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Arlie Birch, Jane’s father-in-law, and master barista, ran a clean polishing cloth over the chrome of espresso machine. Through the window, he was keeping a watchful eye on a young man around ten years old. The boy was standing outside the café, off to the right of the red-painted wood and glass café door. The kid appeared to be counting his change. He must have been a walk-on on the ten-thirty ferry.
One side of Arlie’s mouth quirked up briefly. The kid’s build and hair colouring reminded him of his son Jack at that age. Although this boy's auburn hair was straight, and his eyes weren’t hazel. From this distance, possibly blue.
Then too, Jack had never been shy. He would have come in and bargained for whatever it was he wanted at that age if he were short of money. When his son was a boy and Ethel Crawley ran the café, she'd agreed Jack could shovel her walkway in exchange for some treat or a buck or two.
This had led to the chores list his late wife put on the refrigerator at home. One-dollar chores and five-dollar chores were written in two columns.
“That boy is always looking for money,” Sara had said matter-of-factly when she explained her plan to her husband. “We have lots of money, and Jack has lots of spare time.”
Arlie had grinned but shook his head. “The shed doesn’t need another coat of paint.”
“True, but the garage could use a tidying, lawn mowed, whatever needs doing.”
“That’s true. I have some vehicle maintenance coming up, he could help. Maybe it’s time to show him how to change the oil, basic car care, and how to change a tire.”
“Life skills are good to know.”
“Always.” He nodded in agreement. “That doesn’t mean Jack can’t learn household chores too.”
“Of course, he can.” Sara taught Jack how to make a meal plan, buy groceries, and stick to a budget.
Later, when Jack was older, he would clear the small café parking lot of snow too. By then, Sara had suggested their son move on to a cash transaction with Ethel. Advanced education didn’t pay for itself.
Arlie sighed. He missed Sara, but the hurt of being left behind after she passed away had dulled over the years. Something to be thankful for, he supposed. And he was thankful for Gladys Wyatt’s companionship.
Also, the job he had that gave him a reason to get up in the morning. It also warmed his heart to know Jane actually did truly need him at the café. She’d recognized his value and hired him long before she and Jack got together.
He made a sound halfway between a chuckle and a snort at the memory and moved on to wipe down the counter.
“What did you say?” Earl Moffatt asked glancing Arlie’s way. “Do you have an opinion on this latest political intrigue?”
“Nope. Not at all. I try to stay clear of politics.”
The three men sitting with Earl at his table stared at Arlie for a moment, and then all of them laughed.
Arlie had the grace to give them a head waggle nod. He actually did try to avoid politics, what with Jane’s sister currently the village mayor. Although he had to admit he wasn’t always successful.
The boy appeared to make a decision and slowly pulled open the door. The cool wet air rushed in behind him. He carefully closed the door and then ponderously walked up to the counter.
“What can I get for you, son?” Arlie crossed to the counter and raised his salt and pepper eyebrows at the boy. “The menu’s on the blackboard.” He jerked his thumb up and behind his head.
Arlie saw the kid had dark brown eyes, these he lifted to read the offerings on the board written in an array of coloured chalk.
“Tea with milk, please.” The kid’s voice was even, if low.
Arlie blinked. Not much surprised him lately but this order did. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”
“I don’t exactly want tea, but I got enough money for that.” The kids’ eyes slid sideways toward the tray of sandwiches in the display case.
Arlie noticed. “Mm.” Was the response he gave and pulled a red, one serving tea pot and matching mug off the shelf behind him. “What kind of tea would you like?”
The boy blinked. “Breakfast, please. It’s what my mum usually has.”
Arlie nodded and added a paper-wrapped tea bag to the tray he was putting together. “Hot water is in the far-left container on the table along the wall opposite us, along with milk and sugar. Two dollars, please.”
Money changed hands and Arlie slid the tray toward the boy. “If you’d like to do a couple of chores, I could see my way to giving you a sandwich to go with the tea.”
