decision, and were learning the business of inn-keeping as they went along. There had been a few rough moments to start, but now everything seemed to be falling into place. And just in time for the holiday season.
Derrick was still smiling as he turned back to the reception desk, where he noticed their housekeeper Purline had left the morning’s mail. He had asked her repeatedly to take the mail to the office, patiently explaining that leaving stacks of business mail out for guests to see completely destroyed the atmosphere of refined elegance they were trying to create, and for a while she had seemed to understand. Now it appeared she was slipping back into old habits. He sighed, picked up the stack, and started to call to her when the sound of the vacuum cleaner whined to life down the hall. Check-out was at 11:00 a.m. At precisely 11:05, Purline switched on the vacuum cleaner and kept it going without interruption for the next hour and a half. It would be pointless to try to talk to her now.
He glanced through the envelopes on his way to the office, and stopped when the return address on one of them caught his eye. “Oh my goodness,” he whispered. “It’s here.” He slit open the envelope with his thumbnail, which only illustrated his excitement since he had a perfectly good ivory-handled letter opener with mother-of pearl inserts in his desk cubby, and he believed in doing things right. He pulled out the contents of the envelope, examined it with wondering, delighted eyes, and cried again, more loudly, “It’s here!”
“It’s here!” exclaimed Paul at the same time, coming around the corner with a large box in his arms.
And Harmony called from the office, “Gentlemen, it’s here!” She came out of the office, beaming as she waved a sheet of paper fresh from the printer. “Our final reservation! We are officially booked for Christmas weekend!”
“The hummingbird ornaments from Hungary,” Paul said excitedly, juggling the box to tug one of the exquisite little cut-glass birds from its wrapping. “They’re magnificent!”
Paul Slater, the former syndicated style columnist for the Washington Post and best-selling author of several books on the same subject, was a tall, elegantly kept man in his sixties who managed to look flawlessly put together even in a rustic plaid shirt and deep green corduroy trousers. While the two men shared most of the general duties of running the B &B equally—only occasionally deferring to the opinion of their self-appointed general manager, Harmony—when it came to matters of decorating and style, Paul almost always had the last word. The handblown glass hummingbirds for the parlor Christmas tree were, according to Paul, an absolute must-have for their first Christmas at the Hummingbird House.
Derrick regarded them both with a triumphant, superior smile for a moment before declaring, “Our insurance check has arrived.” And he brandished it in the air like a magician pulling a row of colorful scarves from his hat.
Paul’s eyes grew big and he quickly—although very carefully—set the box of glass ornaments on the turned-leg table outside the office door. “Let me see that. Is it real?”
“Every last hard-earned penny,” Derrick assured him.
Paul put on the glasses he wore on a chain around his neck, read the numbers and sank back against the wall in relief. “It’s here,” he said. “Our insurance check is here.”
Before purchasing the Hummingbird House, Paul and Derrick had had a disastrous encounter with an unscrupulous contractor that resulted in their unfinished dream house falling into the unfinished pit of their dream swimming pool. While there was nothing to do about the parcel of land for which they now had no use, or about the contractor who had taken advantage of them and fled the state, it turned out that their insurance policy actually covered their losses on the unfinished house. Nonetheless,
Derrick was still smiling as he turned back to the reception desk, where he noticed their housekeeper Purline had left the morning’s mail. He had asked her repeatedly to take the mail to the office, patiently explaining that leaving stacks of business mail out for guests to see completely destroyed the atmosphere of refined elegance they were trying to create, and for a while she had seemed to understand. Now it appeared she was slipping back into old habits. He sighed, picked up the stack, and started to call to her when the sound of the vacuum cleaner whined to life down the hall. Check-out was at 11:00 a.m. At precisely 11:05, Purline switched on the vacuum cleaner and kept it going without interruption for the next hour and a half. It would be pointless to try to talk to her now.
He glanced through the envelopes on his way to the office, and stopped when the return address on one of them caught his eye. “Oh my goodness,” he whispered. “It’s here.” He slit open the envelope with his thumbnail, which only illustrated his excitement since he had a perfectly good ivory-handled letter opener with mother-of pearl inserts in his desk cubby, and he believed in doing things right. He pulled out the contents of the envelope, examined it with wondering, delighted eyes, and cried again, more loudly, “It’s here!”
“It’s here!” exclaimed Paul at the same time, coming around the corner with a large box in his arms.
And Harmony called from the office, “Gentlemen, it’s here!” She came out of the office, beaming as she waved a sheet of paper fresh from the printer. “Our final reservation! We are officially booked for Christmas weekend!”
“The hummingbird ornaments from Hungary,” Paul said excitedly, juggling the box to tug one of the exquisite little cut-glass birds from its wrapping. “They’re magnificent!”
Paul Slater, the former syndicated style columnist for the Washington Post and best-selling author of several books on the same subject, was a tall, elegantly kept man in his sixties who managed to look flawlessly put together even in a rustic plaid shirt and deep green corduroy trousers. While the two men shared most of the general duties of running the B &B equally—only occasionally deferring to the opinion of their self-appointed general manager, Harmony—when it came to matters of decorating and style, Paul almost always had the last word. The handblown glass hummingbirds for the parlor Christmas tree were, according to Paul, an absolute must-have for their first Christmas at the Hummingbird House.
Derrick regarded them both with a triumphant, superior smile for a moment before declaring, “Our insurance check has arrived.” And he brandished it in the air like a magician pulling a row of colorful scarves from his hat.
Paul’s eyes grew big and he quickly—although very carefully—set the box of glass ornaments on the turned-leg table outside the office door. “Let me see that. Is it real?”
“Every last hard-earned penny,” Derrick assured him.
Paul put on the glasses he wore on a chain around his neck, read the numbers and sank back against the wall in relief. “It’s here,” he said. “Our insurance check is here.”
Before purchasing the Hummingbird House, Paul and Derrick had had a disastrous encounter with an unscrupulous contractor that resulted in their unfinished dream house falling into the unfinished pit of their dream swimming pool. While there was nothing to do about the parcel of land for which they now had no use, or about the contractor who had taken advantage of them and fled the state, it turned out that their insurance policy actually covered their losses on the unfinished house. Nonetheless,
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