The Men of Northshire Inn

The Men of Northshire Inn By R. W. Clinger I called my life at Northshire Inn the matter and substance of men. A perfect example of such context included driving the unnamed guest to and from the nearby and small airport, or other places. He asked where I was taking him and I said, “We’ll have a fine drive together to Erie, Pennsylvania. We’ll get off Interstate 79, head east, drive along Lake Erie, and see the summer pines, oaks, and maples that make up the rolling landscape. We’ll ride the hills and talk a little. Topics should be interesting. If you become bored, I can always put the radio on, and you can listen to your choice of music.” From the passenger seat of my Jeep Wrangler, a battered thing that had seen better days, but still worked well, he said, “Thanks for picking me up at the airport.” “My pleasure. It’s my job. According to David, you’re here for a meeting. Or so I’ve been told by David.” It sounded more like a question than a statement. “I am. I’m having a meeting with my business partner. Her name is Doris Nelson. Do you know her?” “Sorry, I don’t.” “We make Nelson Paperclips.” “I’m familiar with them.” It was an untrue statement, but whatever. David taught me to always make the client feel comfortable no matter what. Little white lies didn’t hurt. “Doris is heading to New York. And I’m heading to Chicago. We thought Erie would be the best place to meet for a brief meeting regarding future goals for the company.” I asked, “Erie’s perfect to meet. Will you be having dinner by the lake?” “Breakfast tomorrow. We’ll be at The Reef.” A high-end place. Superiorly expensive. Highbrow. Out of my league. I was only there once or twice. I was sure that scrambled eggs would cost my passenger forty dollars, if not more. He told me, “We’ve been riding for over fifteen minutes. Are we almost there yet, Barker?” “Soon, my friend. Just a few more miles.” I pointed to the water to our left, and to distract him, said, “Look how calm the lake is today. It’s blue-green and lovely. Some call it magical this time of the year. It’s relaxed for late June in my opinion.” “It’s beautiful. I think I’ll like it up here.” “I’m sure you will. Now hang on, the road is going to get somewhat bumpy. Just a warning.” I turned the Jeep to the left and went from a city asphalt road to a country dirt one in a snap’s time. Woods collected around us. Lots of shade. Minimal light from the sun. “What road is this?” the guest asked. “Auckland Road. It takes us to Northshire Inn. I’m sure you’ve never been here before.” “I haven’t. This is intriguing.” He steered his head left and right, looking out the windows. “But I’m looking forward to my overnight stay.” “There’s lots to do at the inn. You should visit when you have more time. Horseshoes. Bike riding. Fishing. Hiking on the trails around Templeton. Some of the guests play games in the evenings. Mostly cards. And downtown Templeton isn’t very far away, which has many restaurants, two small casinos, and lots of shopping. The property next to the inn will let you ride their horses. They have a beautiful Mustang named Lander. I just love him.” “I’ll probably just sit around and read if I come back. It’s how I like to relax.” “What are you reading?” David taught me to always to talk about the client, never myself. “A Robert Riley thriller. Masked Innocence.” “Good book. I breezed through it three weeks ago. You know Riley is from these parts, right?” “I’ve heard that.” “You might bump into him during your short stay. He’s been known to stop at the inn and other places in Templeton. He and the owner of the inn, David, are very good friends.” “Interesting,” he said, and continued to look from his left to his right, taking in the sights. We turned into the gravel drive that took us to the inn. “This is beautiful back here. So private. So green.” “It’s my home,” I told him. “I’ve lived here for three years. David’s been a remarkable employer. I love working for him.” “You’re his assistant. Is that right?” “Yes. I kind of do everything here. You could say that I’m glue. I get into lots of things and keep it all together. Assistant. Housekeeper. Bookkeeper. Whatever he needs done, I do it.” He looked at the main Colonial where the check-in office/lobby was located: three steps led to the expansive, wraparound porch decorated with white-washed rockers; spider plants in terracotta pots were perfectly positioned every three feet around the porch; two wrought-iron French doors at the front led the way inside to the small lobby area. Gazebo to the far right with a backdrop of woods and a narrow, walking pathway. Nearby pond with greenish-blue water. The unnamed guest said something like, “The house is huge. I love the widow’s peak at the top with its American flag blowing in the wind. And the balcony on the second floor looks lovely. Exactly how many bedrooms are inside?” “Four bedrooms in the main house. But only David and I stay in the central unit. Separate rooms, of course. We’re not lovers, although guests think otherwise, sometimes. To the right of the main building are the guest’s rooms.” He visually consumed the two levels of guest rooms to the right. Again, he took in the gazebo beyond, and the woods at the far end of the property. “Can you swim in the pond?” “I wouldn’t dare,” I told him. “God only knows what’s in that thing. A monster. Snapping turtles. The strand of human-killing virus.” He chuckled. I chuckled. I pulled up to room 104 and said, “You’ll be staying here for tonight. Check-out is at eleven in the morning.” “Thanks.” We climbed out of my Jeep. I passed him the key to room 104, and I fetched his two bags from the back of the Jeep. He walked up to the room and I called out to him, “The door’s open. Make yourself at home. You can get settled in before dinner with Mr. Claire. It will be at seven in the main house. Casual, of course.” “Thank you.” He smiled. Nothing fancy or articulate. David told me that the arrangements for the room had already been made; a done deal. Guest’s name, address, telephone number, and credit card information for p*****t were on file in the lobby. My task entailed getting the guest settled in, welcoming him to the inn. I walked his two bags to room 104. Once inside the room (a single queen, small bathroom, writing desk, table with two chairs, and flat-screen on the wall, air conditioner, and luggage rack in the far-right corner) I placed his two, cumbersome bags near the front door. “There’s fine,” he said, and passed me a ten-dollar tip, which I pocketed. No complaints. Gas money for my troubles. I thanked him for his generosity and added, “If you need anything at all, call the main house. We have a