The boy’s eyes widened with surprise, but he nodded. “Yeah, sure, that’d be great.”
“Which one would you like?” Arlie stepped behind the display.
The boy pointed at the roast beef section. Arlie slid the refrigerated case open to grab a sandwich and put it on the tray.
“Thank you.” The kid made his way around Earl’s table and took a seat by the patio doors.
Arlie kept an eye on the kid as he went about other tasks.
The kid shed his coat and backpack on the opposite chair and then took the small teapot to the dispenser and carefully filled it with hot water. He took two milk and sugars with him back to his table.
While the tea steeped the boy wolfed down his lunch. With the tea, he took a bit more time, as it was hot. Still, it wasn’t ten minutes later when he came back to the counter with the tray of used dishes.
“What can I do to pay for the sandwich?”
“What’s your name?” Arlie took the tray and dealt with the contents.
“Miles. Miles Iverson.”
“Nice to meet you, Miles. I’m Arlie Birch.” The older man offered the boy his right hand. They shook awkwardly. It was probably the first time Miles had ever shaken hands with anyone let alone an adult. It was never too soon to learn proper manners in Arlie’s mind.
By this time the café was empty, save for Arlie and Miles. “Put your backpack and coat by the heater to dry. Then wash your hands. You can help me clear the tables and wipe them down.”
Fifteen minutes later, the task was done, and Miles looked around at his coat and bag, and then back at Arlie. “I’d sweep the floor for a muffin.”
“Deal,” Arlie said with a nod. “Broom is in that cupboard. Watch out for a small black cat with an orange ear.”
Miles walked over to the cupboard beside the office door. “Why, what would the cat do?”
Arlie merely chuckled. “You’ll see.” He took the grey bin of dishes into the kitchen. When he returned, the kid was attempting to sweep the floor while the cat chased the broom’s movement and randomly attacked it.
“Ruby.” Arlie shook his head, crossed the room, and scooped up the wriggly animal. He opened the patio door and put her down outside.
“You didn’t have to do that, she'll get wet. I could handle the cat.”
“I can’t handle the cat and she knows me.” Arlie watched the black feline run around the building out of sight.
“It’s nasty out there too.” Miles sounded concerned as he moved the broom over the floor sweeping the dried sand into a neat pile.
“She’ll just go home, not to worry.”
“Ruby doesn’t live here?”
“Not anymore. She follows us to work, but we live across the street.”
The boy nodded, as though in thought. He made short work of this next task and was rewarded with his chocolate chip muffin and a refilled pot of tea.
Arlie wiped down the coffee area and check the air-pots. He could feel Miles’ gaze on his back. As he tidied the sugars and stir sticks, he wondered if he should maybe get a bit more information out of the kid. Was he a runaway?
“Your last name is Birch, right?”
At these words Arlie turned around and looked at the boy. “It is.”
“Are you related to Jack Birch?”
“Jack is my son.”
Miles nodded. He took a breath and stood up from the table to clear up his mess. “I think Jack Birch might be my dad.”
Mrs. Roque was checking the library when she heard the car engines proceeding up the drive. The housekeeper glanced at her wristwatch.
Yes, the twelve-twenty ferry would have berthed a few minutes ago. She exited the spacious book-lined room and walked to the front of the house to look out the foyer window.
Aggie watched three vehicles proceed up the red-brick driveway one after the other with satisfaction. The guests were on time.
Each car was a modest mode of transport in price and style. The motorcade pulled into the Highmere House circular driveway. She was pleased to see the drivers followed the new signage for parking and found spots in the gravel lot, side by each.
It would be grand to have the house full again, but this small group was a far cry from the panache of the old days, when Aggie came to this house to work as a char girl in the kitchen.
Her mother had been known as Mrs. Roque, the housekeeper, back in those days. She had merely been, Aggie, who functioned as general dog’s body. From that lowly position she’d worked her way up. Earning every rung in the ladder. Her toughest critic had been her own mother, but so too, she’d been Agatha’s greatest supporter.
