Edward Lee - The Chosen

“Ah, so you girls came here just to meet me,” Paul joked.

“Maybe,” the blonde replied.

That was it. That was his distraction. Guilt. Single guy. Singles bar. Two single girls. Subconsciously he felt in violation. I’m an observer, he reminded himself, not that he needed to. He knew he wouldn’t cheat on Vera under any circumstance—he had no desire for anyone else. It was just the ideal that haunted him. But this was a good thing. He could talk to these girls, try to analyze them for their perceptions. It would make the article better.

“Actually, my name’s Dan Quayle,” Paul said. “Can my father buy you two a drink?’’

The girls laughed and sat down on either side. He ordered them each White Russians, a Heineken for himself, and rolled his eyes when the suspendered barkeep brought him a Corona.

Then the redhead leaned forward, eyes alight, and said, “So, Paul, tell us about your article.”

««—»»

At precisely the same moment, Vera Abbot strode through the entrance of another bar, a small brick-and-mortar tavern called The Undercroft. “The ’Croft,” as it was known to regulars, existed quite apart from the downtown hangouts and dance clubs. It was a bar with brains which attracted a specific patronage: beer connoisseurs, artists, writers, academicians, etc., not drunks, floozies, and sex predators. Ceiling rafters sported hundreds of imported beer coasters. Pennants decorated the front walls, from breweries as obscure as George Gale, Mitchell’s, and Ayinger. The long polished bar accommodated ten taps, and their inventory boasted over a hundred beers from all over the world. The ’Croft was not a place where one came to drink Bud.

Winter now had its teeth firmly set; Vera nearly shuddered in relief when she entered the ’Croft’s warm confines. Here everybody was everybody’s friend—almost everyone in the place, staff too, greeted her as she hung up her overcoat. Being here suddenly reminded her of the other less admirable bars in the area, and that reminded her of Paul, and the series of articles he was writing about local singles bars. Part of her didn’t like the idea of her fiancé surveying such places on his own, but that was selfish. Jealousy was one of many negative emotions that had never shown its face to their relationship. He was a professional writer; he’d been commissioned to write the series, and he was therefore committed to do so as effectively as possible. His dedication to his work was just more proof of his love. Before, he’d endeavored to be a good writer for himself—now it was for Vera too, and for their future together. She’d never had such easy mutuality in a relationship before, nor such unselfishness. It made her feel very stable with Paul, a verifier of his love.

It made her very happy.

Feldspar, the name seemed to pop upright in her mind. She’d almost forgotten why she’d come. Feldspar. The job offer.

Vera scanned the modest crowd. Down the bar three guys proposed a toast with Windex shooters. A couple at a side table leaned forward to kiss, while two art students argued over who was the more important writer: William Faulkner or Kathy Acker. Maybe Feldspar’s not here, Vera considered. Several friends who worked at the Radisson waved into her confusion. Maybe he lost interest. But what was his interest? Just what kind of job did Feldspar have in mind?

A smudge of darkness seemed to move, nearly glimmering; Vera sensed more than saw the squat figure rise. The back corner table by the fireplace, over which hung the ’Croft’s famous painting—a classically depicted nude woman lying in the woods before a ram and a goat. Feldspar, in his black Italian suit, smiled subtlety at her and bid the table with his jeweled hand.

“I got out a little early,” Vera hurried to explain. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Feldspar replied. “And again I’m grateful for your time. Please.”

Vera took her seat. Feldspar seemed to sit himself with some difficulty, as if he had a trick knee or something. It was the diaphanous black material of his suit that gave his shape the elusive shimmer. “I realize your time is precious,” he went on, finally settling himself. “But first, what would you like?”

Feldspar was drinking a Chimay Grand Reserve: Trappist ale in a huge bottle. He’d had several Courvoisier’s at the restaurant, plus two Remy’s, and now this. Yet he didn’t appear fazed at all. If Vera had drunk all that, she’d be on the floor. He’s paying, so what the hell? ”A GM would be nice,” she said.

“Fine.” Feldspar signaled the tablehop and ordered. He wasted no more time with subtleties. “I work for an investment company of sorts, one department of which is involved in exclusive resort facilities. We’re opening one in this propinquity.”

Vera opened her mouth, then closed it. He’s some thing, all right. “I hate to seem stupid, Mr. Feldspar, but I don’t know what propinquity means.”

He’d nearly flinched, as though the confession were absurd. “What I mean is, my superiors are opening a similar resort nearby. We’d like you to run it, or I should say, we’d like you to run the resort’s restaurant.”

Before she could make any response, the waiter brought her Grand Marnier. She sipped from the large snifter, luxuriating in the sharp taste and aroma. “I need to know more—”

“Details, but of course.” A thread of foam touched one side of his moustache when he sipped his ale. The ale looked murky, nearly crimson, with fine white sediment sifting in the glass like a snow orb. “We’re a renowned chain, and an exclusive one… Also a very private one. In other words, the name of my firm would be meaningless to you.”

“Try me.”

“Magwyth Enterprises,” he said.

“You’re right, I’ve never heard of it.” He must be exaggerating. Vera read all the hotel journals and trade magazines; how “renowned” could this company be if she’d never even heard of it? She made a mental note. Magwyth Enterprises. Look it up.

Feldspar stroked his trimmed goatee. “And I must add, in all due appropriateness, that our resorts are extravagantly successful.” He took another sip of his ale, held it in his mouth as if deliberating a fine wine. “To the extent that we have considerable capital at our disposal. We’re prepared to spend it, without restraint, in order to facilitate the best exclusive resort hotel in the area.”

Was Feldspar really a businessman, or a dreamer? Such endeavors, these days, cost multiple millions. This sounded like big talk to Vera, but then she reconsidered. Feldspar’s jewelry glittered at her; he was probably wearing enough rocks to pay her rent for a year. And she remembered the Lamborghini.

“Most of the renovations are complete,” he continued. “The restaurant is all that’s left to be finished, just minor details, which we’ll leave to you.”

“What exactly are you renovating?”

“An old manor just north of here.” He quickly produced a slip of paper, squinting at it. “Waynesville— that’s the name of the town.’’

Just north of here! Waynesville was north, all right—about a hundred miles north, right on the state line. Then… Old manor … Waynesville… She had read something now that she thought of it. “Not Wroxton Hall,” she said.

“Yes,” he beamed. “You have heard of it.”

God! “Mr. Feldspar, Wroxton Hall is a dump, I’ve seen it—” And that she had, last year on a drive up to Eerie to visit some relatives. “Dump” was a compliment; the great Gothic mansion had been gutted, vacant for decades. And the location…“Why on earth did you choose Waynesville? It’s so…” She faltered; she mustn’t insult him. It’s the sticks. It’s the boondocks. Vera couldn’t think of a worse location for this sort of resort. This was mountain country, the northern ridge, and no major cities in a fifty mile radius at least. Just destitute little farm towns and some logging burgs. Fine dining would never make it up there. The whole idea was crazy.