A Little Hotel in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  Mr. Sutcliffe lifted one eyebrow. "The Pulitzer. A little ambitious, isn't it? Even the best Ivy League English graduates tend not to make the list."

  "But it's really about talent and dedication, not background," I said. "Even writers without college degrees have won the prize. I think the odds are slim that someone like me would ever be nominated, but I still like to dream about it." Probably not for a novel like the one I was currently writing, but perhaps someday.

  "Who did you say this writer was, who's reading your work?"

  "Abner Davis," said Ronnie. "The one who wrote that Times bestseller a few years ago."

  "Never heard of him." Mr. Sutcliffe lifted a vol-au-vent from a passing serving tray — I had averted my face at this moment to hide from the person carrying it, none other than Molly from the cleaning staff, so I didn't bother to correct Ronnie's error. "Ronald, you promised to say hello to Professor Madison — he's over by the sofa with his wife, and I know he means to congratulate you for your recent promotion."

  As soon as Ronnie was gone, Mr. Sutcliffe turned to me. "I think I was wrong about you," he said.

  I felt surprised. "Really?" Despite Ronnie's desperation, I never thought I would impress his father enough to change his mind about my ambitions. Once a waitress, always a waitress, I figured, and not an aspiring artist who might actually succeed.

  "You're a clever girl. With words, anyway. I mistook you back in your college years for one of those flighty, romantic twits who probably saw my son as the source of European castles and fine diamonds."

  "I never thought of Ronnie's money," I said. "I only liked your son back then for the kind of person I thought he could be." I had been convinced at the time there was more to Ronald Sutcliffe than his family money. More than Audubon guides and the nesting habits of red-shafted flickers, too. And maybe there was, although I would never know the answer. "You didn't have to be afraid of me trying to take anything from your family."

  "I trust," he said, at last, "that you don't have any motives regarding my son other than those of friendship."

  This remark cut me to the bone. "No," I said, indignantly. "I don't. Ronnie asked me here tonight to be polite. I have no intention of pursuing your son. We are friends and nothing more."

  "I'm relieved to hear it." He smiled at me, and my imagination summoned a cold wind in response. "Here's to friends and polite acquaintances." He lifted his glass.

  "I think I'll go find the server with the caviar tray." I set my glass on the nearby table and left Mr. Sutcliffe alone with his toast. I was glad that I had been too angry to blush, because it was embarrassing to have someone talk to me like that. I was glad Ronnie hadn't overheard those questions ... not that he would have defended me from subtle accusations that I was a bad choice. That was why we weren't a 'we' anymore.

  "Care to dance, Maisie?" Ronnie had found me when I retreated to a crowd of guests near the band, where I had watched a few brave souls dancing the Charleston before a slow jazz love song began.

  "No, thanks," I said. "I don't feel like dancing right now."

  "Your loss," he said. "Come on. Enjoy yourself a little, will you?" he added, with a smile.

  He would be a lot less cheerful if he knew why I felt this way. The sheepish, sad look he gave me during our breakup, when he talked about his father's 'gold digger' worries came back to me. That look of utter, ashamed surrender had almost been worse than all his parents' insulting remarks.

  Drifting from one conversation circle to the next, I found distant politeness. I was eluding Ronnie and his father by doing this, but not much else, especially since I couldn't really participate in some of these, judging by the snatches of remarks I overheard.

  " — but I only lost ten thousand on the deal when the market last crashed, which is merely pocket change —"

  " — we simply love wintering in Monte Carlo —"

  " — out of all of them, I only read the works of Marcus Forrester. Practically every other choice the committee made was rather terrible."

  I blushed deeply as I heard this, hoping it wasn't a comment about the Ink and Inspiration's choices among new writers. I overheard remarks made about the weather, the state of British journalism, the lost works of Harper Lee, even the magnificence of the covers depicted in this event's artwork.

  "The one in the shades of blue is my favorite," declared one of the gentlemen. "Which edition is that? The first?"

  "The third," I volunteered, surprising myself by speaking up. "In America, anyway."