In time, Aggie had taken over her mother’s position running the household. It didn’t matter she’d never married. No young man had appealed to her enough to make her want to give up her work.
She’d also seen the worst of Olivia and Allister Highmere’s catastrophic union. Even though she’d been many years their junior, younger Aggie had resolved early on in life to never put herself under the power of anyone she could not easily walk away from.
Of course, the arrival of the children, James, Alicia, and Sylvia had ensured she stayed on with the Highmere family. Someone had to protect the wee ones from the worst of their father’s temper.
The whole estate had been hopping back then. Mrs. Olivia like to entertain. No doubt to keep people around and thus keep her husband under a modicum of control when he was in residence.
Aggie suspected Mr. Allister didn’t want any witnesses Olivia could call upon later to attest to his abuse.
When he was away in Vancouver, Mrs. Olivia kept busy. This meant dinners, house parties, and charity luncheons, with lots to keep the staff occupied as well. There had been so many more staff, lots of people to talk to and learn from.
Still, it was good to see the house being used again after all these years. That fact alone gave the housekeeper a sense of satisfaction.
Mrs. Roque stepped to the right of the front doors. Here, a dark oak wooden counter with a satin finish offered a leather-bound ledger and pen ready for guest sign-ins. She had pictured something subtle and understated and her vision had been realized. Mrs. Roque looked around the recessed alcove to ensure all was ready. Tiffany was straightening the brochures which gave the history of the house and listed the rooms the guests were allowed to use.
They exchanged a nod. Both women were excited but suppressed the emotion to keep up a professional demeanour.
Mr. Bryce had come over to supervise the refitting of what used to be the cloak room into the conference facilities check-in area some time ago. He brought a young man with him to do the technical installations and ensured the server equipment, phone lines, and WiFi were setup with the proper security.
Behind the counter sat a desk with the merchant terminal. It was configured for credit card verification. There was also a computer and printer to issue invoices.
Over a month ago Mr. Bryce made her a surprising offer. “Would you like to be trained on the accounting software, Mrs. Roque?” he’d asked her while they shared tea in the library to discuss the Highmere House Conference staffing needs.
“Heavens, no, I doubt I’d ever retain all the information in the time you are here. Could we look for someone who can work with me, and take on the accounting duties?”
Mr. Bryce had found Tiffany Zach. The girl had hotel certifications, who knew there was such training? Tiffany was a wonder on the technology and administration side of the business. It helped that the young woman had returned to Musgrave Landing from a few years working in Victoria. She’d said city life wasn’t for her and Mrs. Roque welcomed the girl who swiftly learned how to handle the bookkeeping and basics of keeping the technology running.
To the right of the desk was the remaining closet area. Mrs. Roque extracted her black raincoat. There was no sense in getting wet, but she felt she should make an effort to welcome the guests personally.
She’d had a devil of a time to convincing Alicia Highmere not to sell the main house and the estate. It took enlisting James and Sylvia, Alicia’s remaining immediate family, to convince their sister not to erase their family’s past. And while they made headway with their sister, those two could not close the deal.
In the end, it took Bryce Graham, Alicia’s husband, and one of the few people she listened to for advice. He chimed in and then finally the CEO of Highmere Holdings agreed to use Highmere House as a conference centre. No doubt with the carrot the HHCC would create local employment and increase the economic standing of the community.
How could it not? Mrs. Roque’s chin rose with pride as she thrust her arms into her coat sleeves.
Still, included in the agreement was the added stipulation Alicia would personally approve the parties who would use the facility. The housekeeper had no issues with this, it made sense, it was Mrs. Alicia’s house after all. She had inherited the estate from her mother, two years ago.
Aggie hoped after a time Mrs. Alicia would let that duty fall to the housekeeper as manager of the facility. She resolved to be patient.
Tiffany was good about demonstrating how the computer worked so the housekeeper was learning to manager more aspects of the HHCC too, although slowly.
