Patrick pulled into the open parking spot next to the meter, got out, and studied the property. The bed-and-breakfast was a two-story primrose-colored building with dark-colored shutters that sat on the corner of Gate and Prideaux Street. A row of snow-capped hedges paraded along the perimeter of the majestic property broken up only by a white picketed gate. The gate led to the front door, an ominous looking thing cast in black with two glass windows on either side. An ornate plaque sat to the right of one of the windows. Even from the sidewalk, he could read the gold scripted text on the sign that told him he had reached his destination: The Manor House.
Temporary destination, hopefully.
He ambled up to the latched front gate in time to let a young family move past him. The mother held the hand of her young daughter who couldn’t have been more than four years old. Her cheeks rosy and her eyes tearing up from the chill in the air, the girl gave him a gentle smile as he waited outside the gate for the three of them to pass through.
“Checking in?” the father asked Patrick as mother and daughter continued ahead.
“What?” Patrick asked, caught off-guard.
The man stood at the gate. “Oh, I asked if you were checking in.”
“Yeah,” Patrick told the man. He looked to be about Patrick’s age, late twenties, but dressed far more formally wearing a black pea coat with his collar popped, and a blue dress shirt and tie. “Checking in.”
“Well, enjoy your stay,” the man said. “We had a great time, didn’t we honey?” No response came from the wife. She was too far ahead by now, rounding the corner at the sidewalk and nearly out of sight. His lips drew together for a second as he appeared to think about that and what it meant. “Anyway, I’m sure yours will be just as delightful. Such a beautiful time of year, isn’t it? A little on the cool side, but you make do, don’t you?”
Patrick tried to smile. Judging by the man’s reaction, he hadn’t sold it very well. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m sure it’ll be just fine.”
“Take care now,” the man continued saying as if he and Patrick were old high school chums who hadn’t seen each other in a few years and were simply catching up. Patrick half expected him to say ‘toodle-oo’ next. Luckily, he hadn’t.
What would he have done?
He watched the man turn the corner, a little pep in his stride, bobbing up and down behind the snow-capped hedges until, he too, disappeared behind the edge of the building.
Patrick turned his attention back to the B&B. A chunk of snow fell from the white cedar tree next to the walkway. It fell to the ground next to him, splashing the pavement and took the shape of a fat wet oval. For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw a face take shape in the oval, but he blinked, and then it was gone.
***
Inside, there was an overwhelming sense of warmth, and a sweet mixture of apple pie with the smallest traces of jasmine. The sound of a roaring fire burned somewhere close by, and historical paintings dangled on the wall at equal heights from long thin chains. Paintings that could have only been put up by someone with a delicate touch. An expansive gold chandelier hung from the ceiling above, bathing the room in a saffron light, with bulbs that looked like inverted teardrops. A carpeted stairwell led upstairs. The ruddy damask pattern on the stairs clashed with the stark white trim work and dull shade chosen for the walls. But a small console table drew further interest. For some strange reason, that he could not explain, it had been placed directly in front of a door blocking access.
Could it lead to a closet? But why would they block access to a door like that? What purpose did it serve?
While he posed possible answers to the riddle, someone entered the foyer from his left.
“Why, hello there,” the gentleman said. Then he smiled. Perfect teeth and not a hair out of place. “My apologies, I didn’t you hear come in.” He thumbed toward the room behind him. “I was just tending to the fire.”
Patrick gave a faint smile. “That’s all right.”
He was a brown-haired man of late thirties with a full-grown beard, wearing a checkered dress shirt and navy-blue jeans. They were both equal height, but this man had a confident way about him and Patrick found himself wishing he were someplace else.
The man beamed, his enthusiasm waning on Patrick. “Checking in, I presume?”
“Yeah.”
The man came closer, his hands reaching out to Patrick. “Welcome to The Manor House. I’m Jeff Rayner, the owner. Can I take your coat?”
“No, that’s all right.” Patrick gestured a thumb back at the street. “My stuff is still out in the car. I’ll have to head back out, anyway. Didn’t know if I should come in first.”
“Oh, you parked out front? Do you need any help? I can grab my coat if you like?”
The owner’s eagerness was becoming a bit much for him already. Which begged the question, could he really fit in here with the townsfolk? Had he made the wrong choice, after all? So far, he’d encountered two affable gentlemen within minutes of arriving and they’d both managed to make him feel unsuitable. Inadequate in a way, like he wasn’t raised with the best intentions.
“No, I’ll be fine,” Patrick told him. “I can manage it.”
“You sure?” An awkward pause filled the air between them while he waited for Patrick to respond and when he didn’t, he went on. “Well, all right then. Just so you know, we do have free parking out back, though. I have it listed on the website, but no one ever seems to take notice. I make a point of telling everyone now when they arrive just in case.”
“I didn’t, thank you. My sister set this up for me so I’d have no way of knowing. I’ll pull it around once I get my stuff.”
