“Somebody pinch me so I wake up,” Donna said in wide-eyed wonder.
“Jesus Christ,” Dan B. repeated.
Lee’s rowdy voice hushed in awe. “This place is gonna kick…butt.”
Vera could only stare. A single glance quelled all her doubts at once. It’s beautiful, she thought.
Huge, high as a castle, Wroxton Hall had been restored to a Gothic masterpiece. Its old bricks had been sandblasted to a new earth-red luster. Sheets of ivy had actually been replanted in the new grout. The first-floor windows stood ten-feet tall, each opening to smooth, granite-edged verandas. The building rose in canted sections. Awninged balconies protruded from the second-and third-floor rooms; garret-suites, like ramparts against the sun, extended along the top floor. The roofs of each story had been laid in genuine slate, with polished stone friezes running the entire length of each. The building, in whole, looked nearly a hundred yards long.
Words occurred to Vera. Magnificent. Gorgeous. Awesome. But none seemed quite good enough to be applied to what stood before her. Palatial. There, that was it.
Wroxton Hall was far more than a restored mansion. It was a palace. Feldspar had retained the beauty of its age while rebuilding the place at the same time. Extraordinary, Vera thought. Feldspar’s a genius.
The four of them got out but could only remain standing speechless in the court. Birds looked down on them from the roof’s fine iron cresting. Each frieze bracket sported a gargoyle’s face, and the corner boards shined in polished granite against the plush red brick outer walls. The new glass of each high, narrow window reflected back at them like mirrors.
Behind them the move-it! truck rumbled up and stopped, discharging two loutish hired hands. “Fuckin’ Dark Shadows, man,” the driver commented through a high gaze. “Some joint, huh?” the other one remarked. “Where’s Trump and Maria?”
This was better than Vera could ever even have conceived. Feldspar was quite right; Wroxton Hall provided a resort of the utmost exclusivity. The remote locale meant nothing now. Once word got around in the trade magazines, people from all over the country would be coming here. People from all over the world.
Her excitement surged so intensely it seemed to arrest her will to move. She attempted to step forward, toward the front steps, but found she could only remain where she stood, her gaze scanning the building’s incomparable exterior. When the reality of what she was seeing set in, her breath grew light, and she actually felt subtly dizzied.
Slate-topped red brick steps led to the double entry doors, sided by great polished-granite blocks which gave perch to lazing stone lions. More articulate friezework underlined the transom’s gray-marble ledge and stained-glass fanlight. Wedged directly center was a small keystone of pure onyx in which was mounted a round, cut amethyst as big around as a silver dollar.
Great brass knockers decorated the high, walnut doors. More gorgeous stained glass filled the sidelights, set into ornate, carved sashes.
“We live here?” Lee mouthed in astonishment.
“Yes,” Vera nearly croaked.
“Jesus Christ,” Dan B. remarked yet again.
“Are we going to stand here all day like four dopes,” Donna proposed, “or are we going to go in?’
A click resounded. Behind them, the heated fountain gushed. A black line formed in the elegant veneered walnut trim. Then the great front doors pulled slowly apart.
Feldspar stubbily stepped onto the wide stone stoop. He wore a fine heather-gray Italian suit, black shirt, and black silk tie. He let his eyes rove across their upturned faces, pausing. Then he smiled within the fastidiously trimmed goatee.
His voice loomed like the building: expansive, vast. “Welcome to Wroxton Hall,” he greeted. His broad, short hands opened at his sides, as a minister’s might, during the sermon. ‘Or I should say, welcome, my friends…to The Inn.”
— | — | —
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vera’s awe redoubled once she stepped past the inlaid foyer. Tall vases sprung with flowers stood at either side; Feldspar closed the front doors behind them. Dan B., Donna, and Lee all squinted off in different directions while Vera glanced upward at the great crystal chandelier. Its icelike shimmer seemed to hover.
‘‘The atrium,’’ Feldspar remarked, rather dully. “Satisfactory work, but I’ve seen better.”
I haven’t, Vera thought. If anything, The Inn’s interior was more magnificent than its exterior. Paneled walls rose thirty feet, adorned by great framed oil paintings of Victorian theme. A sharp scent of newness hovered, like the chandelier’s shimmer: newly cut wood, fresh shellac and stain, new carpet. Between the twin, curving staircases sat a beautifully veneered oak reception table; all of the atrium’s tables, in fact, were obviously of the exceptional quality, and centered before fine, plushly upholstered armchairs. The atrium had a classy, quiet feel to it, all soft, dark hues and dark wood, more akin to an English men’s club than a mere hotel entry. Statues in dark marble stood upon pedestals ensconced into the atrium’s paneled walls.
“This way,” Feldspar said.
They followed the odd man off to the right, to the lower west wing. A long wall of wooden lattice filled with myriad small glass panes ended at opened French doors. Above the door, off a black iron rung, suspended the mahogany sign in etched letters:
THE CARRIAGE HOUSE
Vera’s excitement strewed. Feldspar had spared no expense; this made The Emerald Room look like a rib shack. Fine, white linens over oak tables, quality wing chairs, plush, dark carpet. A long planter formed an aisle between the dining room and the kitchen entrance, full of a vast medley of fresh flowers. Tastefully framed rustic artwork, all original oils, embellished elegant, gray-paneled walls. Vera slowly wandered among the dining tables, and in rising awe she recognized the best of everything down to the most minute details. Le Perle silverware, Tiffany & Company saucers and cups, Homer Laughlin plates, Luminarc glasses, shakers, and table vases.
“You, of course, have final say on the serviceware inventory,” Feldspar told her, “should this prove insufficient.”
Insufficient? Vera could’ve fainted. She remembered her own inventory procurement when she’d taken over at The Emerald Room—a fortune, but nothing compared to this. If anything, Feldspar had spent more than he’d needed to.
“You gentlemen will want to inspect the kitchen facilities,” he went on, addressing Dan B. and Lee, and to Donna, “and the service bar and waitress stations.” Feldspar faintly smiled. “And I’m happy to say that, as of now, my affiliation with all technical aspects of the restaurant are at an end. In other words, should you find anything unsatisfactory about the facilities, voice your grievances not to me but to Ms. Abbot.”
“Oh, we’re quite used to that,” Donna remarked and laughed.
“Come on, Curley,” Dan B. said to Lee. “Let’s check out our gig.”
“Sure, Shemp,” Lee replied as the three of them made for the swingdoors to the kitchen.
Vera still felt prickly in her excitement. Panning her gaze, she could scarcely believe that this beautiful restaurant was, for all intents and purposes, hers.
“Conclusions? Comments?” Feldspar bid. He seemed suddenly worried. Could he possibly fear that The Inn’s refurbishment did not meet her approval?