  All eyes were on me, but mostly those of the guest who asked the question. "You're an admirer of the author? Or Cornish authors in general?" he asked.

  "All authors in general," I said. "I was an English major at a university in the States, and I took as many classes on literature as they would allow."

  "Did you graduate to be a professor of English Literature 101?" asked someone else, with a laugh.

  "No, I graduated to be a writer." I blushed, quickly. "At least that's what I hope to be professionally someday."

  The guest who commented on the cover in the first place was studying me closely. "You're a friend of Ronald Sutcliffe's, aren't you?" he said. "I saw you chatting with Morgan only a few minutes ago."

  I supposed 'friend' was the right word, although it didn't feel quite like a friendship worthy of claiming anymore after Ronnie's father's remarks. "Ronald and I graduated in the same class at the university," I said. "We were just ... catching up on each others' lives."

  "Isn't this a charming place in which to do it?" trilled a female guest. "The foundation has positively outdone itself this year. I'm glad I wore a dress fitting for the period."

  "I take it from your remarks you're not a professional writer now," said the first guest to me.

  "No." I decided to be honest. "I was supposed to be part of the Tucker Writing Mentorship program, but my chance fell through at the last minute." I admitted this part while gazing at the beautiful tiles beneath my shoes, because I knew these people would probably be thinking the same things Morgan Sutcliffe did, as if I had painted every guest as a cold, snooty prig by association. "I'm here in Cornwall for that reason. Trying to find a substitute for my original mentor, to critique my work for one of this foundation's prizes."

  "I'm sure this is a splendid place for a writer," said the female guest, in a 'pretend sympathy' voice. "There must be lots of opportunities for inspiration."

  "I hope so," I answered, with a hollow smile.

  To my surprise, the gentleman who spoke before drew a card from a case in his tuxedo jacket's inside pocket. "Gerard Spofford," he said. "If you can't find your answer here, then perhaps I can help you," he said. "This is my number for my office at the university in London. I might be in touch with a writer or two whom the program would find suitably favorable."

  "Thank you." I was surprised by this gesture — so much so that I almost forgot to take the card he held out to me. "I really appreciate this." The notion that he would actually do anything for a stranger like me seemed implausible, but it was nice to know that someone could be that spontaneously kind.

  "Gerard knows practically everyone in Britain," drawled the female guest. "He dined with Margaret Thatcher once. Do tell Nickerson that story, Gerard."

  After I drifted away from their conversation — all about the stock exchange at that point —I kept the card between my fingers for a time before tucking it out of sight, treating it like a good luck charm. Maybe it was a sign that better things were to come. Alistair Davies might yet reappear at the Penmarrow and be delighted to read a chapter or two of my project.

  I found a seat on the sky blue sofa, and ended up in conversation with a guest who turned out to be a former Ink and Inspiration recipient. "Really?" I said. This was too good to be true. "Your novel was the committee's selection?"

  "In 2005," he said.

  "What was its name?" I said. "I'd love to read it. I think there's a bookstore in the village ..."

  "It's not publishe
d, actually," he said. A wry expression crossed his face. "I'm one of those rare writers you hear about, who folds under the pressure of possible success. By the second deadline, I had nothing but a blank document on my laptop's screen...and a very poor excuse for my writer's block."

  "That's terrible," I said. "I'm so sorry."

  "Oh, well. In truth, the process was nothing like I pictured," he said. "Critiques that tell you to do one thing this time, and the complete opposite the next. All those petty little remarks from my busy mentors in the margins which really added nothing to the story. To top it off, the deadlines are so very sharp — half the time, my editor neglected to give me more than a week's time to make the changes." He shook his head. "And, of course, all the intimate cocktail parties for the crème de la crème of fiction and publishing ... all the shaking of hands and exchanging of business cards led to very little in the way of opportunity."

  "I always thought it would help," I said. "To have a community of the best and most successful giving you advice." The whole point of the mentorship program was to expose writers to the business side of their work, as well as the artistic.

