#2 The Guest - An Aoi

"Once you're done here will you lock up?" Grace asked as she suddenly appeared at my side placing her hand lightly on my shoulder. She had a way of doing that - appearing almost out of nowhere- it was as if she floated rather than walked. Or maybe I was simply too wrapped up in my own thoughts to register the taps of her favorite strappy sandals.

I looked up from the dishwater that was starting to run cold and nodded. We exchanged a content yet exhausted smile - or exhausted on my part at least- I'd never seen Grace tired.

"The last guest just checked in for the night! Can you believe it? We only have two rooms open for the rest of the week!" She went on, her voice and mood taking an immediate positive effect on my own as I watched her do a small dance around me. "That website is starting to pay off, didn't I tell you?" She gushed striking a dramatic pose as if she were Wonder Woman

"You sure did." I smiled. It was - as I had found - impossible not to smile around Grace. This stone cold scientific fact is why I believe Grace was born to run the White Pine Bed and Breakfast. She was a natural hostess, and just couldn't turn off her charm or enthusiasm.

"You're on for breakfast tomorrow! Don't forget!" She reminded as she walked backwards toward the side door of the kitchen while shooting finger guns in my direction.

"I'm making pancakes." I wriggled my shoulders awkwardly, trying to play off her exuberant energy.

"May Ellis, you make pancakes every morning. When are you going to branch out a little bit with your breakfast food repertoire?" She playfully scolded placing her hands on her hips.

"Everybody likes pancakes." I shrugged.

"Good lord." Grace muttered in good humor as she turned her back to me and exited the main building for the night.

"Night." I called after her, careful not wake the guests on the main level.

As I watched her walk to her cabin from the window above the sink it began to drizzle causing her to lift her hands up in a small rain dance welcoming the change in weather. My own hand found its way subconsciously to the locket around my neck and I stood in silence for a few moments.

After the reopening of the White Pine Bed and Breakfast a little less than three years ago, we were now in full swing - with more than enough to keep us busy. As Grace had promised she hired two part time workers to help with the cleaning and customer service for our eight rooms. Although business was steady Grace had taken it upon herself to "launch us into the technological age". Her epiphany, although it came after a few glasses of wine, was to create a website for the B&B. Our customers of the past were all referred to by word of mouth or the towns travel agency. Our customers of the future could simply Google, as Grace put it "best friggin' B&B in Maine" and we would pop up.

To create the webpage Grace was adamant that we hire a professional photographer to showcase the B&B. She wanted only the best for 'her baby' as she had come to call the Tudor style home. I didn't argue with her, and when the website was finished a month later I was the first person Grace showed.

My heart jumped when I saw the landing page. There sitting under the elegant white script of White Pine Bed & Breakfast was a photograph of the lobby. However, most of the lobby had been cropped out, instead the composition was centered around the back wall. You could almost make out the hand written title on the paintings frame. It was my mother's work, Mo Soileireacht, one of three that I'd loaned to White Pine and the only one that had not since been replaced.

I stared at the photo not knowing what to say. Grace waited anxiously beside me, I could almost feel her electric energy vibrating next to me. Because I never told Grace about my mother she still believed that I had painted Mo Soileireacht. I could tell that she felt this was a gift to me, to feature my work so prominently combined with her dream.

But I couldn't speak. It wasn't that I had forgotten Mo Soileireacht hung in the main foyer. It was the shock of seeing it through a different medium, as if I was seeing it with fresh eyes. The thick bright strokes of acrylic paint captured my attention just as they had when I first cam across it in Unit #16. Having Mo Soileireacht in the B&B created this fixed sense. Her painting was now a fixture in a home, not living breathing paintings as I always pictured them.

That was why, after telling Grace that I loved the website, I took my mother's work back to Unit #16. The painting had become a part of the off white wall, so well blended that forgot. I recalled the articles of clothing I took from the Unit when I was younger. Each year the feeling of my mother faded from them and I would trade the over worn cloth in for another jacket or shirt. But I didn't have an unlimited supply – what if the paintings too began to fade?

I shuddered.

Her belongings – especially her paintings – were like conductors. Feeding energy from my mother to me, but like any link they could be burnt out. Leaving Mo Soileireacht out was like leaving the light on. Eventually the bulb would go out.

