The Hummingbird House

by Donna Ball

  Josh turned toward the camper, moving slowly and keeping his eye on the other man, the way a person would do if he were trying to back away from a rattlesnake. But the little gnome-faced man was not a snake. He was just crazy. Crazier than an outhouse rat, as they said out here. Crazier than a one-eyed tennis player. Just plain-assed crazy.

  Josh mumbled something like, “Yeah, okay.” And went inside the camper.

  By then the weight of the leather pouch was practically blistering his stomach. He yanked it out of his belt and stared at it, all faded and sweat-stained, feeling the shape of the stack of bills inside. There was more than enough for a plane ticket. There might even be enough for a cheap used car. The guy was crazy. He deserved to lose it all. He shouldn’t even be allowed out around normal people.

  Maybe if he just took a couple of hundred. Enough for bus fare maybe. Or bus fare and a cheap throw-away cell phone. He’d said to take what he needed, hadn’t he?

  The problem was, what Josh needed was not in that leather pouch.

  His hand went to his pocket; he pulled out the photograph. When he entered the trailer, he’d been breathing fast, but now, looking at it, his breath slowed. You deserve this, he thought. Whatever it takes, you’re worth it.

  And because that was true, he knew what he had to do.

  “Damn it,” he whispered, staring at the pouch. And then, more fiercely, “Damn it.”

  He opened the cabinet, thrust the pouch inside, and slammed the door again abruptly. He returned the photograph to his pocket and was out of the camper and headed out of the camp site before another three seconds passed.

  “Keep your money,” he told Artie shortly as he strode past. “And be more careful about who you pick up on the road.”

  Artie straightened up from the coffee and started to say something, but Josh didn’t break stride. “You’re out of graham crackers,” he added gruffly, and in another two steps he was beyond the camper, out of the camp site, feet crunching on the gravel road. Even then he could feel Artie’s gaze following him, and something about the kind, thoroughly unsurprised smile in them haunted him all the way down the road.

  ~*~

  The woman with the amazing voice was afloat in swirling chiffon scarves and an extravagance of bleached-blond curls. She had the bosom of Mae West and the eyes of Betty Davis, and that smoky voice that came straight out of a French bistro in the twenties. Unfortunately, she also had the face of a sixty-year-old circus clown, from which the slash of bright fuchsia lipstick and dangling, six-inch peacock feather earrings were, admittedly, a distraction. She wore a purple paisley silk caftan beneath the flutter of multi-colored scarves, and bright pink suede ankle boots. Her arm jingled with a dozen or more bangle bracelets as she extended a graceful, well-manicured hand, offering a card.

  “Harmony Haven,” she introduced herself grandly, “spiritualist to the stars. I have a reservation.”

  For a moment, both Paul and Derrick found themselves completely bereft of savoir faire. They, who had chatted with ambassadors and attended press parties for movie stars—then made catty remarks about the couture the moment they were out of earshot, of course—could not, for an awful endless moment, think of a single thing to say between them.

  They both moved at once. The sherry tray tilted dangerously and the cheese slid into the grapes as they both reached for the business card that dangled from the tips of her glittered fuchsia nails. Paul won the prize, and Derrick read over his shoulder. In flowing white script against a bold pink, indigo, and purple background, it read: Harmony Haven* Spiritual Advisor* Psychic* Manicurist* Animal Communicator* Yoga Instructor* Licensed Massage Therapist* Dog Training by Appointment.

  Derrick looked up at her with interest. “You’re a licensed massage therapist?”

  Paul elbowed him not-very-discreetly in the ribs and sherry splashed out of one of the glasses.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul told her politely, offering the card. “We’re not open for business.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She waved away the card he tried to return. “I’ve had this reservation for eighteen months. I’ve been coming here every summer for years, you know. I always stay in the fuchsia room.” And she smiled at them, fluffing her curls. “That’s my signature color. It balances all the blue in my aura.”

