Amazing Gracie

Three stories tall, with a widow’s walk on the top, it was like something out of a book, albeit a Gothic horror novel at the moment. It was the kind of place kids would assume was haunted.

But despite its state of disrepair, Gracie could envision it all primped up with fresh paint and shining windows. In her mind’s eye, pots filled with bright flowers decorated the front porch and the lawn was tended, the hedge neatly trimmed. She could also imagine a simple, discreet sign hanging by the gate, declaring it a bed-and-breakfast.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered the minute the idea struck. She hurried her step as if to escape her own thoughts. Though the house was clearly unoccupied and ignored, there was no For Sale sign out front. Even if there had been, she wasn’t interested in staying in Seagull Point for more than a few months.

Was she?

Of course not, she insisted, again picking up speed after a last backward glance over her shoulder. Coming here in the first place had been impulsive. Staying would be, what? Lunacy? Jessie had pegged it. She was a big-city girl. The more exotic the city, the better. Seagull Point was a far cry from Cannes, France.

Still, she found herself strolling past the house again that afternoon and pausing in front of it on her way to breakfast the following morning to study it with a critical, experienced eye.

“It wouldn’t take much,” she murmured, ignoring the little voice inside that suggested boredom, not good sense, was behind the notion of buying the place. Once again, she dismissed the idea.

Unfortunately, it kept coming back. When she stopped at the hardware store to pick up a new broom and some nails to fix a loose board on the porch of the rental, she couldn’t help looking at the paint chips. Before she knew it, she had a whole handful.

“Johnny hasn’t talked you into painting the Taylor place while you’re here, has he?” the man behind the counter asked when he saw the collection of paint chips.

Gracie grinned. “No way. I have another project I’ve been thinking about, that’s all. It probably won’t come to anything. Is it okay if I take all these samples?”

“That’s what they’re there for. Let us know if there’s anything you need. I’ve got a fellow working for me who takes on odd jobs painting. Needs the extra money. He does good work, too, as long as you don’t mind him doing it evenings and on his days off from here.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

On her way home, she stopped in front of the old Victorian once again. This time, though, she opened the rusty gate and stepped through. The grounds were far more expansive than she’d envisioned from the street, though at the moment they were a tangle of weeds. There was room enough for a badminton net and a croquet course in the back, plus an area with a brick fireplace that would be perfect for family-style barbeques for guests. The concept had an old-fashioned charm to it that appealed to her. Surely there were still people in the world who longed for the days when video games weren’t the entertainment of choice. Surely there were families that sought out low-key vacations far from the crowds at Disney World.

She tested the steps and found them solid enough, but to her regret the windows were too filthy to permit a halfway decent view of the interior.

“It doesn’t matter,” she told herself sternly. It was only a pipedream, after all. It wasn’t as if she were going to buy the place and settle down here to run it. She had a job waiting for her in France…if she wanted to go back. She could land another position with another hotel chain at the drop of a hat…if she chose. The sleepy town of Seagull Point, Virginia, was not what she needed, not in the long run. It was a temporary balm for her soul, no more.

Even so, she found herself spreading the paint chips out on the kitchen table when she got home, playing with combinations of color until she had two that she liked, a third that was a possibility. When the phone rang, she guiltily shoved them all back into a pile as she answered it.

“Hello, Max,” she said, anticipating who would be on the other end of the line. Max was the only person she’d told where she was going. Even though she’d given him the entire state to choose from, Max was apparently every bit as good at narrowing down possibilities as he was at spotting a discrepancy of a few francs in the Worldwide books. It had taken him less than a week to find her.

“Bored yet?” he inquired.

“Of course not.”

“What are you doing with yourself?”

“Nothing, Max. That’s the whole point of a vacation.”

“A vacation?” His voice brightened perceptibly. “Then that is all that this is? You will be back?”

“No, Max. I will not be back.”

“The staff misses you,” he said, trying a different tack.

“I miss them,” she said. She had felt vaguely guilty about abandoning them to Max’s puritanical fiscal whims. André in particular would not fare so well without her as a buffer between him and Max.

“Guests have asked about you.”

She did brighten at that. “Really?” She’d hoped that the regulars would notice her absence, but hadn’t really expected Max to tell her.

“Actually, they have mentioned missing the floral arrangements you put in the lobby.”

A twinge of panic fluttered in her stomach. “Where are the flowers, Max?”

“The florist and I had a slight disagreement,” he admitted. “He prefers dealing only with you.”

Gracie laughed as she thought of gentle Paul Chevalier standing up to Max and refusing to deliver flowers to the hotel. He must have been incredibly insulted to have taken such a stance.

“Would you like me to call him?” she offered. “I can smooth things over.”

“Would you?” he asked, sounding relieved, perhaps a bit too smug.

“Of course. But Max, you’re going to have to start dealing with these little crises yourself or else bring in a new manager.”

“I can’t do that, not when I’m holding the job for you. In the meantime, the rest of us will do the best we can. The hotel will not fall apart overnight.”

“Overnight? Max, I’ve told you not to hold the job.”

“Allow me my fantasies, ma chérie.”

“Max!”

“Au revoir.”

Gracie sighed as she hung up. A moment later she placed the international call to the florist. Even though it would be evening in France, she knew she would find Paul Chevalier in his shop, tidying up after a hectic day, checking his orders, planning his trip to the flower market at the crack of dawn. Sure enough, he answered on the first ring, sounding distracted and rushed as he always did.

“Bonsoir, Paul.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, bonsoir,” he said, his voice brightening. “Comment allez-vous?”

“Très bien. And you, Paul? How are you? I understand Monsieur Devereaux has upset you.”

“The man is an imbecile,” he declared.

“What has he done?”

“He has asked me to pluck out only the dead flowers and replace them. He does not seem to understand that each arrangement is a piece of art, unique, magnificent in its own right.”

“Definitely an imbecile,” Gracie agreed. “But, Paul, think of the guests. They appreciate your arrangements. They have told Monsieur Devereaux that they miss them. S’il vous plait, Paul, for me. Will you try to work with him?”

“You are coming back soon?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“You have abandoned us, then, left us to this imbecile?”