Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

most of her time in her room now. Occasionally, Mrs. Oaks airs her out," he quipped. I couldn't imagine being so flippant about your sick old mother. "I'd introduce you to her, but she doesn't remember who the hell I am anymore, much less know what I was talking about if I brought you in to see her. She'll probably think you're just another hotel employee. Come on," he urged, and showed me to the stairway.
    Our bedroom was a very large one, just as large as any at The Meadows, and it had two wide windows that looked out over the ocean. The bed was large with thick, dark oak posts and a hand-carved headboard with two dolphins engraved in it. There was a matching dresser, night tables, and an armoire. Against the far right wall was a vanity table with an ornate oval mirror.
    "I suppose you're going to want to make some changes around here now that you're moving in," Bill said. "I know the place could use some lightening up and some color. Well, you can do what you want. Those things never interested me. Make yourself to home while I go get someone to fetch our things."
    I nodded and went to the windows. The view was breathtaking. I had seen only a small part of the hotel, but I had this immediate warm feeling, this instant sense of belonging the moment Bill left me alone and I could gaze out over the grounds. Perhaps fate had not tossed me so carelessly and randomly about after all, I thought, and I left to explore the rest of the second story.
    As soon as I stepped out of the master bedroom, the door of another room across the hail opened and a short, stout woman with dark hair and dark eyes appeared. She wore a white uniform that looked more like a waitress's uniform than a nurse's. She paused the moment she saw me and smiled, a warm, soft smile that made her cheeks balloon.
    "Oh, hello. I'm Mrs. Oaks."
    "I'm Lillian," I said, extending my hand.
    "Mr. Cutler's bride. Oh, I'm so happy to meet you. You're just as pretty as they said you were."
    "Thank you."
    "I take care of Mrs. Cutler," she said.
    "I know. Can I see her?"
    "Of course, although I must warn you she's quite senile." She stepped back and I peered into the bedroom. Bill's mother was sitting in a chair, her lap covered with a small quilt. She was a tiny woman, diminished even more by age, but she had large, brown eyes that scanned me quickly.
    "Mrs. Cutler," Mrs. Oaks said. "This is your daughter-in-law, Bill's wife. Her name is Lillian. She's come to say hello."
    The old lady gazed at me for a long moment. I had the idea that my appearance might just have shaken her into some sensibility again, but she suddenly scowled.
    "Where's my tea? When are you bringing me my tea?" she demanded.
    "She thinks you're one of the kitchen staff," Mrs. Oaks whispered.
    "Oh. It's coming, Mrs. Cutler. It's just getting hot."
    "I don't want it too hot."
    "No," I said. "It'll cool down by the time it gets to you."
    "She hardly has a clear moment anymore," Mrs. Oaks said, wagging her head sadly. "Old age. It's the one disease you don't want to end, but then again . . ."
    "I understand."
    "Anyway, welcome to your new home, Mrs. Cutler," Mrs. Oaks said.
    "Thank you. I'll see you again, Mother Cutler," I said to the shriveled old woman who was nearly a ghost of herself. She shook her head.
    "Send someone up here to dust," she ordered.
    "Right away," I said and stepped out. I looked over the rest of the corridor and returned to our room just as Bill had gotten two grounds workers to carry up all our things.
    "Before you unpack everything, I'll show you around the hotel and introduce you to everyone," Bill said. He took my hand and led me downstairs. We passed through the long corridor and came out by the kitchen. The aromas of Nussbaum's good cooking preceded our arrival. The chef looked up from his preparations as we entered.
    "This is the new Mrs. Cutler, Nussbaum," Bill said. "She's a gourmet chef from a rich Southern plantation, so watch yourself."
    Nussbaum, a dark-skinned man with blue eyes and dark brown hair, gazed at me suspiciously. He was only an inch or so taller than I was, but he looked formidable and self-assured.
    "I'm no cook, Mr. Nussbaum, and everything you're making smells delicious," I said quickly. His smile began in his eyes and then trembled down to his lips.
    "Here, try my potato soup," he said, and offered me a spoonful.
    "Wonderful," I said, and Nussbaum beamed. Bill laughed, but when he and I left the kitchen, I pulled him aside immediately.
    "If you