  Her smile was like the whisper of a cashmere blanket settling against the skin on a crisp autumn day. Like silk against ermine. Like sunshine on water. It was so utterly out of place on her face that for a moment both men were once again entranced into speechlessness.

  Paul made a physical effort to break the spell, and glanced down at her card again. “What stars, exactly, were you spiritual advisor to?”

  “My dear,” she replied, lowering her tone confidentially, “who exactly do you think told Nicole to leave Tom Cruise? The spirits were very specific about that. There was something terribly wrong there from the beginning.”

  “I know!” agreed Paul, forgetting himself for a moment. “What was that?”

  “Well, of course I’m bound by confidentiality. But I’ve offered major spiritual advice to everyone from Billy Joel to Kate Middleton. I told her she was having a boy before she even knew she was pregnant.”

  “Well, the chances were fifty-fifty,” Paul felt compelled to point out, and this time Derrick elbowed him.

  Harmony appeared not to notice. “Now,” she declared, folding her arms across her ample chest beneficently, “the important question is how I can help you. It’s simple really. This is a sacred space, and until you allow it to live up to its full potential you will have nothing but misfortune.”

  Derrick looked around uneasily. “Did the spirits tell you that?”

  “All homes are sacred spaces,” she replied. She tilted her head and drew in a deep breath, as though inhaling the essence of the place and extracting from it the molecules of truth only she could discern. “This one more so than others,” she murmured, her eyes half-closed. “It yearns to fulfill its destiny.” She opened her eyes and looked at them with a decisive nod, then helped herself to a glass of sherry from Paul’s tray. “You are going to have a grand opening,” she declared. “And not just any grand opening, a celebrity grand opening.”

  Paul’s interest was piqued, even as curiosity warred with skepticism. “Did the spirits tell you that?”

  “Of course not, darling. I was director of marketing for Nissan for twenty-two years. Anyone can see your problem is branding.” She sipped the sherry, raised an appreciative eyebrow, and held the glass out to admire it. Then she looked back at them, her tone brisk and businesslike. “B&Bs in the Shenandoah Valley are a dime a dozen,” she said, “and yours is twenty miles off the interstate. That’s probably why the last owner couldn’t make it. This needs to become a destination. A resort of distinction. You’ll establish that with a celebrity grand opening, get written up in all the trades, and watch the reservations pile up from there.” She lifted her glass and took another healthy swallow. “Success, my darlings, is yours.”

  Paul looked at Derrick, the wheels of his mind turning with speed and precision. “You know,” he said, careful not to sound too excited, “that’s not an entirely ridiculous idea.”

  “I still have my client list from the gallery,” Derrick said. His eyes took on a spark. “Everyone who’s anyone in Washington bought art from me. Senators, lobbyists, decorators of corporate jets …” He turned eagerly to Harmony. “Could you get Nicole Kidman?”

  She just smiled and sipped her sherry.

  Paul said, “I know one of Oprah’s producers. I don’t like her,” he admitted, “but I know her.”

  Derrick’s eyes flew wide with delight. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, gripping Paul’s wrist. “I have Johnny Depp’s manager’s business card!”

  “And Lester Carson!”

  “The travel editor for the Times? Of course! One word from him—”

  “And he totally owes me a favor after that dreadful Christmas party of his I salvaged.”

/>   “Who do we know at Hearst? They publish every lifestyle magazine worth reading.”

  “Remember that intern from Vogue?”

  Derrick grimaced. “What a bitch.”

  “Yes, but he was in love with Eric Schwartz, who was related to Missy Hampton, whose son went to school with—”

  “Bette Midler’s daughter,” breathed Derrick, and sank back in silence to contemplate the possibilities.

  Paul looked at him in cautious wonder. “We could do this,” he said.

  Derrick agreed, big-eyed, “We totally could.”

  Harmony placed her empty glass on the tray with a clack and swung open the sticky French door effortlessly, sweeping out into the garden in a trail of fluttering chiffon and lavender scent. “Bring the bottle, boys,” she called over her shoulder, “we’ll work out the details. You can take my things to my room later.”