A body had to stay busy. The family didn’t visit near as often as when their mother was alive.
The housekeeper buttoned her coat and then took a step forward and paused with one hand on the door pull, she turned to survey the foyer.
The front of the house was the centre piece and it showed. White marble floors gleamed and led to the ground floor rooms.
The oak wainscotting and wooden trim glowed with polish as did the huge oak staircase angled across the centre hall. A forest green runner unfolded up the steps and broke left to the east and right to the west. The matching green and cream wallpaper with flecks of gold was bright and vibrant. The cream plaster cornices, ceiling rose, and sweeping mouldings were all clean and dusted. Everything sparkled clean, including the glittering chandelier which hung from a long chain and lit the vast space of the centre foyer. Under the chandelier, rested a round cherry wood table. This held a beaten copper bowl instead of a vase of flowers.
Alicia Highmere was allergic to most flowers so Mrs. Roque ensured there would never be a vase of anything which would make her sneeze in the entrance of her home. She chose to use white silk roses in strategic locations, like the small table by the staircase.
Directly behind the table, mounted on the opposite wall, was ‘Mountain Forms’ by Lawren Harris, the founder of the group of seven. The Rocky Mountain subject matter on the canvas was composed of unique brush strokes of whites, greys, and contrasting green. The beautiful painting drew the eye and welcomed people to come forward and admire the work.
To the right, the most popular room, was the library. After that, a smaller drawing room. This room was locked while retreat guests were staying. The walnut floors within required maintenance.
On the left, the music room took up almost the same footprint as the library with it’s grand piano. This room’s door was currently standing open for the brief tour Mrs. Roque would conduct with the guests. Beyond that, there was what had in the past been Mrs. Olivia’s personal sitting room which overlooked the back gardens and the waters of the Samsum Narrows. The late Mrs. Frost-Highmere used the space as her office as well. These rooms would be closed off after the guest tour was completed.
The Dunn Wolf Publishing writers retreat only requested the use of the library for meetings. Which was fine with the housekeeper, it would cut down on the amount of cleaning and upkeep for her staff.
The estate grounds were open for walks and exploring if the guests so desired. The outside areas were Seymore Willard’s responsibility anyway.
Mrs. Roque smiled with satisfaction as she ran a critical eye over the entranceway. Everything was ready.
She opened one of the heavy double front doors. The wind tried its best to blast the housekeeper with rain but the sandstone porte-cochère helped prevent most of the precipitation from pelting down on her.
With a conservative blue scarf tied over her head to keep her curls in place, Mrs. Roque waded out into the weather to welcome Highmere House Conference Centre’s first guests.
The wind grabbed at the fabric of her scarf, trying to rip it from her head and the black raincoat off her body as she stood on the top step. This was as far as she was going to go to welcome the six guests.
Seymore was nowhere about, and this didn’t surprise her. The man was getting up there in age after all. The guests would have to handle their own luggage, but as Mr. Bryce had pointed out, it was what was expected in most hotels now a days anyway.
First to emerge from the dark green sedan driver’s side door was a tall thin man in jeans and a lilac pullover. He reached inside the car and pulled out a lime-green windbreaker. The coat’s fabric clashed with his strawberry-red hair and beard. He looked around him eagerly as he donned the coat against the inclement weather.
His passenger, a younger woman, got out. She wore black leggings with a colourful flowered top spilling out from under a melon-green heavy cable cardigan. She might have dark black hair under the green dye, but it was hard to tell from this distance. These Mrs. Roque knew were Max Lintlaw and Angela Oakla. She recognized the authors from their publisher’s website gallery photos. Ms. Oakla had won the Saskatchewan Writer’s Award for new indigenous writers, for her first book. She too, looked around her with curious dark eyes as she joined Lintlaw to remove luggage from the trunk.
