Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

Ma's gotten too old to do any work. Just before the wedding, I hired a Hungarian man who was referred to me by a friend. His name's Nussbaum and he is a great chef, although the kitchen staff complains about his hot temper.
    "You'll see what it's like," Bill said, smiling. "Most of the time I'm running around trying to keep peace among the workers."
    I nodded and sat back to watch the scenery rush by. I didn't want to reveal that I had never seen the ocean before, but when it suddenly appeared on the horizon, I gasped with awe. I had read about it and seen pictures of it, of course, but confronting the vastness this close up was overwhelming. I could only gape like a young schoolgirl and take delight in the sailboats and the fishing vessels. When a large ship appeared, I couldn't hold back a cry.
    "Hey," Bill said, laughing. "I know you told me your father didn't take you kids to the ocean much, but you've been here before, haven't you?"
    "No," I revealed.
    "No? Well I'll be . . ." He shook his head. "I do have myself a virgin bride of sorts, don't I?" He laughed. I glared at him. He could infuriate me so at times with his arrogance. I decided not to be as honest the next time.
    A short while later, we made a wide turn and I saw the sign announcing our entrance to Cutler's Cove.
    "The authorities renamed this section of beach and the small street of shops after our family because of the success of my resort," he declared with characteristic pride.
    He continued, bragging about all the wonderful things he was going to do, but I wasn't listening. Instead, I gazed at the scenery. The coastline curved inward at this point, and I saw that there was a beautiful length of sandy white beach that gleamed as if it had been combed clean by an army of workers armed with rakes that had teeth as small as combs. Even the waves that came up the sand, came up softly, tenderly, soaking the sand and retreating.
    "See that," Bill pointed out. There was a sign that read RESERVED FOR CUTLER COVE HOTEL GUESTS ONLY. "We've got our own private beach here. It makes the guests feel exclusive," he added, winking, and then he nodded to his left and I looked up the rise to see the Cutler's Cove Hotel, my new home.
    It was a big three-story robin's egg-blue mansion with milk-white shutters and a large wraparound porch. Leading up to the porch was a stairway created from bleached wood. The foundation was made from polished stone. We started up the driveway, passing between two pillars of stone with round lanterns atop each. Here and there were a few guests meandering about the grounds upon which there were two small gazebos, wooden and stone benches and tables; fountains, some shaped like large fish, some simple saucers with spouts in the middle; and a beautiful rock garden that snaked around the front of the house.
    "A little better than The Meadows, wouldn't you say?" Bill asked arrogantly.
    "Not in its heyday," I said. "Then it was the jewel of the South."
    "Some jewel," Bill quipped. "At least we didn't use slave labor to build this place. I just love it when the Southern aristocrats like your father brag about what their families built up. Hypocrites and phonies, the whole lot of them. And easy marks for cards," he added with a wink.
    I ignored his sarcasm as we made our way around the building to a side entrance.
    "We can get to our quarters faster this way," he explained when he parked the car. "Well, welcome home," he added. "Do I have to carry you across the threshold?"
    "No," I said quickly.
    He laughed. "I wasn't serious," he said. "Just leave everything in the car. I'll send someone out for our things in a moment. First things first."
    We got out of the car and entered the house. A short corridor led us into what Bill called the family section. The first room we came upon was a sitting room that had a fieldstone fireplace and warm-looking antique furniture―soft cushion chairs in hand-carved wood frames, a dark pine rocking chair, the seat of which was now covered with a white, cotton blanket, and a thick cushioned couch with pinewood end tables. The hardwood floor had an oval, eggshell-white rug.
    "That's my father's portrait and that's my mother's," Bill pointed out. The two pictures were side by side on the far left wall. "Everyone says I look more like Pop."
    I nodded; he did.
    "All the family bedrooms are on the second floor. I got a small bedroom off the kitchen down here for Mrs. Oaks. She takes care of my mother, who spends