  Paul drew a breath to reply, debated with himself, and seemed to come to an uneasy conclusion. He looked at Derrick anxiously, whispering, “Are there sheets on the bed in the fuchsia room?”

  Derrick looked insulted. “Of course there are!” Then he frowned a little. “But they’re pink. We were going to go with bone-on-bone stripe. And I hate that rose scented bath salts in the bathroom. It utterly clashes with the aqua towels.”

  “We can’t let her stay,” Paul said uneasily.

  “Of course not.”

  “We’re not open for business.”

  “You told her that.”

  “We don’t even have mints for the pillow.”

  Derrick’s brows knit briefly. “I wonder how she knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That we were having problems with the business.”

  “She must have overheard us talking.” But it was his turn to frown as he glanced back down the hallway.

  “I suppose. It’s just that … we weren’t really talking about the B&B when she came in.”

  Paul glanced toward the garden door and lowered his voice. “Oh my God, did you see those earrings? And can that possibly be her real name?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Stripper?”

  “Porn star?”

  “Drag queen?”

  They looked at each other for a moment and then agreed as one, “Impossible.”

  Derrick added, shifting his eyes meaningfully toward the garden and its occupant. “I have to ask …”

  “Forty-six Double F, easily,” replied Paul without hesitation.

  Derrick lifted his eyebrows. “I didn’t know they made Double Fs.”

  Paul gave a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Please. It’s the twenty-first century. Keep up.”

  Through the open door, Harmony called sweetly, “Fellows? Sherry?”

  Derrick looked worried. “Are we allowed to serve her alcohol? She’s a paying customer.”

  “She hasn’t paid us anything yet,” Paul pointed out.

  “And I have a fabulous idea for your logo!” she called from the garden. “Did I mention I used to be a graphic designer?”

  Derrick looked at Paul thoughtfully. “The Hummingbird House Bed and Breakfast,” he murmured. “A Destination of Distinction.”

  “Audubon,” said Paul. “We’ll send out invitations to the grand opening printed on Audubon prints of birds.”

  “In boxes with tiny candies shaped liked eggs nestled in a bird’s nest,” added Derrick.

  “Perhaps a bit much,” suggested Paul. “But,” he added before Derrick could act hurt, “definitely a destination of distinction.”

  Derrick inclined his head in a gesture of forgiveness. “Just one more question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Are we open for business?”

  Paul hesitated, then sighed. “I’ll get the sherry,” he said.

  FOUR

  An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.

  Oscar Wilde

  If there was one thing Paul knew, it was how to throw a party. And if there was one thing Derrick knew, it was how to be a good host. Until Harmony Haven moved into the B&B, they could never have imagined a time that those two things could be in conflict.

  “What you need, darlings,” Harmony explained patiently as they sat down to dinner on her third night of residence, “is a theme. It has to be a grand theme. As grand as your grand opening.”

  Derrick sailed in at that moment with a platter of country pot roast and vegetables that Purline had left simmering on the stove before she left. Sensing a tense moment in the making, he exclaimed, “Don’t you look lovely tonight, Harmony? Is that gown vintage?”

  Harmony liked to dress for dinner—even though, when they looked back, neither Paul nor Derrick could remember ever inviting her to dinner in the first place—which meant trading her flowing caftans and colorful scarves for floor length lace gowns and costume jewelry. This habit had inspired the gentlemen to rise to the occasion as well, observing a regular dinner hour and setting one of the dining room tables with candles and a tablecloth each evening rather than dining at the kitchen table whenever the mood struck them. Tonight she wore a black 1920’s style gown with a midnight blue lace over-blouse which was no doubt supposed to imitate a Worth design from that era, complemented by three strands of pearls. Her mad cascade of blond curls had been tamed into an upsweep that must have taken hours to accomplish.

