A Little Hotel in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  "If I gave you the wrong idea, I apologize. The idea that I was interested in something more, that is. I honestly have no idea what I thought I was doing that night." I tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear — brushing against a daisy, which made things worse for me. I swallowed hard. "I didn't come to Cornwall to fall in love, and I'm not looking for romance in Port Hewer. So ... it's friends or nothing. And by 'friends' I mean ordinary, polite, acquaintance sort of friends, not ones with ... benefits."

  As I rambled, Sidney continued leaning in the cottage's doorway, listening. He didn't look amused, really, which I had been afraid of, but he didn't look as serious as I hoped. If he was laughing on the inside, I was going to be seriously annoyed.

  "All right," he said.

  That was simple. So simple that I couldn't help saying, "Really?"

  "That's what you want," he said. "Friends it is. The acquaintance-y sort who have a coffee now and then...but not too often. Good?"

  "Good." I took a deep breath. "Yes. Thanks for talking to me."

  "Any time."

  "Then I guess I'll be off and let you go back to your friend." I almost stepped on the tail of the big shaggy dog with this statement, who was lying directly behind me.

  "Wait a moment." Sidney opened the door and stepped inside the cottage, returning a second later with a badly-wrapped package tied with twine.

  "I made this for you. Just a little welcome gift," he said, handing it to me.

  "You shouldn't have," I said. It made me feel guilty to know that I had come here to take the firm 'friends or nothing' stand when he had taken the effort to make me a present. Had that almost kiss meant something more to him than I had imagined?

  I tore off the paper, curious what a man who wasn't clever at working with his hands had made. I found a tin biscuit box painted blue with funny squares and a badly painted 'police box' sign: a TARDIS with crooked lines and a tiny rust spot on its door.

  My smile was crooked. "Wow. I — don't know what to say," I said.

  "Told you I wasn't very handy," he said, as if he'd been reading my mind once again. "You can keep your treasures in it, maybe. Souvenirs from your grand adventures."

  "It's stuck." I couldn't get the tin's lid pried free. "It's rusted or painted on, I guess."

  "It has an air-tight seal for protection," he corrected. "It was the very best tin I could find ... among the old ones in my shed, that is. I'll have you know I spent twenty minutes painting it."

  "And, yet, I'll only feel flattered for half that time," I said. Teasingly, as if it was infectious, this 'not quite serious on the outside' attitude of his. "I like it. But pardon me if I'm wrong, but wasn't it Amy who carried a tin TARDIS around?"

  "Who would she have wanted to have it next, I ask you?" he answered.

  He had even glued a little bit of wood for the door's latch. I could feel the blobby bits of dried adhesive, now covered with a daub of metallic paint.

  "Sorry it couldn't be anything more," I said, softly. I didn't think I had to tell him these words weren't about the cheapness of the tin he had given me.

  "I'm sorry, too," he said. His voice and expression softened. He gave me a smile that couldn't entirely hide its disappointment, try as it might. I looked into his eyes, and a strange feeling of regret wrapped itself around my heart, if only for a moment. It ended as he retreated inside the cottage and closed its door again.

  I examined the tin box in my hands, the one with the tightly-stuck lid. A cheesy gift made from a cast-off object, but it was still kind of cute. Surely he had spent longer than twenty minutes painting it.

  I put it on the bureau in my room. It was the only ornament to commemorate my experience thus far, I realized. I didn't have even a postcard of the hotel from the little rack on the desk downstairs. My memories were my only souvenirs.

  In the dining room the next morning, I stacked breakfast plates into my plastic tub, and wiped away crumbs of fried bread and egg from the cloths before I pulled them off the tables. The last diner was finally folding his newspaper and making his way to the main lobby, leaving the remains of his fry up to be cleared away.

  "I think that gentleman's looking for you," said Molly, who was cleaning the table across from me.

  "Who?" I glanced around at the empty room.

  "In the lobby," she said. "It's the young bloke I've seen you talking with before."

  For a moment, I actually thought of Sidney before Molly added, "He's one of the guests, isn't he? The one with all the books on birds?"

