Christmas at the Hummingbird House (2 page)

TWO

Full House

A
t the Hummingbird House Bed And Breakfast the first flake of snow had yet to fall, the first carol had yet to be sung, but the merry chaos of the upcoming Christmas extravaganza was everywhere.  Paul Slater and Derrick Anderson, owners and proprietors of the Hummingbird House for almost six months now, had never done anything halfway in their lives, and their first Christmas in their new home was not to be the exception.

Their cozy office, designed to be a showcase for their collection of primitive antiques, was cluttered with boxes marked “fragile” and “perishable”; some going out, some coming in, some painstakingly transported from their storage unit just outside of DC where, upon selling both their in-town condo and their suburban Baltimore home, Paul and Derrick had consigned the boxes of Christmas ornaments they had collected over their thirty years together.  Packing confetti escaped some of these boxes and littered the floor, brightly colored glass ornaments spilled from others.

A massive partners desk dominated the room, and it was strewn with catalogues and design magazines, swatches of fabric and scraps of ribbon.  Derrick’s sketches for Christmas trees, holiday wreaths and seasonal mantel decor were scattered on both sides of the desk, along with design boards and sample books.  The Hummingbird House had seven guest rooms, each with its own fireplace and private exterior door.  Each room would have its own holiday theme, with a Christmas tree, mantel display, and two holiday wreaths—one for the door that opened onto the wraparound porch, and another for the door that opened into the hallway.  There would be a communal tree in the gathering parlor, and one for the reception desk, and another in the dining room.  The gardens would be decorated as well, so that guests could enjoy the twinkling lights from the glassed-in dining room—which, in the summer also served as a screened porch—or stroll the meandering paths at twilight with a glass of sherry or a cup of mulled wine.  All of this required planning, preparation and design.  They had been working on it since August.

It was now December tenth. Of course, all of the elaborate plans and decor would take some time to execute, and the first event of their holiday fantasy weekend—the wassail reception with costumed carolers— was scheduled to begin promptly at eight on December twenty-first.  Unfortunately, the shortness of the approaching deadline had not yet occurred to either of the proprietors.

“Safe journey, Mrs. Feringer.”  Derrick air kissed each of the plump woman’s powdered cheeks and beamed his good-bye as the last of their guests checked out that Monday morning.  “Come again soon.”

She sighed and gazed out the window where her husband waited in the Lexus, engine running, with the vista of neat winter lawn and big blue mountains in the background.  “I wish we didn’t have to leave.  It’s so peaceful here.  Everything has been just perfect.”

“Always a pleasure when the guests are as lovely as you,” he assured her, squeezing her gloved hands with genuine sincerity.  “What a shame you won’t be with us for Christmas!”

“Well, the season is fast upon us, isn’t it?” she agreed.  “I’m sure you have an absolute wonderland planned, but family, you know.  So many commitments.”

“Maybe next year,” Derrick suggested, and her eyes lit up with the possibility.

“Wouldn’t that be a treat?  I’ll talk to Charles, I really will.  Ta-ta, now!”  The middle-aged woman was smiling in anticipation as she turned up her fur collar and went out into the cold bright morning.

Derrick was a man who truly loved his job—most of the time, anyway—and the only thing that gave him more pleasure than greeting the guests was seeing that blissful look in their eyes after they had enjoyed the hospitality of the Hummingbird House. He had owned a successful art gallery in Washington, DC, before retiring to the country with his partner Paul, although neither of them had any intention at the time of opening a bed and breakfast. They had more or less stumbled upon the Hummingbird House, made an impulsive decision, and were learning the business of inn-keeping as they went along. There had been a few rough moments to start, but now everything seemed to be falling into place. And just in time for the holiday season.

