the top scholarship in baseball. It’s a full ride and you can take it to any school,” said Cory.
“Huge opportunity,” said Nicole. “The winner is always picked up by the majors. Always.”
I glanced at Quinn. He
couldn’t have been less interested in baseball or his prospects.
“You look different,” he said to me.
“She lost weight,” said Nicole with an approving smile.
“Why?” Quinn asked.
I don’t know.
“I went on a diet,” I said.
“Why?”
“Quinn,” said Nicole. “She just did.”
Everyone’s eyes were on me, searching up and down my form, looking for the differences. I wanted to melt into the ground and disappear.
Leslie took my elbow. “A chill wind is blowing in. I have hot drinks waiting inside. Shall we go in?”
I smiled at him and he turned me toward the door. I went toward it with Pick, but nobody followed. When I glanced back, the baseball parents were glaring at the Escalades rolling up. Only Quinn was starting after me. His mother snagged his arm and shook her head. His broad shoulders slumped and I winked at him, just to bother her. I could tell she thought there was a possibility that I wanted Quinn to follow me. Like I’d go after a senior in high school. Gross.
Leslie grabbed the long iron door handle and put everything he had into opening the door that Morty had whipped open. I raised an eyebrow at Leslie and he said, “Sometimes it sticks.” At the word ‘sticks’ the door jerked closed and nearly yanked him off his feet. He then used two hands and heaved the door open. It gave out a screeching nails-on-the-chalkboard sound and we both winced.
“There we go,” said Leslie.
I frowned at him and crossed my arms. “I’ve never seen a door stick like that before.”
“There are a lot of unique aspects to Cairngorms Castle.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said.
Leslie waved me in. “Reception is to the left. John is waiting for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime.” He meant it. I was almost sure or maybe he was just charming me like he did everyone else.
I walked out of the cool morning air into the surprisingly warm interior of the great hall. The ceiling mimicked the cathedral ceilings I’d seen in Europe, only done in dark wood instead of stone. Lots of graceful arches and interlocking beams. The stone floor was dotted with dark red Turkish carpets and the walls were covered in enormous tapestries and paintings of 17th century gentry.
To the right was an ornate staircase zigzagging up the multiple floors in carved splendor. I went left through an archway into reception. That room wasn’t on Dad’s tour and it should’ve been. It was a library, two stories high, floor to ceiling books and golden oak paneling.
I bounced over a super thick rug to the desk, a chest-high counter that matched the woodwork. A man stood behind it, wearing a dark blue suit and zero expression. John was bland as Leslie was stunning. His dark hair was parted on the left and smoothed back from his average face. If I had to describe him to someone, I don’t know what I would say. He wasn’t anything in particular, but something felt off about him. Before John saw me he shot a glance into the air and waved something away. I didn’t see anything.
“Welcome, Miss Watts,” John said in a flat voice.
“What was that?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I put my elbows on the desk. “You waved something away.”
“Miss Watts, you must be seeing things,” he said.
“I’m not the one seeing things.”
“Of course. The guest is always right.” John pulled out a ledger and I leaned in to take a closer look. He snuck a peek at me, raising an oddly slim eyebrow, looking for something, probably surgical scars or expert makeup, which wasn't there, I have to say. I have my mother's face and all that comes with it. I grimaced and obligingly tilted my head to the side so he could check out my jawline. My skin was smooth and unblemished, but I could tell from his expression that he was not buying it. John himself probably had some work done. His nose was too small to be believed. You only get that from a scalpel. I'd never seen a man so indistinct. He had absolutely no defining features. His face sort of disappeared. If I closed my eyes I couldn't remember what he looked like. He was young. He was old. He was handsome. He was plain. He was John and it was creepy weird.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Clearly that is untrue.”
“Just wondering where I’ve seen you before,” I said.
“Nowhere. You've never seen me,” said John with total confidence and I was sure he was right, but only because I'd never remember him if I had.
“You seem pretty sure about that.”
He smiled and even that was bland. “I would remember you.”
“I suppose so.”
“That doesn't please you?”
“Not hardly.”