  She smiled and inclined her head at Derrick’s compliment. “Thank you, dear heart. It’s just like one I wore on the Queen Mary in my former life as the Duchess of Extonbury. What a crossing that was, may I live to tell you!” She reached for the serving utensils and helped herself to a generous portion of the beef from the platter Derrick set before her, along with a more than adequate portion of vegetables. “Is that gravy, my love? And I do believe I’ll have just a wee smidgen of that bread.”

  Paul refused to be distracted, even as he watched half the contents of the gravy boat disappear onto Harmony’s plate.

  “We have a theme,” he replied, equally as patiently, although anyone who knew him could tell the patience had an edge to it. “It’s artisanal elegance. It’s our credo, it’s our specialty, it’s our raison d’être. Very now. Very locavore. Very us.”

  Derrick passed the platter to Paul. “The beef practically falls off the fork,” he said. “That Purline is a wonder. I swear she must have studied in Ida Mae’s kitchen.”

  Paul gave him a mildly accusing look as he took the roast beef platter. “You know you shouldn’t be eating red meat. I thought Purline was going to start serving more fish.”

  Derrick tried not to look annoyed. “We had fish only last week.”

  “It was fried and served with hushpuppies.”

  Derrick smiled and sliced his beef. “It was heavenly.”

  Paul stabbed a carrot. “We’ll just see how heavenly Dr. Fredericks thinks it is. Your physical is coming up in two weeks, you know.”

  “How could I forget? You programmed a countdown into my BlackBerry.” And with a look of defiance, Derrick bit down on one of Purline’s angel biscuits.

  Harmony spread her smile over the two of them. “Don’t you worry, darling, your heart is just fine, and it has been for months. Your cardiologist will be amazed, but that’s because he doesn’t understand that healing must first take place on the inside.”

  Derrick stopped in mid-bite, staring at her. “I never told you about my heart. How did you know Dr. Fredericks was a cardiologist?”

  Paul’s look held a stern warning. They had talked about not encouraging Harmony. “It’s hardly a secret,” he pointed out.

  Harmony just held up her empty wine glass, which Derrick was quick to refill. “The spirits know all,” she said.

  It was with a very great effort that Paul restrained himself from making a comment about the spirits that lived in the bottom of a wine bottle. Derrick caught the struggle in his eyes and it was his turn to issue a warning look.

  “Now,” declared Harmony, taking a generous sip from he
r glass before attacking her beef with a knife and fork, “about your theme. What you’re looking for is something specific, something unique. Something memorable. Something with …” she put down her fork just long enough to kiss her fingers to the air, “je ne sais quoi.”

  Paul drew a sharp breath for a reply, but Derrick interrupted quickly, “Harmony was telling me the most fascinating story about Walter Cronkite this afternoon. Can you imagine? She actually saved his wife from being struck by a car!”

  Needing very little encouragement, Harmony added, “This was back in the sixties, not long before the Cuban missile crisis, if I recall—of course, I was barely a girl then, you understand, but my special gifts were already beginning to show and …”

  The truth was that Harmony’s stories were captivating, and what they might have lacked in factuality they more than made up for in flair. It was impossible not to enjoy her company when she was at her best, but she was definitely an acquired taste.

  Midway through the second bottle of wine, Harmony declared, “I have it! Your theme has been revealed to me!” She set down her wine glass with a flourish and framed the air in front of her. “The Seasons of Man. That is your theme. We’ll have progressive displays of the evolution of man and at each station there will be a delicacy appropriate to the era. Roast venison, Roman bread …”

  “This is not a university lecture series,” Paul objected, trying to mute his horror.

  And even Derrick put in, “I’m not entirely sure posters of Cro-Magnon man are appropriate at a B&B.”

  “Clocks,” replied Harmony, tossing back a gulp of wine. Her eyes were bright and focused on the future. “Dozens and dozens of clocks to represent the seasons.”

  “Calendars,” Paul said, setting his teeth. “Calendars represent the seasons.”

  She gasped with delight. “Our invitations will be shaped like clocks!”