A Little Hotel in Cornwall, Page 2

  I pictured him nearing seventy, in a smoking jacket with a Meerschaum pipe between his lips. Sitting before his old-fashioned typewriter, trying to think of the perfect sentence for his latest paragraph.

  "Imagine," I said aloud. "What would it be like, having someone like him agree to read my work? It would never happen, right? A famous author mentoring a nobody just so they can compete for a literary prize."

  A glassy-eyed stare from Mr. Bubbles. I suppose it wasn't all that different from the one I would get from my neighbor downstairs, who still didn't remember who I was after two years.

  Take a chance. But it's not like I could walk up to his table in a book signing and ask for his help. The only way I could ever contact someone that elusive was by his publisher's address.

  So I flipped to a blank page on my pad and began writing a letter that his assistant would probably throw away in the coming week.

  Dear Mr. Davies,

  I am one of your novel's biggest fans. You've heard this a thousand times before, I am sure, but I can promise you that it's true in my case. Your book changed my life years ago, when I realized what becoming a writer really meant. Written words have the power to reshape the world, or create a whole new one in the mind's eye — this was the gift your story brought into my own. You helped inspire me to pursue writing as a passion, and I have never looked back from it.

  Now, however, I am in need of a writer's help to take the next step in my dream. I have an opportunity to compete for a literary prize, and a chance at future publication, through the Tucker Foundation's mentorship program, but I have no writer to sponsor me as a mentor. I know it's an incredible imposition to ask of a professional writer, but if you would agree to read my manuscript and give me some advice, it would give my work its best chance to be accepted into the program, and, possibly, published by the prestigious firm which sponsors the literary prize. All I need is a simple written critique — your professional opinion of my novel's style and concept — in order to apply for the literary prize.

  Please, if you would be willing to even consider helping me, I would be grateful. And if not, I simply want you to know that your books will always be my favorites, for all the pleasure and creative inspiration your stories have given me.

  Sincerely,

  Maisie Clark

  I put it in an envelope, and put two stamps on it for good measure. I popped it in the mailbox outside my building. At least I had followed one piece of my instructor's advice, I told myself.

  Two weeks later, there was a letter with a foreign postmark in my post office box when I unlocked it at two in the morning, after my part-time shift at a burger drive-thru. Half asleep, I scanned the envelope as I untied my Burger Buddy apron, which smelled of cheese fries and chocolate sauce.

  I tore it open.

  Dear Ms. Clark,

  Thank you for your letter. I always appreciate the kind words fans write about my work, and yours are certainly no exception. It's always inspiring to know one has encouraged a budding talent to finds its way in the world.

  As to your proposal, while it is enticing for me as a flattered writer to agree, I fear I must disappoint you. Even with miles and the vast ocean between us, I considered entertaining the chance to meet a young writer in need of guidance — in an exception to my own rule regarding public contact. In truth, I was somewhat intrigued by your boldness, since no one has ever dared to write me with such a proposal as yours. I have an intimidating reputation, perhaps; or, perhaps my reputation as a hermit frightened everyone else who might have wished to try.

  You, as an ardent fan, are undoubtedly acquainted with my instinct for privacy, and my dislike of electronic communications. I have no mobile, no email account — none of those things which you undoubtedly rely on for communication; and, sadly, I will not be traveling to America this year. I am sorry to say that this would make it extremely difficult for me to remain in communication with you long enough to satisfy your program's mentorship requirements. Most likely by the time your manuscript reached my mailbox from across the ocean, I would already be traveling from England again as compelled by my summer's plans, unable to receive it for some months until my return.

  I will, however, give you one piece of advice for your future, which I hope you will follow — strive on. Never give up, and never leave your dream to chance. If our paths never do cross, I truly hope that your work finds its place in the literary world, which would give me the greatest satisfaction in knowing that my novel has inspired the birth of other worlds, as your flattering prose has made claim.