  I turned to gaze in the direction Molly was looking, and saw Ronald hovering awkwardly a few feet from the hotel's desk, gazing hopefully in my direction. I hastily tucked my tablecloth into the rolling linen hamper.

  "Who is he?" Molly asked, sounding curious.

  "He's a really friendly birdwatcher from the States," I said. "Just another hotel guest."

  "Maybe I'm a bit crazy, but I think he fancies you," said Molly. "Are you and he —?"

  "No," I said, quickly. "No, no. I'll just go see what he wants." I suppose anyone would suspect I had flirted with Ronnie, a rich young tourist who was handsome in a weak-chinned sort of way. But I didn't want anyone knowing he was my ex-boyfriend, for the sake of avoiding any inquiries about my real life.

  His bags were by the desk, too, I discovered, along with his binocular case. I sneaked a glance towards the desk, discovering Brigette must be in the office. "Are you leaving?" I asked him.

  "Yeah. I think I've seen all of the Cornish bird species that I want, for now," he said. "Plus, I only have a few days of vacation left ... Dad's been leaning on me pretty heavily to go back to the main office ..."

  "This is goodbye, I guess," I said. I held out my hand. "Look after yourself, Ronnie."

  "You too, Maisie," he said. "I wish things had turned out better. That is — I wish you had really achieved your dream. Not just because of my father, but for you." Here, Ronnie studied the floor, trying to hide his embarrassment.

  "Maybe next time," I said, smiling in an attempt to cheer him up. "I still have a chance, I hope."

  "You know ... I wish some other things had ended differently, too," Ronnie mumbled. He only met my eye for a second, and I knew he was talking about the past.

  My lips parted. "Ronnie," I began. There were a thousand reasons why he and I would have never ended up together, and not all of them were rooted in his weakness or his family, no matter what he thought. I didn't want him feeling guilty, or wishing for something that would never have happened anyway.

  "No, listen to me, Maisie," he said, stopping me. "I'm not trying to get back together with you. I'm saying that I realize that you need a different life from mine ... not in a bad way, but just a different way. That is — I think you were right to throw caution to the wind and follow your dream."

  "You do?" I said. I was as amazed as if Ronnie had said he loved my old waitress's uniform.

  "Yeah. You're following your dream. That's who you are, and what you're meant to do. I never appreciated it before, because I don't understand it. I guess I don't have the artist's soul or whatever it takes." He admitted this with a wry smile. "But I hope you don't give up, Maisie. Honestly."

  "Thanks," I answered.

  "I hope you can forgive me," he said. "For not defending you to my father. I really wanted to, Maisie. I just have a hard time doing it." He looked ashamed again, and my heart softened.

  "I will," I said. I smiled at him.

  He held out his hand to me once more. "Friends?" he asked.

  "Friends." I clasped his hand. No tingle, no thrill of electricity followed, because it was just two friends saying goodbye. He released my fingers before Brigette returned or the porter arrived to collect his bags.

  "Here's hoping you find your mentor," Ronnie said, as he lifted his binocular case. Gomez gathered the rest of Ronnie's bags and they exited the hotel's front door.

  "What did he mean by that?" Brigette sounded confused.

  "Oh, nothing," I said. "H
e was just being nice."

  "Must be an American thing," she said. "It doesn't make a bit of sense." She turned the page in the register to a fresh one and smoothed it neatly for the next guest's signature.

  I thought of Ronnie's words as I spread fresh cloths over all the dining room's tables. Find your mentor, chase your dream. I had come here to do that, in a roundabout way, by asking Alistair Davies for his help. But when my chance turned to failure, what had I done? Nothing. No plans to follow up as I'd promised by finding another writer who could mentor me.

  I had let myself fall into this role as Marjorie Kinnan, indulging in an 'oh well' sigh for my fate as a maid in Paradise. But had it really been resignation, or did I want to stay? Was I letting Alistair Davies' recent exit be an excuse to hang around here, even though I had no right to stay?