Derrick was still smiling as he turned back to the reception desk, where he noticed their housekeeper Purline had left the morning’s mail.  He had asked her repeatedly to take the mail to the office, patiently explaining that leaving stacks of business mail out for guests to see completely destroyed the atmosphere of refined elegance they were trying to create, and for a while she had seemed to understand.  Now it appeared she was slipping back into old habits.  He sighed, picked up the stack, and started to call to her when the sound of the vacuum cleaner whined to life down the hall.  Check-out was at 11:00 a.m.  At precisely 11:05, Purline switched on the vacuum cleaner and kept it going without interruption for the next hour and a half.  It would be pointless to try to talk to her now.

He glanced through the envelopes on his way to the office, and stopped when the return address on one of them caught his eye.  “Oh my goodness,” he whispered.  “It’s here.”  He slit open the envelope with his thumbnail, which only illustrated his excitement since he had a perfectly good  ivory-handled letter opener with mother-of pearl inserts in his desk cubby, and he believed in doing things right. He pulled out the contents of the envelope, examined it with wondering, delighted eyes, and cried again, more loudly, “It’s here!”

“It’s here!” exclaimed Paul at the same time, coming around the corner with a large box in his arms.

And Harmony called from the office, “Gentlemen, it’s here!”  She came out of the office, beaming as she waved a sheet of paper fresh from the printer.  “Our final reservation!  We are officially booked for Christmas weekend!”

“The hummingbird ornaments from Hungary,” Paul said excitedly, juggling the box to tug one of the exquisite little cut-glass birds from its wrapping.  “They’re magnificent!”

Paul Slater, the former syndicated style columnist for the
Washington
Post
and best-selling author of several books on the same subject, was a tall, elegantly kept man in his sixties who managed to look flawlessly put together even in a rustic plaid shirt and deep green corduroy trousers.  While the two men shared most of the general duties of running the B &B equally—only occasionally deferring to the opinion of their self-appointed general manager, Harmony—when it came to matters of decorating and style, Paul almost always had the last word.  The handblown glass hummingbirds for the parlor Christmas tree were, according to Paul, an absolute must-have for their first Christmas at the Hummingbird House.

Derrick regarded them both with a triumphant, superior smile for a moment before declaring, “Our insurance check has arrived.”  And he brandished it in the air like a magician pulling a row of colorful scarves from his hat.

Paul’s eyes grew big and he quickly—although very carefully—set the box of glass ornaments on the turned-leg table outside the office door.  “Let me see that.  Is it real?”

“Every last hard-earned penny,” Derrick assured him.

Paul put on the glasses he wore on a chain around his neck, read the numbers and sank back against the wall in relief.  “It’s here,” he said. “Our insurance check is here.”

Before purchasing the Hummingbird House, Paul and Derrick had had a disastrous encounter with an unscrupulous contractor that resulted in their unfinished dream house falling into the unfinished pit of their dream swimming pool.  While there was nothing to do about the parcel of land for which they now had no use, or about the contractor who had taken advantage of them and fled the state, it turned out that their insurance policy actually covered their losses on the unfinished house. Nonetheless, because the entire experience had been such a nightmare, neither of them had dared to believe they might ever recover anything … until now.

Peering over Paul’s shoulder, Harmony smiled beneficently, looking far too pleased with herself.  “There now, didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say you would come into money before Christmas?  When will you ever stop doubting me?”

Harmony was a dramatic-looking woman somewhere beyond the point of middle-age, tall, broad shouldered and big busted, with goldilocks curls, coarse skin and a flair for brightly colored caftans and outrageous jewelry.  She liked to think of herself as “spiritually gifted,” and in fact claimed it was her spirit guides who had led her to move semi-permanently into the Hummingbird House’s fuchsia room.  Paul and Derrick were still not entirely sure how they felt about this, but her idiosyncrasies were made a lot more palatable by the fact that she not only paid in full and on time every month, but had also assigned herself the role of part-time general manager of the B&B, freeing Paul and Derrick to do what they did best—provide their guests with a memorable vacation experience, complete in every detail.  The fact that Harmony happened to be heiress to one of the largest hotel fortunes in the US did a great deal to plump up her credibility, of course.  On the other hand, her tendency to fly off to Greece or Sri Lanka or Dubai on a moment’s notice and be gone for weeks made her something less than a reliable GM.