Next, from the smaller metallic blue VW beetle, a woman of over six feet was disgorged from the passenger’s side. Her jet-black hair was threaded with premature-grey, and she wore the mass in a long, braided queue down her back. Her cream suit was the perfect foil for her olive complexion. The suit was offset by the mid-calf sky-blue raincoat she left open which displayed her generous curves.
Almost immediately, a man possibly no more than five feet, four inches tall followed from the driver’s side. His crisp charcoal-grey three-piece suit was topped with a black trench coat and black fedora.
Mrs. Roque raised her eyebrows at the head covering. It had been ages since she’d seen a man wearing such a hat. Still, the short male carried it off well, she’d give him that. The black and charcoal highlighted his blonde hair and fashionable chin stubble.
This pair had to be Kent Westham and Hazel Dell. Mrs. Roque had been curious to meet Ms. Dell. They had communicated several times over arrangements for the writer’s retreat. It was always interesting to see if voices matched faces. In this case, the husky tones seem to fit the voluptuous female.
Mr. Westham stood, fists on hips, looking up at the sandstone exterior of the house and seemed pleased if his flash of white teeth was anything to go by. He turned his head and raised heavy blond eyebrows at Hazel. They shared a few words.
Mrs. Roque caught snatches of the conversation. Something about Hazel almost making them late for the ferry and it was a good thing he knew how to navigate city traffic as well as he did. His words left a sour look on the tall woman’s face as he unlocked the rear of the car and extracted his bag.
He made no move to help his passenger remove her soft-sided suitcase. Which to Mrs. Roque said these two were barely friends. Any gentleman would help his lady with her bag. She felt vague disapproval for Mr. Westham from his lack of manners. Still, not her business.
“Ms. Dell?” Mrs. Roque walked down the steps and forward to greet the tall woman and introduce herself. “I am Mrs. Roque.”
The tall woman turned and walked across the gravel to meet the housekeeper halfway. “Lovely to meet you.” They shook hands.
“Please proceed into the house, no point in anyone getting any wetter.” Mrs. Roque waved a hand for Ms. Dell to precede her into the entrance.
As she crossed the gravel parking area, the housekeeper noted the last to clamber out of their vehicle was the driver from a late model navy station wagon. He was a large, red-faced man in brown and grey tweed. He hadn’t bother with an overcoat, but then his wool jacket and vest, buttoned over his protruding stomach, would no doubt afford him some protection from the wind and rain. So too, did his peaked cap, again in tweed. His bulbous nose was red and prominent. She saw no hint of hair protruding from under his matching peaked hat. From her investigation, the man looked to be Bertram Nutt.
Out of the passenger door emerged an equally round female. Her white-blonde hair fell to her shoulders in long waves. The woman wore a long flowing black dress with handkerchief hem and sleeves falling out of a fuchsia-pink raincoat which flapped around her knees. She had not fastened it against the rain mixed with snow either. Around her neck, she wore a long carrot-orange silk scarf which fell to her waist, matching her blocky heeled pumps. The colour combination was a touch jarring but fit the woman as she moved imperiously forward. In her right hand she carried either an over-sized black leather purse or briefcase.
The blonde removed dark glasses from her face to survey her surroundings. The wind chose that moment to blast them all with more wet. The woman’s long hair, combined with the scarf ends, flipped across her face. She was forced to use her bejewelled fingers to claw the obstructions away from her eyes. Once the hair and scarf were tamed, her annoyed expression was turned on her driver. She gestured to the rear of the car, no doubt ordering the bald man to get her luggage.
As the female guest turned back to the doorway, Mrs. Roque could see the woman was on the hard side of sixty. The housekeeper raised her eyebrows at the black nail polish and even blacker eye makeup. The look might have been appealing on her some twenty-five years ago. Today, the heavy makeup did nothing positive for the woman’s appearance. As she removed a lock of blonde hair from the corner of her mouth, she exposed her own identical bulbous nose, although it wasn’t red like her brother’s. This of course had to be Ziola Nutt.
Mrs. Roque allowed herself a small smile as a thought struck.
The Nutts had arrived.