person there all the time. We’ll make sure you have a nice stay.” “Thanks, Barker,” he said again, closing the door behind me. And off I went to accomplish other tasks, busy at work, continuing my life at the inn. * * * * Meeting David Claire. I must say that it happened unexpectedly, three years gone now: how I became Northshire Inn’s nuts and bolts; the sticky glue to his fine-running establishment in the northwestern Pennsylvania woods. We met at the Templeton Community Library. I worked part-time there, using my Library of Science degree. The library lacked funds to keep me on as a full-time employee with benefits and I was barely capable of paying my bills: rent, provisions, Jeep. Although I loved the job, and the fine people of Templeton who borrowed the community’s books on a daily basis, I had to find something more substantial to pay my bills. Something my mother would have called, a “real job for a real adult,” had she known of the current low balance in my checking account at the time. Plus, I was starving. No money meant no food according the fundamental and basic equation of life. And with no food, meant starvation, and eventual death. Enter David Claire in my life. He regularly perused the large print section of best-selling fiction: Patricia Cornwell, Stuart Woods, Margaret Atwood, and Grant Ginder. We chatted sometimes at the library’s main counter/information desk, discussed politics, current events, handsome actors, enjoyed books, cooking, cookery, weather patterns, and local pleasures. I took him at six-four, tall and thin, almost skeletal. His silver-gray hair resembled that of a floor mop, its strings wispy, flying this way and that. And he smelled of Earl Gray tea and biscuits, very English in every way. His eyes were a tarnished, aged green that seemed soothing and scolding at the same time. I wanted to think him alone in the world, but he claimed not to be, having many friends and acquaintances in the area, coming from a very large family. Being homosexual, he enjoyed my Robert Pattinson looks and always checked me out from head to toes during his short visits to the community library. Occasionally he called me handsome, friendly, darling, cheerful, charming, a pet, and absurdly cute. “Barker Christian, you’re much older than you look,” he admitted, surprising me. “How old do you think I am?” “Thirty-seven. Although you look twenty-seven.” “Spot on,” I told him, pleased with his company. How quickly we became friends. How unexpectedly. And a door creaked open to a new world for me—us. * * * * Once, as I scanned the bar code on the latest Harlan Coben, one of his favorite thriller writers, he told me, “You have a very pleasant smile, Barker. Have I ever told you that?” Could he see my semi-smile, since he used a walking stick that a seeing-impaired person used? I thought so, but maybe not as well as the average Joe on a Templeton street. “All the better to eat those horrible children that come in here looking for video games to play over books to read,” I played with him. “And what handsome brown eyes,” he said, smiling, obviously flirting with me, interested in me, toying with me. “Better to see what little heathens I will be munching on for lunch,” I quietly growled and snapped my choppers together. “I can’t say that I like the Twilight books or movies, but I am fond of the main vampire. He’s very good looking…such as yourself.” “You mean Edward Cullen.” I leaned over the wooden counter that separated us. “He’s adorable.” “As you are,” he whispered. I passed his Coben book to him. “Have a very good read, Mr. Claire. Until we meet again.” “David…Please call me David. We’re friends now,” he told me, tucked the hardback novel under his free arm, and opened his walking cane with its red tip and black, leather handle. Off he went, clicking it this way and that way against the tile floor, exiting the library, my part-time home. * * * * I didn’t see him until two weeks later, almost the middle of April. He paid his late fees for the Coben book and apologized for the tome’s tardy return. Positioned on the opposite side of my counter once again, he told me, somewhat in a panic, sweat clinging to his brow and under his arms, in a rushed tone, “I’ve been traveling. As you’ve probably figured out, I have a very hard time seeing. I visit eye doctors all over the country. Each is baffled about my vision loss, and current condition.” And then he shared his discontented tale of his car accident some sixteen months before, a snowy Christmas evening when a drunk driver had almost killed him with a Mustang, and how the episode had changed his life. The somewhat fresh car accident (he was T-boned on Messle Street in downtown Templeton) sent him to the hospital for a week, and when he emerged from its automatic doors with a broken arm and the realization that his 2016 Ford Focus was totaled, he claimed he couldn’t see as well as he had before the accident, somewhat blinded, but not entirely. At sixty-nine, his eyesight had changed from fair to poor because of the car accident. Continuing to chatter at my counter, he alleged he could see shapes over details, but he did know that I had brown hair and matching eyes, and that I resembled a famous vampire that teenagers had once wooed over and screamed for in movie theaters, or fell in love with reading a series of bloodlust- and high school-themed books by a female, Mormon writer. We chatted for twenty minutes that day, whispering, getting to know each other. He told me of Northshire Inn and how he had purchased the property some twenty years before, gaining a positive reputation that travelers described as “…quaint with a breath of fresh air,” or, “…the place where you want to spend the night and feel cozy.” And then he proposed with a sensual seriousness tucked into the edges of his soothing tone, “Would you consider working for me at the inn? I’m looking for a young man such as yourself to work with me. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and I’ve come to understand that I cannot run the inn by myself. I need someone to do the books, carry out some light maintenance, some housekeeping at times, and please the guests, among other things.” He leaned across the counter and whispered a hefty salary in my right ear, which was possibly worth my time. Flattered, silently praising the monetary gods in heaven, and realizing that an opportunity of significance had just opened for me to pay my bills (the loan for my truck, rent for a single-bedroom flat on Hashdon Street near the lake, and food to survive), I told him, “I’ll think about it.” “Please do, Edward,” he joked with me. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”