"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 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. Oak
s said. "This is your daughter-in-law, Bill's wife. Her name is Lillian. She's come to say hello."