David Handler - The burnt orange sunrise

“Or possibly just crazy,” Mitch said, grinning at him.

“They usually just hire some poor doofus to do it.”

“No need to-they have me for free.”

“Me, I keep things running here,” Jase said, leaning his weight on his shovel. “Me and my big sister, Jory. She’s head housekeeper, I’m maintenance.”

“That must keep you pretty busy,” Mitch said, his eyes taking in the hugeness of the place. “Especially this time of year.”

“She’s a beauty and a beast,” Jase admitted, scratching at his furry face. “Took twenty men five whole years to build her. She’s all native fieldstone. And, man, does she eat up the fuel. Three furnaces, two hot-water heaters, forty-eight guest rooms with forty-eight wood-burning fireplaces. Windows everywhere, on account of the views. You wouldn’t believe what it costs to heat her. Winters, they got to close down the third floor entirely. Lay off most of the staff, too. Me and Jory are the only full-timers.”

“Business is slow this time of year?”

“Dead slow, unless we get like a corporate retreat or a wedding. Tonight, we got no paying guests at all. This thing for Mrs. Geiger is huge for us. All kinds of Hollywood celebrities will be staying here. Movie studio’s picking up the whole tab. A hotshot, Spence Sibley, is already here, job-bossing the whole thing. Better him than me. I just keep the fires burning and the road clear.” Jase resumed his shoveling. “Watch out for black ice on your way back down tonight. It can be a real bitch.”

“Will do,” Mitch promised, continuing up the footpath toward the castle’s big slab of an oak front door. Hand-painted wooden signs marked the paths leading off across the courtyard to the rose garden, wisteria arbor, lily pond and greenhouse. There was also a service path that led to the caretaker’s cottage and adjoining woodshed.

Les was waiting for him with the front door opened wide. “I saw your lights,” he explained cheerily as he ushered Mitch into the cavernous three-story entry hall, where the lights from the chandeliers glowed golden on the yellow pine floors. A pianist was playing something jazzy and up-tempo in a nearby room, filling the hall with vibrant tones. “So glad you could make it.”

“Glad to be here,” said Mitch, thinking that Les really played his ruddy New England innkeeper role to the hilt. He even dressed the part in his Viyella tattersall shirt, cable-stitched sweater vest and gray flannel slacks. His head of lush silver hair was brushed so wavy and lustrous it reminded Mitch of plumage.

“Where’s our resident trooper?”

“Running late.” Mitch realized that he recognized what the pianist was playing-it was the theme song to the TV sitcom Will and Grace. He was not proud that he knew this. “She’ll be along as soon as she can.”

“Mitch, you’ll have to refresh my memory. Have you been with us before?”

“No, I haven’t,” Mitch replied, gazing up, up, up at the intricately carved, winding three-story center staircase.

“That’s solid cherry,” Les said proudly. “It was imported from a castle in Wiltshire, England, as was a lot of the woodwork and molding. The paneling and upstairs doors are native oak. Would you believe that the local gentry were in a dither about Astrid’s when it was first built? They thought it was vulgar. Now it’s Dorset’s most famous landmark, known the world over.”

There was a coatroom where Mitch deposited his hat, scarf and parka. Underneath, he wore his standard corduroy sports jacket, V-neck sweater and Oxford button-down shirt, along with baggy wide-wale cords and Mephistos. Mitch didn’t own a tie. Refused to. Just as he’d refused to rent a tuxedo for Saturday night’s big tribute bash. They could take him as he was, or not at all.

There was a glassed-in gift shop, closed now, that sold things like postcards and a wide array of Astrid’s Castle merchandise. There was a reception desk with wall-mounted racks filled with tourist brochures and maps. Doorways led off to the morning room and dining room. Also the taproom, where Mitch could hear voices and polite laughter.

Les led him through a wide doorway toward the music. “We call this room the Sunset Lounge because the windows face west. We’re famous for our sunsets up here, Mitch. You can see Long Island Sound, the boats on the river. The view’s really quite extraordinary, actually.”

Actually, the Sunset Lounge was more like a ballroom in Mitch’s estimation, with a twenty-four-foot ceiling, shimmering chandelier and a stone fireplace big enough to walk into. A fire was roaring in it. Leather sofas and armchairs were grouped there. And a radiant oil portrait of Astrid Lindstrom hung over the mantel-beautiful, pink-cheeked Astrid in an elegant silver gown, gazing over one bare ivory shoulder at the artist, her eyes bright with amusement. The one-time Zigfeld Follies girl bore more than a passing resemblance to Mary Pickford, or so the artist had portrayed her.

The elegantly dressed older gentleman at the Steinway grand piano had moved on to “They All Laughed,” a Gershwin brothers number from Shall We Dance, which was Mitch’s favorite of the Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers musicals. In this he was alone. Every other film critic on earth thought Top Hat was Fred and Ginger’s best.

“Come meet Teddy Ackerman, Mitch. Teddy is Aaron’s uncle. His brother, Paul, was Norma’s first husband.”

Teddy was in his early sixties, slender and pale to the point of wan. In fact, his complexion closely resembled the ivory of the keyboard before him. Teddy had a long, narrow face, finely chiseled features and a high forehead with receding steel-wool hair. He wore his navy-blue suit very well. He had on a burgundy tie with it and a sparkling white shirt with French cuffs. His cuff links were of gold with sapphires.

“Say hello to Mitch Berger, Teddy,” Les said.

Teddy paused from his playing to offer Mitch his hand. It was a very cold hand, the fingers long and smooth. “Glad to know you, Mitch.”

“You play beautifully,” Mitch said, because he did. Teddy had a touch so natural it was as if he and the piano were a single organism.

“Thanks much. You’ll have to come hear the whole gang this weekend. We’re playing at the cocktail mixer Saturday afternoon. We call ourselves the Night Blooming Jazzmen because all four of us have held on to our day jobs. Much better off that way, Mitch.” Teddy spoke with a wistful air, his voice tinged with loss and regret. “You should never, ever try to make a living doing the one thing you care about most. You’ll only get your heart broken. I came up a couple of days early at Norma’s invitation,” he added, with just enough emphasis on “Norma” to suggest some tension between him and Les.

If it was there, Les didn’t acknowledge it. Just beamed at the two of them, the genial host.

“Too bad you never got a chance to meet my brother, Paul,” Teddy said to Mitch, sipping from the goblet of red wine that was set atop the piano. “Big Paul was a living hero. Graduated top of his class at Columbia Law School, turned down every single big-money offer to go to work for the American Civil Liberties Union. Paul fought for the underdog. Tilted at windmills. Me, I just tilt at wineglasses. He dropped dead of a heart attack in 1992. Seems like it was just last week.”

“I’m sorry,” Mitch said.

“Say, Les, where were you in ’92?” Teddy asked him mockingly. “Still writing trenchant ad copy for Preparation H?”

“Something like that,” Les responded shortly, not wanting to mix it up with him, although it was obvious from his clenched jaw that he disliked the guy. Just as it was obvious that Teddy resented him for wooing and winning his beloved brother’s widow.