  "I felt the same way. But then I discovered there's more to success than the right people and the right doors opening for one," he answered. "That's what I came away with, in the end. The only thing I didn't come away with was a completed manuscript."

  He sounded so disillusioned that I couldn't think of anything comforting to say at the end of his speech. "What are you writing now?" I asked.

  "Not a blasted thing." He drained his glass. "I teach writing at a little seminar in Somerset. All those hopeful little faces. It's dreadfully dull."

  I found myself pondering whether that would be me at the end of a prestigious fellowship like the Ink and Inspiration. Me panicking in the face of deadlines, and watching my story being shredded by two opposing editors in the process. Wouldn't it be terrible if even the talented Alistair Davies turned out to be a dud as a mentor? Maybe I would be better off not knowing these answers.

  I tried not to think of it that way as I threaded my way through the dancing couples, walking towards the ballroom doors. I needed some air.

  "Marjorie?" I heard Riley's voice behind me. I whirled around to find the porter in a server's jacket and tie, holding a tray of champagne. "Is that you?" A wolf whistle followed.

  "Shhh," I said, holding my finger to my lips. "Please, don't say anything. Don't call me by my name."

  "Are you crashing this party?" he hissed.

  "No. No," I whispered, insistently. "Anyway, I'm leaving now. I'll explain everything later," I said. "Just don't tell anybody, okay? Anybody," I pleaded. If Ronnie spotted me, I would never get away without a different explanation. I slipped outside the ballroom, breathing a sigh of relief in the hall when I discovered I was alone.

  My first time in a ballroom and I would remember it best for my annoying ex-boyfriend's issues and a sad ex-writer. Even so, the gala had been beautiful. The chandeliers alight, the crystal tower of champagne glasses, the mural on the ceiling. I should have taken Ronnie up on his offer to dance, since it could have been my last chance to waltz in a ballroom.

  The terrace windows were open, and I stepped into the breeze outside. The lamps on the grounds were glowing, the ones on the patio revealing the bright red, white, and lavender flowers in the planters, and stairs to the beach were lit by solar lamps.

  Someone had left a bonfire burning on the beach, in violation of the rules. I held my hired dress away from the sand as I waded through its softness towards the waters in the distance. A little bit of moonlight marked a path across the black and violet waves.

  In the distance, I could still hear the orchestra playing, the faint strains of an old love song. I swayed a little to the sound on the wind, imagining this evening without me playing pretend for Ronnie's sake, his father's rudeness, or the sad Ink and Inspiration dropout.

  "You know what the song says about pale moonlight," said a voice on the beach. "You're certain you want to take that risk?" I stopped and staggered back a few paces before placing the voice in my memory. It was Sidney Daniels, out for a late-night stroll.

  "What song?" I asked.

  "The one they're playing," he said. He moved closer to the light. I could see the little dog was following him, wagging its tail at me in the dark.

  I recognized the tune as I listened — 'The Nearness of You.' "I'll take the risk," I said. "What are you doing on the hotel's beach at this hour?" I added.

  "What are you doing in a posh frock on the beach at this hour?" he replied. I could see his grin faintly, by the glow of the beach fire, now that he stepped into its light. The dog was sniffing in the sand around us.

  "I was at a party tonight," I answered.

  "Sounds like there's one still in progress," he said. "Why miss it?"

  "The party was over for me for the night," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "I didn't feel like any more champagne and caviar." I sat down on one of the flat rocks on the beach.

  He sat down a short distance away, on a rock close to the remains of the campfire. "Is there a story behind it?" he said. "Feeling jaded about glamour?"

  "That's a little nosy of you," I said. I managed to resist the urge to smile.

  "That's a little secretive of you," he replied.

  The dog sniffed my feet through my toeless black pumps. "This is the one you had with you on the beach," I said. "The one that kissed me a few times."

  "The dog? Not him. No, it was me who kissed you," said Sidney.

  My face went hot, suddenly. "You?" I echoed. My dream I had while unconscious in his strong arms was now altered by the shock of knowing that part hadn't been a dream.