  With sincere wishes for your success,

  Alistair Davies

  I read it several more times, as if I couldn't believe it. The letter's stationery was printed with two little lines at the top. The Penmarrow Hotel in Cornwall. There was a slight ink smudge near the bottom, where his pen had leaked. This was real handwriting, not an automated signature. Maybe not even that of his assistant — whatever assistant an elusive, reputed literary genius would hire to read his fan mail.

  One of the greatest living fiction authors had written me a personal letter. Yes, he had rejected my request because of those issues, but he had been nice and empathetic while doing it. He had even made it sound like he regretted saying 'no.'

  Giving up was not the answer, so long as I had the tenacity to fight for my plans. Go out on a limb, Wallace Scott had said. Take a crazy chance and make someone notice you. Trying and failing is better than simply failing by default.

  That's how I found myself standing alone at a bus stop in Cornwall two weeks later.

  ***

  I set down my suitcase and shoulder bag and looked around. The bright sunlight was reflected on the water of the ocean in the distance, like a current of diamonds on its surface. I waited for the realization to sink in that this view of the sea below and the village above belonged to a foreign country.

  I had spent part of my precious savings to come here, to find the dot on the map that represented the hotel Penmarrow. I knew it was highly possible that Alistair Davies was already gone, but it was still the best chance I had of meeting him. If he would read only a few chapters with his red pencil in hand, I would once again qualify for the Ink and Inspiration. Granted, alone and without a mentor to guide me through the rest of its process, but with a definite chance of salvaging my dream.

  Port Hewer welcomes you, said the sign, with words below it in Cornish. A nice wooden sign with a seascape painted in one corner. I could see a quaint village waiting for visitors in the distance — on my map, it had been a tiny red dot between legendary places of west and south county, like Penzance and St. Michael's Mount. I could see a grand building perched high above the sea and the village, as if watching over them both. That was the Penmarrow, I imagined, from the description on its website and its photos.

  Cornwall. Until now, it had only been a place in a geography book, and in books I had read. I had seen Doc Martin and Poldark on PBS, of course. I had read Rebecca dozens of times. But the scenery was more beautiful in person than I had imagined when it was only words on paper or pictures on a television screen. With the balmy breeze on my cheek, palm trees in the distance, and the sand glittering in the sun, I almost felt a little at home, even standing on the threshold of the Celtic Sea.

  I lifted my suitcase again, the one containing most of my important stuff — my books, my tablet computer, and my clothes, along with all my assignments from the Tucker class, and Mr. Bubbles, too. I didn't have much to pack, or much to leave behind. Since I didn't know how long I was going to be here, I didn't know what to bring.

  Somehow I'll bet this wasn't quite what Wallace Scott pictured when he told me to take a chance for my dream.

  The tour bus on which I had hitched my ride to this little hamlet had already rolled away, its brakes whining as it turned right in the distance. I looked for a cab or a passing car on the road leading to the village, but didn't see one. There was a beach full of strangers on my right, and a town fu
ll of strangers on my left.

  Lifting my bags, I began the mile-long trek to the location pinned on the screen of my phone, the supposed site of the opulent historic hotel I had seen in photographs.

  The Penmarrow Hotel was indeed at the top of the hill — one carved halfway off on one side, leaving steep cliffs hanging over the beach and the ocean, with the tall mansion sitting alone atop that flat green crest. The view of the manor I had seen from the village's entrance belonged to this place, I discovered, as I climbed the hill to its location.

  Pale red bricks and grey stone, arched windows stacked four stories high, with towers and chimneys rising from the roof above. I set down my luggage for a moment in the car park and took it in, the awe-inspiring house facing the water.

  The sea looked big enough to swallow this spot. A vast blue blanket among rocks which emerged like islands from the mists and foam. Paved pathways of cobblestone divided the hotel's green lawn on the cliffs above the water into neatly-manicured squares. From where I stood, in one direction were the lawn and the view of the sea; in the other, a walled-off yard behind stones on the other side of the car park. Green was the dominant color glimpsed over stone garden wall.