Riding the train to Unit #16 that evening with the frame tucked into my chest I reasoned this was the best option. If I saw them only a few times a year they would be exciting, just as they had on my first visits and never fray from their connection to my mother.

The kitchen was perfectly quiet, save for the patter of raindrops that grew increasingly louder since Grace's exit. I placed the last brightly colored dish in the cupboard and dried my hands before glancing at the analog clock on the stove.

I sighed, almost 10:30. I'd been up for nearly 18 hours - not an unusual day at White Pine.

My sleepy legs followed the smooth wooden floors out of the kitchen and into the foyer, my favorite room. The foyer was the center of the home and since my first arrival it had come a long way in terms of decoration. The room generated a kind of warmth, one that emulated nostalgia and home. This fit nicely with Grace's pitch that every experience at White Pine was with the purpose of making the guest feel as if they were coming home. We even took to calling White Pine 'the home' or 'the house' among ourselves.

It was for that same reason that Grace choose the foyer to be the first thing prospective customers saw when they visited our website. It simulated the same experience of opening the door, aside from the smell of fresh baked cookies - or pancakes in my case.

I looked up to the ceiling and smiled. Within the first week of preparing the B&B Grace set out the ambitious task of hanging an antique light fixture from the vaulted ceiling. When she first told me that this was something we could "do our self" I laughed in her face. Nevertheless two ladders, some strategic balancing and an hour later we had done it though not without falling on our asses a fair amount.

Now I marveled as the bulbs encased in sculpted bronze illuminated the entirety of the ceilings intricate woodwork. The Tudor home was beautiful with thousands of unique details that were easy to miss if one didn't take the time to look for them.

I took a seat on the stool behind the 'L' shaped mahogany counter. My time was typically divided between breakfast in the kitchen, constant cleaning and outdoor maintenance. Rarely did I have the luxury of sitting and usually I waited until I got to my cabin to take a break. Today however I allowed myself a moment to reflect. I scooted the stool back so that I could lean against the thick wall that separated the kitchen from the foyer as I took in the grand room for the hundredth time.

I looked to my right momentarily caught in thought, I glanced up at rooms #6 & #7 that could be seen at the top of the staircase. My eyes slowly drifted down the muted white wall to where a simple frame hung. My mother's painting, Mo Soileireacht, had hung in the exact spot until a few months ago when I took it back to its simpler home in Unit #16. Hanging in its place was an architectural drawing of White Pine that Grace commissioned - pro bono of course - after the grand re-opening.

I frowned, it was crooked - again. I made a mental note to re-hang the hook the next morning as I left my seat to face the precise drawing. After straightening it I stood back admiring my work when the front door directly behind me suddenly slammed shut causing the frame to go crooked again as the noise vibrated through the house.

"Fuck." I mumbled to myself. Fixing the hinges on the solid oak door was one problem Grace and I hadn't gotten around to, and until then it had the nasty habit of slamming against the frame in spite of the weak hinges.

I silently prayed the disturbance hadn't woken any of our visitors up. Turning around to greet whomever disturbed the perfectly quiet evening I mustered as much of a smile as my exhausted attitude could handle.

The woman had her back to me and was attempting to delicately make peace with the door, obviously aware of the racket she'd made. A dull green backpack slung over one shoulder of her black windbreaker covered in water droplets that slid to the floor with every movement.

"Can I help you?" I asked subconsciously placing my hands on my hips. I'd gotten rather good at faces and names in my time working at the B&B, but I didn't recognize the young woman as she turned toward my voice.

She was around my age, but something about her posture made her seem older. Not that she stood hunched, it was quite the opposite. Her shoulders were squared perfectly. She stood confidently in the foyer, her dark hair clinging to her face with moisture. She pushed it back hastily before adjusting her backpack and answering in and even tone.

"Room for one." She moved forward to stand on the opposite end of the oriental carpet that laid between us.

"Reservation?" I asked almost rhetorically. I already knew the answer as I made my way to sit behind counter and flip open the laptop. She followed me to the desk, standing slightly to the side of me across the 'L's corner.

"No." She confirmed my thoughts, and I nodded politely.

Our target audiences were families and couples, single folks typically opted for the cheaper motel in town. As I pulled up the reservation program online I held my tongue, preventing myself from asking her why she hadn't followed the predictable path. We weren't exactly an 'on the way' sort of stop, which made unplanned check ins all the more irregular. Could it be the website directing new traffic? The booking program came up and I did my best to ignore my now buzzing mind.

