Peggy Moreland - A Willful Marriage

“No,” she replied as she ran water into the cup. “I’m not sure where they live. Mr. Parker never spoke much about them. His attorney is handling all that.”

She finished washing out the cup and laid it gently on the drainboard. She stared out the window for a moment, her wrists resting on the sink’s edge, her shoulders slumped as if weighted by an unusually heavy burden. Then she seemed to shake herself from whatever thoughts she’d been focused on, and plucked a dish towel from the drainboard. She slowly dried her hands as she turned. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?” she asked, all signs of the melancholy gone. “I can give you a quick tour, then show you your room.”

Brett shoved back from the table, anxious to see more of the house his mother had grown up in. “Yes, ma’am, I would.” He retrieved his duffel bag from where he’d left it by the back door, then followed her through the kitchen door and out into the hall.

“The house was built in the 1830s,” she told him, as they walked to the front entry, “by Mrs. Parker’s family. They were of German descent, as were most of the town’s residents.” She stopped at the arched doorway that led into the living room and flipped on a light switch. A grand piano dominated one corner, while the rest of the space was sectioned into several cozy sitting areas, each with an antique sofa and a couple of overstuffed chairs.

“The furnishings, for the most part, are all original pieces, some brought to this country from Germany by Mrs. Parker’s family. Our guests are free to gather in here…play the piano, read, or just relax.” She switched off the light and crossed the hall to a large dining room, with Brett following close at her heels.

She flipped another switch and twin chandeliers flickered on above a long mahogany table.

“Most of our more formal meals are served in the dining room, although when the weather is nice, I like to serve breakfasts in the garden room.” She switched off the light and motioned for Brett to follow her. “The garden room is my personal favorite. It’s smaller and more intimate. When we decided to convert Parker House into a bed-and-breakfast,” she explained as she pushed back pocket doors, “I had the back porch enclosed.” She switched on the light.

Brett felt as if he’d stepped into a summer garden. Floorto-ceiling windows dominated three walls. The fourth was painted a pale yellow. Trails of hand-painted ivy framed the windows and crept onto the ceiling, giving the room its garden theme. Three round tables filled the center of the room, each draped with brightly colored floral cloths. The same fabric was swagged above each window, giving the effect of flowers coming into full bloom. An antique buffet stretched the length of the only solid wall, holding place mats, a coffee maker and a wooden basket filled with silverware and napkins.

Brett looked at Gayla and noticed the pride that showed in her eyes. “You did this, didn’t you?”

“The remodeling?” She shook her head. “No, I’m no carpenter by any stretch of the imagination. I just did the painting and sewed the drapes and the tablecloths. We hired a local man to enclose the room.”

She made her contribution sound so slight, but Brett could see that it was her touch that gave the room its ambience.

“Would you like to see the upstairs now?” she asked politely.

Brett shifted his duffel bag to his other hand. “Yes, ma’am, if you don’t mind.”

He followed Gayla back into the hall and then up the stairs.

On the landing, Gayla stopped in front of the door at the top of the stairs. “This will be your room, but I’ll save it for last.” She turned down the hall to her left. “There are three rooms in this wing of the house and four in the other, with your room separating them.”

She stopped in front of the first, chuckling, and tapped a finger on the brass plate attached to the front of the door. “It was Ned’s idea to name each room after Texas politicians. He insisted on putting all the Democrats on the left and the Republicans on the right, to keep them from fighting, he said.”

So he had a sense of humor, Brett thought, unmoved by this new knowledge. He followed Gayla into the right wing, only half listening as she expounded on Parker House’s history. At the end of the hall she stopped, her hand resting on the knob of the last door. Unlike the other rooms, no brass plate marked this door. Brett looked at her inquiringly.

Gayla dropped her hand to her side, her eyes bright with tears. “This was Mr. Parker’s room,” she said in explanation, then turned away.

She quickly moved to the door at the head of the stairs that she had told Brett would be his for the night, appearing anxious now to end the tour. “This room was named for Ned’s wife, Marjorie. Ned always referred to her as ‘the peacemaker,’ thus her placement here between the two parties. From what I’ve learned about her from Ned and others, she was a gentle woman, soft-spoken, but with a knack for handling even the most stubborn individuals. Being married to Ned, I’m sure that came in handy. He was devoted to her.”

A devoted husband? Brett thought, stifling a snort of disgust. Not according to the stories he’d been told by his mother.

Gayla opened the door and quickly crossed to switch on the lamp beside the bed. “I think you’ll be comfortable in this room. You have a private bath, there,” she told him, pointing to a door at her right. “Linens are in the closet behind the door.”

She turned to him, looking suddenly tired and anxious to escape his presence. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said as she twisted her hands at her waist. “I think I’ll go on to bed now. Help yourself to more coffee in the kitchen. There’s a television in the study. Stay up as late as you’d like. We like our guests to feel at home.”

Brett watched her until she closed the door behind her, blocking his view. At home? he thought with a snort. Not in this lifetime, and certainly not in this house.

Although he hadn’t slept in over two days, Brett lay on his back on the feather bed in the room Gayla had prepared for him, wide-awake, his fingers laced beneath his head. He stared at the ceiling, hoping and praying that sleep would come soon. His entire body ached with weariness.

When he’d received the message to call his mother’s attorney, he’d just returned from an exhausting three-state inspection of all the Sinclair department stores. He’d been tempted to ignore the call, at least until he’d gotten some rest, but then had decided not to put it off. Now he wished he had waited.

The attorney was the one who had given him the news of his grandfather’s death. He’d said he’d received a telegram from an attorney in Braesburg, Texas, notifying him of the old man’s death and requesting that Christine, Brett’s mother, come home for the funeral.

Brett had almost laughed at that. So the old man had wanted his daughter to come home. His request had come too late. Christine Sinclair wouldn’t be coming home. Not ever again. Brett had buried her less than six months before.

The attorney had then reminded him that as Christine’s heir, he would inherit his grandfather’s estate.

That was worth a laugh, as well. Brett didn’t want the old man’s money. Why should he? The old man had never bothered to acknowledge his family before.

He would have ended the conversation then and gone to bed, but the attorney had insisted that he attend the funeral, saying that he owed it to his mother to do so. Brett disagreed with that bit of logic, but had finally gotten the attorney off his back by telling him he would give the lawyer in Braesburg a call after he’d had some rest.