  Downton Abbey. Brideshead Castle. Cliff End. Misselthwaite Manor. Dozens of fictional English manors came to mind, suggested by this majestic, towering hall. I had stepped into one of the books of my university days, the old romances set in grand old houses, and now I was going to have to find my reality in it.

  It was time to go inside and ask for Mr. Davies. I would probably be denied at the desk, and would be left to hover in the lobby until someone who looked like the famous writer came down — and this part of the adventure was as far as my plans reached. I squared my shoulders and collected my bags so I could go and face this moment, as I had promised myself. Just not through the intimidating front door, maybe.

  A little gate stood open, and human voices emerged. I walked in the direction of the sound and the glimpse of green on the other side. There might be a patio on that side of the garden, where a writer might sit and absorb the atmosphere. There might be fellow guests who knew if a famous author stayed here recently. If I were very lucky —

  I stepped through the gateway, and discovered I was wrong about this. Instead of a tea party of guests or an Erich Segal lookalike deep in thought, I found a walled-off yard where a classic Rolls-Royce was parked, black paint gleaming in the sun, and three men were sitting just outside of a tiny arched side door.

  Two of them were younger — a wiry one with dark hair and a bigger one with a pencil moustache, who looked maybe Spanish or Portuguese, both in black trousers and white jackets and both smoking cigarettes. The wiry one sat on the rear tire evidently removed from the car. The third one, older with white hair, wore rubber boots, old clothes, and a floppy hat. He held a garden hose, letting water dribble on some flowers planted in terracotta urns.

  The wiry one whistled as he noticed my approach. "Look yonder, mates," he said. "Raven hair, decent legs, porcelain skin." He flashed me a smile as I paused at the gate's entrance. "Unless you're looking for trouble you're at the wrong door, lass. Other side o' the building's the posh entry."

  An Irish accent, of all things. "Is it?" I answered. "I ... um ... was looking for a friend of mine."

  "Say the word, and I'll be as friendly as you like," said the Latin one, releasing a stream of smoke from his lips.

  I ignored this. "His name's Alistair. He's staying at this hotel. Do any of you know him?" I hesitated. "I mean, I'm assuming you all work here, so...."

  "Do we work here? Does the Queen wear tights? Does the Doctor's TARDIS fly clockwise?" said the wiry one.

  "We don't wear these white coats for fun," said his Latin counterpart, whose accent had a dusky, Mediterranean flair. "We're twins. We like to confuse our mother by dressing alike."

  "I was talking, mate," said the wiry one in protest. "Alistair, you say? Is he the comely one with the cleft chin and blue eyes and a hundred girlfriends? Or the squinty one with an overbite? You look like the type who goes for the lean but strong type, though." He pretended to flex his muscles beneath the sleeves of his jacket.

  "Please, I haven't eaten lunch yet," said the other one. "Your muscles will remind me of hard-boiled eggs."

  "Riley Bloom, at your service," said the wiry one, with a little bow. "Clearly the replacement for this Alistair bloke you've been searching to find."

  "No thanks." These two were clearly the comic relief of the staff. "The person I'm looking for, he's a writer. Maybe you know if there's a famous writer staying in this hotel?" I held onto my last bit of hope that maybe Alistair Davies had a public face in the English countryside despite his reclusive side.

  "I heard a rumor last week there was a writer staying here," said Riley, thoughtfully. "Wrote dull stuff, someone said. Your boyfriend, is he?" He stubbed out his cigarette.

  "No," I said. "He's not my boyfriend. No one like that." There was still a chance that Mr. Davies was here, which was exciting to know after the risk I had taken.

  "You fancy him?"

  "No —"

  "How close a mate do you mean?"

  "You know, I should probably just go ask at the desk," I said, retreating with my luggage. "Sorry to bother you. My mistake."

  "She'll complain about you to Brigette once she's inside. Management will sack the both of you, one o' these days," said the old man, dryly. Water overflowed from the pots onto the ornamental gravel below, but he didn't seem to care.

  "Gomez here is single if the mysterious foreign types are your fancy —"

  "Bye now," I said. I retreated from the little side yard, hearing complaints and entreaties in the wake of my departure.