  I sighed. Ronnie was so right. I was supposed to be chasing my dream and seizing chances. I should have been on the next train to London in search of a new adventure, a new mentor, not letting my first big adventure seduce me into staying. I had the card upstairs on my bureau from the professor at the ball, the one who offered to put me in touch with a published author.

  The part of me that had seized the moment after Scott's advice was trying to rally itself for a second time. So what if Alistair Davies remained an elusive figure? I needn't wait for his inevitable rejection — I needn't waste my time on writer's fantasies when I could be churning out chapters for any author to critique, just to get back on track with my original goal.

  My heart felt heavy with this idea, but I knew it was the right thing, really. I didn't want to waste my savings or my chances.

  My two weeks as Marjorie Kinnan were almost up, and no one had said anything about my staying on after the trial was over. Mr. Trelawney was supposed to make the decision — or maybe it was the business mogul Ms. Claypool — but either way, nobody had called me into the manager's office to discuss my performance.

  "Marjorie — I mean, Maisie," said Brigette. I was sweeping up some sand on the stairs. "Mr. Trelawney had a word with me about you."

  "Did he?" I stopped sweeping, replying eagerly to these words.

  "He wanted me to remind you that you still haven't turned over any official documents. Without them, we can't pay you for the past two weeks' work, you know."

  That made perfect sense. I felt disappointed that this was all Mr. Trelawney had said on the subject — and relieved, too, given all he might want to say to me after my mistakes. "My papers. Of course. I'll take care of it soon."

  I wasn't going to collect my pay. I had free room and board for this part of my adventure, and that was all I really needed. I would simply take the possessions in my bureau drawers, which were all I needed to take to London anyway, and begin a different adventure to save my novel's future.

  The cove that Sidney had told me about was a perfect little beach a mile or so from the hotel, which glowed in the pink and tangerine light of sunset. No one was here besides me as I waded past the rocks and into the water, splashing around in the waves as I soaked in the light of day sinking low on the horizon.

  I heard a sharp bark — a small creature resembling a drowned rat paddled by, turning in a wide lap around me. Kip tried to lick my face eagerly, bobbing up against the waves.

  "What are you doing here?" I turned towards shore, and saw a figure sitting on the rocks. I knew it must be Sidney sitting there, watching us. For a moment, I thought maybe he had looked for me here before remembering it was technically his favorite spot after all.

  I tried not to remember how excited I had been for a split second today, when I thought he had come to find me at the Penmarrow.

  When I swam ashore, he was still sitting on the rock, wearing dark blue swimming trunks that clung to his skin, and an open, faded shirt over his torso, the effect one that I knew I would be better off striving not to notice. The wind was tousling his hair, and his usual friendly smile was in place.

  "Is the water warm enough for you?" he asked.

  "It's not Malibu, if that's what you mean?" I said, shivering despite the warm breeze as I wrapped my beach towel around me. "But you didn't see me running from the sea as fast as I could, either."

  "I thought about joining you. But then I thought, after yesterday, you might not care for it," he said. Kip shook himself hard, then emitted several small yips as he put his front paws on the rock where Sidney was perched.

  "Why not? It's a free beach, plenty of room to share." I hugged myself. "You didn't have to stick to the shore just because ... because of what we said before." Suddenly, this topic of conversation was a very uncomfortable one, and I found myself more interested in the grains of sand stuck to my toes than in saying anything more.

  Sidney gazed at the ocean. "It wasn't a summer fling," he said. "I never thought of you as simply a brief means to an end."

  That same burning wave from before swept through me. I didn't have anything to say in reply.

  "I did think of wanting to know what it is about you that made me feel as if I knew you already. You can laugh at that if you want — or disbelieve it, if you prefer," he added, a touch more seriously than usual.

  Since I had felt the same way, it would be hard to do either one. "I'm just a stranger, though," I said. I perched on the opposite end of the rock, so looking each other in the eyes would be harder.

  "I was, too," said Sidney. "Once upon a time, anyway."

  "But I'm going to remain a stranger," I said. "Your home is here for now ... at least, until your next restless urge moves you on, I suppose."