"How long will you be staying?" I asked without looking up.

"Few days." She seemed confident in her noncommittal answer.

"Mmm, we've got a one bed open for three nights. Will that be enough time?" I swiveled to her after inspecting our logs.

Our eyes met as I caught her squinting over my shoulder at the computer screen. Beads of water had collected at her chin and jawline leaving droplet sized streaks across her face.

"Yea, that'll be fine." She nodded, drawing back a bit realizing her leaning over the deep red wood of the counter was responsible for the small pools of water.

"Alright, it's six hundred for the three nights. We serve breakfast in the kitchen every morning seven to nine am," I pointed to my right at the archway leading to the kitchen. "Any activities will be posted on the corkboard, also in the kitchen. You can find some travel brochures and a map in there as well." I finished, attempting to make my typical speech less robotic.

She followed my arm and nodded, pulling out her wallet from her right blazer pocket. I diverted my attention from her for a moment as I reached under the counter to grab the guest sign in book. I swiveled in my stool to face her and as I set the leather bound book down I nearly covered six one hundred dollar bills.

"That's a first." I mumbled under my breath before holding up the bills pretending to examine them in the light of the foyer. "I really should learn how to check these things." I mumbled to myself. I'd seen people check big bills for counterfeits a thousand times – well on t.v at least. But I was shaky on what exactly they were looking for. A water mark? The color? Should I be sniffing Ben Franklins printed head?

"It's the water mark." My new guest responded. In a smooth movement she leaned over the desk and tapped on the middle of the bill. Sure enough the chandelier illuminated around an outline of Franklins bust.

"Oh." I squinted at the bill a bit embarrassed. As I spoke I turned my head back to the girl only to find her a few inches from my face.

There was no emotion apparent on her features, but she didn't look angry. Her eyes were glued to the bill which I continued to hold up to the light. Wet hair tucked behind her ears I followed the droplets of water that ran down her cheek to fall from her straight jaw.

Mesmerized by the simple action of the water I sputtered back wards nearly falling from my stool when she shifted her gaze to lock onto me.

"Well," I managed an uncomfortable laugh trying to regain my composure. "How do I know that isn't the mark of a counterfeiter? You could just be scamming right now."

She grinned and shrugged. "You're right."

"Guess I have three days to figure it out then." I placed the bills in a locked money box at my feet.

"I pass?" She asked, leaning briefly over the counter to watch me stow the money.

"For now," I replied nonchalantly. "I'm still keeping my ears open for any bank robberies near by." I bobbed my head in thought weighing if the process was worth my trouble. I went to open the guest book to the correct day as she continued the conversation.

"That would be marked bills."

"Ah." I paused.

"And what if I did?"

"What robbed a bank?" I tucked a piece of loose hair behind my ear. "I'd have to tell you I mischarged you. The room is actually three hundred a night." I held a straight face for a few beats before cracking a smile and handing her a pen to sign the guest entry.

"Then I plead the fifth." She smiled, taking the pen from me.

I allowed myself a moment to study her as she wrote her name and home address. When I stood I noticed her to be only a fraction taller than me, although her posture made her seem miles above me. The backpack balanced on her side looked nearly empty and I couldn't help but wonder what was inside it.

I averted my eyes as she straightened up handing me the ball point pen.

"Thank you Lyle... no last name, or address." I remarked carefully reading what little information she'd relinquished as copied it down into the computer. Lyle seemed unphased, and shrugged it off when I paused waiting for her to answer.

"Well then Lyle No Last Name you're in room number two." I reached under the counter to hand her the key and then pointed behind her toward the hallway that was home to rooms one and two .

She twirled the key around her index finger as she glanced around the foyer.

"That painting is crooked." She pointed to the one I fixed prior to her loud arrival.

"I'll throw it in for another three hundred." I deadpanned resting my elbows where the guest list had been. The day was finally showing on me and I let out a yawn unable to catch myself.

"I'm in the market for something a bit different but I'll let you know," She answered giving a brief airy laugh she tapped the counter with her index finger before turning to leave for the room. "Good night."

-

And here we go !! What do you all think of Lyle ?

Comment and Vote if you like !!!