  "Just joking. It was the dog."

  The fire of mortification and embarrassment burned just as hot inside me. "Funny," I said, semi-indignantly. But mostly because I had let the idea get under my skin before. "What's your dog's name?" I asked. This was my clever way of changing the subject.

  "This one? He's Kip," he said. "Then there's Moby Dick ... Bugsy ... Mick Jagger..."

  I laughed. "That's a lot of dogs," I said. "You must've been very lonely."

  "I don't have them — they have me," he said. "They wandered up to the vicarage over time, needing a place to call home. I remembered what it's like, feeling you've no place you belong, so I let them stay." For a moment, a brief one, his face darkened, a sudden shadow of emotion altering his features. Serious and mysterious — that's how I would have described it before his usual smile vanquished it again.

  "Your other homeless dogs are missing you, probably." Kip was pawing for attention at my feet, probably scratching the fake leather of my shoes.

  "They're fine," he answered. "Maybe my home's a bit of a shack, but I do let them sleep on the sofa."

  "Three dogs on the sofa," I said, picturing one with lots of chewed-open holes.

  "Six, actually. Maybe I'm a magnet for strays and wanderers."

  Hopefully, he didn't include me in that group. Indignantly, this crossed my mind, although he probably meant these words innocently enough.

  "Tell me. Why exactly have you wandered into this part of the world?" he asked, turning to me again. "Not just the bit about backpacking across Cornwall and wanting a job, or whatever."

  "I'm looking for the key to my dreams." The champagne must be kicking in now, because I sounded way too cavalier for this subject. My toes kicked at the sand, sending a little shower of it airborne. Answering with the truth, at least about Alistair Davies' letter, might seem crazy or stupid when spoken aloud, especially to an almost stranger.

  "Funny place to look, most anyone would say," he replied.

  "I don't know," I mused. "For a moment, I thought I found it here. Found something I never imagined, anyway. Maybe it's the beauty of the port, or the romance of this place ... it defies words, which is something I never thought I would say."

  I realized — because I was feeling funny now — that speech might have been about th
e day he rescued me. I was glad it was dark and my blushes couldn't be seen.

  "It's a feeling of adventure," I said, trying to better explain, so it would be obvious what I was talking about. "But of ... finding my place, at the same time. Me, Marjorie Kinnan, kind of the awkward foster child in a new family. Clueless but curious." I rested my chin on my fist as I stared into the darkness. "Does that make any sense? It doesn't to me. The exhilaration of my first day here was totally unexpected."

  "It felt like a place where beginnings are born," he said.

  I lifted my head. "I like that," I said. "Yes. That's what I wanted to say, only the prose ... got lost somewhere in my brain."

  I felt a little fuzzy, which was making it easier for my thoughts to wander idly back to the Little Mermaid illustration in my memory. By firelight, there was a certain rugged aspect to Sidney ... a look of strength, a bright spark of life in his eyes that could send a shiver through you with only a little openness to the fact.

  What was I thinking?

  I groaned, and pressed my hand over my eyes. "I'm not sure my beginning was meant to be here," I said. "Beautiful as this place may be. I should have joined a writer's forum, like Mr. Scott suggested."

  "Who's this Mr. Scott, who tells you so blithely what to do?"

  "Nobody you would know," I said. "Forget him ... tell me why you said those words about this place." I wrapped my arms around my knees as I drew my feet up to perch onto a cleft in the rock. "What does it mean to you?"

  Sidney stretched out on his rock. "That's how I felt about it when I came to Port Hewer years ago," he said. "I rolled into town with no particular destination in my sights, just a need to escape into the world." He folded his hands behind his head, eyes fixed above on the night sky. "Things happened ... and I decided to stay." He shrugged his shoulders.

  "Where did you come from?"

  "Here and there. Anywhere and everywhere." A roguish smile. "I've drifted about a good deal in search of freedom. But I've stayed here longer than anywhere else I've wandered. That says something decent about this place, I think."