  "That urge isn't quite the same as in the beginning," he answered, with an odd smile — one for himself, not for me. For a moment, I saw a touch of the wryness or chagrin I had seen once before in Sidney's eyes ... belonging to something deeper than his carefree smile, maybe.

  "Why," he began, "do you think we couldn't get to know each other? That's what friends do — at least, the friends I've had. Even if that's all we are, we might at least make the most of it. I'm really not so bad. A bit rough around the edges, a bit moody at times." A grin of admission for this. "But none of my friends ever wished me stranded on a desert island so they could avoid me. That I know of, at least."

  In any form, his smile was perfect, and perfectly wonderful. At times, gentle, then more a grin of good humor with a modicum of restraint. That steady gaze had secrets beneath it that begged to be discovered — it made me want to know Sidney, to talk to him, to know whatever story belonged to his life. I had twisted around to look at him, and this was my reward; and it was making it harder for me to answer him the way I had to do.

  It was a good thing Ronald hadn't possessed anything like these when I saw him on the train platform years ago, or I would probably be hopelessly in love with him still, camped outside his Manhattan penthouse forevermore.

  "I'm leaving tomorrow," I said. I looked away again, gazing at the sea after I made my confession. "I think it's time for me to go."

  "Where?" His voice was quieter, mildly disappointed but not crushed, I imagined. That was good. I didn't want him to be hurt, since there was no point in it. We both surely knew that fleeting attraction was all most people ever experienced from a chance encounter in a foreign place — not, let's say, a true, deep, romantic love.

  "London," I said. "I thought I would see if my future is there instead."

  "It's a big place," he said. "There are all sorts of things waiting there, so I suppose someone's future might be." He was quiet for a moment. "I wish you joy, Maisie. I hope you find what you need."

  Neither of us said anything for a few moments afterwards. "Would you give me a ride to the station?" I asked. "Norm still hasn't put the tire on the hotel's car."

  "I will," he answered.

  We watched the water in silence now. I couldn't think of anything to say to him, and I didn't think he could think of anything to say, either. We weren't going to be anything now, not even friends. Just separate memories about a summer on a Cornish beach.r />
  ***

  An email was waiting for me when I checked my computer in the morning, one from Wallace Scott. Any luck finding a mentor? If not, and you are interested, there's a new workshop beginning in two weeks for advanced writers. The entry fee is on the website — think about it, since it's an opportunity to improve your skills, and maybe attract someone from the mentorship program's eye in the future. Best of luck.

  The hotel's car still only had three wheels, so I was glad Sidney had agreed to drive me. When I brought my suitcase down, I could see Brigette hoovering the big Persian rug in the sitting area, humming cheerfully to herself. No one else was around, so I slipped towards the front door unseen. At least it didn't matter that I had no official documents.

  "Where are you going?" Molly's voice startled me, so I nearly dropped my suitcase. I whirled around to find the hotel maid watering the big ferns in the main hall.

  "Are you leaving?" she asked, sounding shocked.

  "I am — listen, it's for the best," I said. "I don't belong here. I shouldn't have stayed as long as I did — I wasn't exactly the model employee I intended to be for those two weeks, either." I felt a little ashamed as I admitted this.

  "But why don't you belong?" Molly looked confused. "I don't understand at all. I thought you liked it here. I saw you on the beach the first morning and you looked happy as a lark."

  I sighed. "I was," I answered. "It's just ... very complicated, Molly. I'm sorry. I really am." I gripped my suitcase more firmly. "I really liked it here. I liked all of you. I just — have to go." My smile wasn't a very convincing one, probably.

  "But what about Brigette? And Mrs. Charles? What do I tell them?" said Molly. "What about Mr. Trelawney?" She added his name in more hushed tones, after a slight hesitation.

  "You don't have to tell them anything," I answered. "I don't think anyone's really going to ask where I've gone." After my collection of little mistakes, I knew they wouldn't regret my disappearance, since it would save them the trouble of dismissing me outright. "Goodbye, Molly." I opened the front door and stepped out into the morning sunshine, leaving behind that hotel's foyer for the last time.