We looked at each other for a second and I got the strangest feeling. Deja vu. Had this happened before? Had I stood across from John at some other time and had this conversation? Something flickered on his smooth features, a reaction but one that was tightly controlled. He saw that I saw it and quickly spun the ledger around on the desk.
“Sign here.”
“I guess there’s no point in asking you who you really are.”
“I’m John.”
“And…”
“I’m John.”
“Right.”
John leafed through his brand new but made to look old ledger. The Castle was old school. No computers in sight. I didn't even see a phone. A neat stack of brochures sat on the edge of the desk, printed on expensive vellum. I opened the thick trifold. Inside contained what I feared. There were no TVs, phones, or movies at the Castle. What there was was relaxation, happiness, comfort, and excellent conversation or so they promised. Who this excellent conversation was going to be with wasn't so clear. I knew me. It wasn't coming from me.
“There you are,” he said, checking something in the ledger.
“Has the rest of my group checked in?” I asked.
“Yes. They’ve gone up to their rooms.”
“Including Morton Van Der Hoof?”
“Mr. Van Der Hoof has gone to his tower.”
“Like Quasimodo.” I smiled, breaking out the charm that melted the pants off a few men.
It didn’t melt John’s anything. If I hadn’t been standing right in front of him, I would’ve thought he didn’t see me and men always see me, for better or worse.
“Yes,” he said.
“Um…okay. Where’s my room?” I asked.
“We’ve put you in the South tower.”
I was in a tower, too? It was okay for Uncle Quasimodo, but who was I? Mary, Queen of Scots? Off with her head. After the last couple of months I’d had, a tower sounded appropriate but less than inviting, a little too Rapunzel.
Oh, I get it. Lock Mercy in the tower. No doubt this was Dad's idea. He was full of ideas, full of ideas for me, that is.
“Let me guess. My tower room is on the top floor, isolated, small, has few windows, high and non-accessible.”
John’s face contained zero interest, but he asked, “How did you know that?”
“Because I know my father. I'm not on vacation. I'm a having a small stint in jail.”
“I don't understand what you mean.”
He totally understood what I meant. I could tell. I could smell it through the indifference.
“The Castle is the ultimate destination,” said John. “We have everything you could possibly need or desire.”
Twelve heads of lettuce? Chuck. A memory-deleting thingy?
“Except for TVs, phones, or escape routes,” I said.
He plucked the brochure out of my hand, neatly folded it, and placed it back in the holder. “Why would you ever need any of that?”
“I can think of a million reasons why I need it,” I said.
“After 20 minutes here you won't want any of those things, least of all a TV. This weekend has been specially designed by your mother to make it perfectly comfortable in every perfect way.”
&
nbsp; “Comfort is a matter of opinion.”
“Not here.” John stared at me and he looked like he wanted to have an expression, but was holding it back. He leaned down and rummaged behind the desk and came up with a silver key attached to a large crystal dangling from a gold chain. The key was elegant, but big and bulky, not made to fit into a pocket.
“Shall I show you to your room?” asked John.
“I think I'll find my own way.” I dropped the key in my purse. It was instantly five pounds heavier.
“I think you won't,” said John. “The Castle is bigger than you think.”
That was saying something since it looked huge.
“I’ll chance it.”
John gave me a keycard and explained that it would swipe me in and out of my room.
“A key and a keycard?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Alrighty.”
He took a castle business card from under the desk and wrote something on it. “This is your personal code.”
“Oh for crying out loud.” I threw up my hands as the Steel Vipers crew came in, oohing and aahing over the interior.
“This beats the Motel Six,” said Bill.
“This beats the Hyatt,” said Nicole, extending her fingers and admiring her nail art.
Cory waved to John. “We’re the Vipers, checking in for the camp. We sent the rest of our boys out to the carriage house.”
“Very good,” said John. Then he refocused on me. “All doors lock automatically at midnight for security. Your code will get you in and out of the building, if necessary. Memorize the code and flush the card when you get in your room.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. And keep your keycard on your person at all times. We chipped it,” said John.
“Like a credit card?” I asked.
“Like a tracking system. Your father wants you surveilled.”
I paled and got queasy. “You’re going to have cameras on me.”
“No cameras, except at the fence line, gates, and certain areas. We give our guests their privacy.”
“Except for me.” I glared, but he didn’t react.
