But their plans had become nothing but meaningless fantasy in one fateful night. The night she last saw Jeb.
Pushing her face into her pillow, Evelyn tried to rewrite the memory, to change the ending. And, as always, she failed. When sleep finally came, so did her nightmares.
Evelyn awoke an hour before her alarm clock was set to chime. She fingered her blinds to peek at the pre-twilight morning and shrugged. After the nightmares subsided, she slept well enough, and she’d barely left her room the day before. Her dismal mood had vanished, leaving a growling hunger in its place. She left her room, entered the tiny kitchenette, and grabbed a half-empty carton of orange juice from inside the mini-fridge. After taking a long pull of the sweet drink, she set the carton on the counter and dropped bread into the toaster. As the bread cooked, she ransacked a carton of cold Chinese food from the week before. The toast popped up and she slathered both slices with peanut butter. She washed the toast down with more orange juice and frowned at the combination of flavors.
“What’s one more bad decision?” she mumbled.
She finished her morning routine and left her apartment, setting out on the ten-minute walk to the Kensington Estate. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon when she passed through the iron gates and unlocked the front door of the sprawling Bed and Breakfast. She closed the door behind her and took a deep breath.
The building, though more than a century and a half old, smelled floral and clean. The cherrywood floors gleamed beneath the light of a crystal chandelier. The furniture was Victorian, nestled between the clean lines and stately pillars of the mansion’s Greek Revival architecture. But few, if any, of the guests noticed the stylistic disparity, and it never bothered Evelyn. The owners had redecorated, pairing Merlot rugs and tapestries with black walnut trim and railings. The dark colors gave the mansion an air of mystery, and it never failed to spark Evelyn’s imagination. She’d never get rich working as a part-time manager at the historic estate, but she wouldn’t trade the job for anything.
Ahead of her, a pair of staircases left the main floor, curved outward, and joined together at the second level, forming a heart shape. Between the twin staircases on the main level was a pair of unobtrusive doors, which suddenly opened, spilling amber light into the foyer. Sonya stepped out, carrying a bouquet of fresh-cut roses.
“You’re here early,” she said, crossing the room. She paused, plucked a flower from the bouquet, and handed it to Evelyn. “I’m sorry about this weekend. It sucks—what Donny did.”
Evelyn nodded and held the rose against her nose.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Evelyn said, tucking the rose back into the bouquet. “This place always perks me up.”
Sonya nodded. “It feels magical, doesn’t it? Makes you feel like, no matter what happens, there’s hope for a better tomorrow.” She bunched the roses together and added, “I was going to put these in the copper vase. Is that alright?”
Evelyn shook her head. “It’ll look cheap beside the cups and utensils. Put them in the crystal vase with the silver base and make sure you place it at the back of the table. We don’t want any petals falling into the Eggs Benedict.”
Sonya grinned. “Actually, Wayne is making his specialty oatmeal and fruit kabobs. And bacon, of course. Do you mind getting the door for me?”
Evelyn hurried forward and opened a set of French doors. Sonya strode inside, her feet noiseless on the sturdy floor and plush carpet. She tucked the roses under her arm and opened a cabinet to retrieve the silver vase, then she nestled the bouquet into place.
“What do you think?” Sonya asked as she aligned the centerpiece on the table.
“It looks perfect,” Evelyn said, though she wasn’t looking. She was rifling through a closet, gathering cleaning supplies. “Can you finish setting the tables for breakfast? I’m going to polish the bookshelves in the west lounge.”
“Sure,” Sonya said, shrugging. “Are you sure you don’t want help?”
“When breakfast is over, you can trade with me, and I’ll see if any of the guests would like to schedule a tour.” Evelyn departed, entering a narrow hallway at the south end of the foyer. The mansion had eight corridors around the periphery of the first and second floors, which servants had once used to reach any corner of the estate without disturbing guests. The secret hallways had been built during a time of hatred and ignorance, catering to wealthy patrons who wished to be served by slaves but see them as little as possible. But the elitist parties of the Kensington Estate were a thing of the past. Now, Evelyn and the rest of the staff used the hallways to create an atmosphere of thoughtful solitude—and it worked. Most guests whispered in the lounges and ballroom without ever being told to do so.
Evelyn stopped next to a door marked with the words “Lounge Three” and grasped the iron ring that served as a handle. The door swung inward—to prevent collisions with guests wandering the halls—and Evelyn stepped onto a gray marble floor flecked with copper. She crossed a hallway that was much wider than the one she had left and entered the lounge. Four bronze statues depicting Greek gods stared at her from the four corners of the room, and the walls between them were blanketed with book-laden shelves. A hickory ladder leaned against the north wall, its wheels held in place on the floor and ceiling by a pair of inset tracks. Evelyn crossed the room and lifted a handle to lock the ladder in place before climbing its rungs. Taking as many books as she could tuck under one arm at a time, she began unburdening the top shelf. She placed the books on the floor, organizing them exactly as they had been on the shelf.
The books were organized alphabetically by title, not by author. The owners claimed the unusual cataloging encouraged visitors to branch out and explore new worlds, rather than reread the works of authors they already knew and trusted. The tomes were all jacketed with rustic covers, though they had all been printed in the past fifty years. Clarence Kensington, the previous owner of the mansion, had paid a small fortune to have every book in the library reprinted and bound with hard covers. The style of each cover was exactly the same, but the colors varied by author. The decision to organize books by title made the lounge more inviting, and Evelyn often stayed after work to read romance novels or historical fiction.
She never ventured into erotica—her favorite books were written in the 19th century when graphic content was taboo—but her favorite novels were united by a common theme. They all depicted a man or woman overcoming adversity to find true love, and they all had a happy ending. As her hand settled on The Count of Monte Cristo, she felt a phantom jolt of electricity. She’d read the book more than once, and she always enjoyed the ending. Now, as the events of the story flooded her memory, she realized, for many of the characters, the story had ended in tragedy. She shivered, wondering how her own story would end.
No, she told herself, not here. This is a safe place—a happy place. You can feel sorry for yourself when you get home.
She finished unloading a section of shelves then retrieved her rag and furniture polish. She dusted each shelf meticulously, forcing the cloth into the corners and rubbing the polish until it shined. When she finished, she climbed higher up the ladder and inspected her work, attacking any remaining speck of dust. Next, she placed the books back on the shelves one by one, brushing off their covers with a feather duster as she went. It was tedious work, but she didn’t mind. The smell of the room and the texture of the books brought back fond memories, whisking her away to imaginary worlds without pain, regret, or disappointment. Whenever she cleaned the Lounges or the Library, time seemed to accelerate, and she always felt a tinge of sadness when she had to leave.