  Round to the front of the hotel, confronting its majestic face up close. Stained glass panes filled the arches above the tall windows and the front door. A brass plaque next to the door was engraved with the hotel's name. There wasn't a doorman so I let myself inside.

  It opened to a golden hall. The afternoon sunshine created that illusion, beating down on brass fixture and gilding, on warm wood and cream and color tiles in a square carpet of Alhambra's Moorish beauty. Polished pillars, sweeping fronds from potted palms, impressive teak and cherry furnishings upholstered in brocade in the sitting area facing the windows pointed seawards.

  Damask drapes for tall windows, and patterns of rosy and sea blue light, misty green and ruby, splashed on the floor from the stained glass set in the arches above window and door. I glanced behind me, seeing them lit up like a cathedral, only with flowers and leaves — thick leaded glass with its clear panes lightly frosted, framed in amber and rose rectangles.

  Standing in this stunning room, my own reflection in the pillars intimidated me. Staying here as a guest would cost a fortune. Was I sure an author rich and famous enough to be its guest would ever speak to a random girl in the lobby, waiting to catch him when he came downstairs for his mail?

  The hotel's front desk was ahead of me, with burnished cubbies for room keys and letters, a gleaming desk with an open registry, and neat stacks of brochures. A smart black computer monitor sat not even a stone's throw from the old-fashioned service bell, the monitor's screen saver a restless, rolling ocean view. No one was behind the desk, as if this sleepy, daydreamy afternoon by the sea had encouraged everybody on staff to disappear. No one was present whom I could ask about the forwarding address for Alistair Davies, that is.

  I approached. "Hello?" I said. Nobody was hiding under it, apparently. A glance at the lobby's waiting area revealed empty chairs and sofa in the open room, an antique French clock ticking on the shelf of a beautiful carved mantel for the fireplace occupying a noticeable share of the large wall. I peered the other way, seeing the entrance to a dining hall at the passage's end, its curtains fluttering in the breeze.

  I stepped that way, suitcase bumping against my legs. "Hello? Anybody there?" I was going to have to ring the antique bell on the desk, which I hated doing — there's something
so impatient about ringing service bells. That annoying little peal that has two tones — 'come now' and 'still waiting.'

  One of the hall doors close by was ajar, but it proved to be a cleaning cupboard, with rows of washroom paper, boxes of tissues, bottles of furniture polish and bathtub scouring powder, brooms and mops. But as I turned away from it, I found a woman standing directly behind me.

  "You're eager to begin aren't you?" she said. "I'm surprised, frankly, since you're late."

  That was an unexpected opening speech. "Begin?" I repeated.

  "We weren't expecting you at this point," she said. "But it's a good thing you're here. You have no idea how many people simply don't show up — or do, and simply don't suit." The woman wore a somber but smart business suit, and a shiny brass badge with a name printed on it that I didn't catch before her clipboard blocked it from sight.

  I felt as if I had been dropped abruptly into a story in progress. "I see," I answered. Having no idea what the proper reply would be.

  The woman had a checklist in hand. "I haven't made a mistake, have I? You're not the one from Hungary, are you?"

  "No," I said. "I'm definitely not from Hungary." Curiouser and curiouser, in the words of Alice.

  "Come into the office, please." She motioned me now into a room with neat stacks of paperwork on its desk, and lots of packages and random items on its shelves. "You don't mind if this is a bit informal, do you? I'm in a bit of a rush today."

  "That's fine," I said. She had found a sheet of paper from a thin stack on her desk, and reached for a sharp pencil. I was opening my mouth to tell her that I couldn't afford a room when she asked a question.

  "Now, let's see ... country of origin?" she said. "Canada?"

  "No. America," I said. "Los Angeles, California. But I —"

  "You're an American? For some reason, I thought you were Canadian." She checked her sheet. "Yes, it says 'Canadian' here. Someone has obviously made a mistake on this form." She erased one blank and made a correction. "Employed in the restaurant business last. Waitress, I trust?"