“Well, that was awfully nice of her.”
Again, Patrick fell silent.
The owner smiled nervously. Apparently, Jeff Rayner wasn’t used to the non-talkative type, but he was in no mood for conversation. He only had one thing on his mind: to get situated. If there were more time, maybe he’d duck out to check on the status of his apartment. That was it.
Kaitlyn may have secured his brief visit at the B&B, but the calls to his new landlord still went unanswered. The move-in date was supposed to be yesterday, yet, here he was. Better than being homeless, sure, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. And he couldn’t stay in the city. It just wouldn’t work.
‘The peaceful qualities of your stay might help to calm you down,’ she’d told him over the phone. ‘Pop’s right. You deserve some R&R. Just relax. Go read a book or something. Find a good coffee shop and plunk your butt in a chair.’
What did she know, anyway?
When was the last time she visited Pop?
“Anywho,” the owner began. “Why don’t you join me in the living room and we’ll get you squared away?”
“Come again?”
Jeff moved into an adjoining room, leaving Patrick alone in the foyer, and spoke over his shoulder, “As it states in the title, The Manor House is quite literally a house, so we don’t have a proper front desk or anything of the sort. You’ll find that a lot of the places in town here are like that. Old buildings converted into something else. The Old Bank is now an inn, for instance, and another could be a cottage or even an art gallery.”
Patrick followed him into the living room, saying, “I get it.”
And he did, the owner was right. It wasn’t like it was his first visit to the historic town, after all. He knew some of its history as well as its charm and unique quirks.
Jeff sat down at a sparse desk in the corner of the living room, a lone black binder and two silver lamps with ochre-colored shades the only items present on the desk. It was immaculate with not a hint of dust or streaks from a recent clean. There was a pattern on the lamp shades, but a painting behind him caught Patrick’s eye and his focus shifted over to the painting. It was an abstract painting with colors that begged to be let loose off the canvas. Red, orange, yellow, and green with swirls of black at its edges. It looked like a battle was being waged on the canvas. A war between the light and the dark. Although anyone could see that the dark was clearly winning. The shadows crept and slithered up from the left side, smothering the light of the reds and oranges, seeking to swallow it up whole. To snuff it out like you would a candle flame. Leaving nothing. Nothing but the black and its emptiness.
“Will you be staying long?” Jeff asked, looking up from the binder, pen in hand.
“No, just for a few days,” Patrick told him. Was that optimistic sounding or curt? Sometimes he hated the sound of his own voice. “I’ve got an apartment over on Castlereagh Street, but they’re not ready for me yet, I guess. I don’t know if there’s some sort of problem or what, but I figured, heck, I need to stay somewhere, right? I’ll probably go over there shortly to find out what’s going on since no one feels like returning my calls.”
Jeff was quiet for too long. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, a thought running through his head, but he wouldn’t spit out whatever had crossed his mind. Finally, he nodded and said, “Castlereagh, you say? Hmm.”
Patrick tried to catch his eyes, sensing the hesitation in his voice. There was something there. What was it? “That’s right. Castlereagh. Is there a problem?”
Jeff looked up from the binder again, the cordial qualities fading from his face. The flames from the fire across the room flickered in his eyes. “No. No problem at all.”
Jeff was a terrible liar.
Patrick moved closer to the painting, inspecting the brush strokes further, but he wasn’t really looking. Not with any keen interest. “Seems awfully strange. Who rents out an apartment and then doesn’t let the new tenant move in? Just ignores their calls?”
“Quite,” Jeff said, continuing to be somewhat evasive. “That does sound very peculiar. I suppose it could really be anything. A dead phone battery, perhaps? A broken water main?” There was a pause. “I just realized that I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Sullivan.”
Jeff stared at him for a moment and then began to trace his fingers down the pages in his binder. “Sullivan, Sullivan… Ah, here it is. I have you down for the Country Room. Is that correct?”
“That’s fine.”
“Excellent. It’s a lovely room if I do say so, myself. Overlooks the back garden, not that there would be much to see this time of year, but—”
“I’m sure it’s great. How much is it?”
“Oh, it’s one hundred and sixty-five a night.”
Patrick paid him in cash. “Here you go. Let’s take it day by day, yeah? I’m not staying here long.”
“Certainly. Breakfast is served in the breakfast room between eight and nine-thirty. Just come on down and grab a table. I can go over the menu now or—”
“No, that’s all right. I’d like to get my things out of the car.”
Jeff stood up from the desk and clasped his hands. “Of course. Well, I hope you enjoy your stay and welcome to The Manor House. We’re pleased to welcome you. Even if it will only be for a short time.”
“Thanks.” Patrick turned to leave.
“Oh, and since you’re moving to the area,” Jeff went on. “I guess I should say welcome to Old Town, Mr. Sullivan. You’re going to love it here. It’s delightful. It’s said to be the loveliest town in the country, you know?”
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