She gave Paul’s shoulder an affectionate pat and added, “And you were worried about building the spa!  Everything comes together in perfect harmony when you listen to your inner truth.”

Paul and Derrick exchanged a look and each of them decided, with the wisdom of experience, not to respond to that. The spa had been a point of contention between them since they’d bought the place, Derrick having envisioned something along the lines of the Golden Door Spa and Resort in Escondido, and Paul preferring more of a Roman Baths theme.  As it turned out, none of the local builders were capable of executing either vision, and, having learned their lesson about hiring contractors from out of town, they compromised by extending one of the back rooms of the Hummingbird House and outfitting it with a hot tub, a steam room, and a massage room that overlooked the blissful serenity of the Appalachian mountains.  Still, the cost was exorbitant, and none of their friends believed they could recoup their investment in a rural area like this.

As luck would have it, Harmony was also a licensed massage therapist.  Without her insistence, it was unlikely they would have gone through with the project.  But they had to admit, the offer of a spa with couples massage had been the
piece de resistance
in their Christmas package.

Both men momentarily gave their attention to Harmony. “Booked up,” Paul said, and a slow and satisfied gleam lit his eyes.  “We’re booked up!”

He took the reservation form from Harmony’s hand and admired it as he led the way to the office.  “Dr. and Mrs. Bryce Phipps from Seattle, Washington,” he read out loud. “They sound like a perfectly lovely people.”

“They’re in what?” Derrick said, edging around Paul to study the reservation board that was mounted on the east wall of the office.  “The plum room?”

Each room of the Hummingbird House was characterized by a brightly colored exterior door, each door a different color.  The overall effect of those playfully painted doors on the rugged timber-frame lodge was both whimsical and ridiculous, and it was the most distinguishing visual feature of the inn—which, as Harmony pointed out, the camera loved.  They had gotten more than one magazine feature already based on nothing but the doors.

The color theme of each door was carried into the room with tasteful decorative touches, and each room was named for its color.  Derrick took a plum-colored magnet from his desk drawer, neatly printed the name “Phipps” on it, and placed it on the magnetic board in the column labeled “December 21–26.”  The row, filled with red, yellow, orange, emerald, blue, and chartreuse magnets, now was complete.  Derrick gave a satisfied nod as he stepped back to admire it.

“A beautiful sight, isn’t it?” he said.

“Oh dear, I keep telling you, you need to put Geoffery Allen Windsor in the blue room,” Harmony said.  “It’s much more spiritual.”

“But that would mean the Bartlett girls would be separated from their parents,” Paul pointed out.

Harmony waved it away, her bracelets jangling.  “They’re fourteen and sixteen,” she said.  “They
want
to be separated from their parents.”

“Mr. Bartlett specifically asked for a suite, and the melon and turquoise rooms are the only ones with a connecting door to accommodate them. We’re doing their tree in magnolia blossoms and renaming it the Magnolia Suite for the duration.”  At Harmony’s puzzled look he explained, rather annoyed, “Well, we could hardly decorate with melons, now could we?  It was the best compromise we could come up with.”

“We could move Mr. Windsor to the plum room,” Derrick offered, “and put the Phipps in the yellow room.  Purple is a spiritual color, isn’t it?”

“No, no,” Harmony said.  “Plum is not the same energy at all, not at all.”

“Too much red, I suppose,” Derrick agreed thoughtfully.  “I can see that.”

“Mr. Windsor stays in the yellow room,” Paul said firmly.  “It has the best morning light, and he likes to write in the morning. And …” He finished entering the last of the reservation information into the computer and straightened up.  “We’ve gone to far too much trouble designing the holiday themes for each room to start switching them around now.”