A New Eden Page 2

  “And if you ever open your own bar,” Paige retorted, “you could call it Alliterative Libations.”

  Sandal smiled broadly. “Maybe, but not in this town.”

  “So, I’m to assume there’s a whole pack of peeping Toms on horseback roaming these parts?”

  “It’s worse than that, unfortunately.”

  Paige took a sip from the martini, which was perfect as usual. “Do tell,” she urged.

  “They’re kind of hard to describe. It’s complicated. But really, you shouldn’t be worrying your lovely head over it. I’ll inform management of the incident, and you can be sure that you won’t be bothered again. You’re here at The Sophia to relax, and we’re here to make sure you can do so. I’m sorry you had to experience that today.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal, it’s just that I . . . that he . . .” she trailed off, but didn’t care to discuss it further, calming herself with another sip of her drink.

  “Please don’t dwell on it a second longer, hun,” Sandal said, her eyes soft and kind. “If the bastard comes around again, I’ll take care of him personally.”

  Paige looked at her askance. Sandal gave her a wink.

  “I believe you would,” Paige said. “But if you do, you have to promise to let me help.”

  Sandal only smiled and went about wiping down the bar.

  “Thank you, Sandal.”

  “You’re welcome, Paige.”

  Paige glanced at the copy of the novel she’d brought, a murder mystery set in South Africa. It was a well-told tale and she was well into it, but for the first time in weeks, she found herself reluctant to bury herself in a book again at the first opportunity.

  “Are you ready for something to eat?” Sandal asked. “Maybe an appetizer?”

  Paige nodded, finding herself suddenly hungry.

  “Would you like to see the menu?”

  “I’ll trust you.”

  After setting flatware and a napkin for her guest, Sandal disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later carrying a small china bowl on her fingertips. She set the steaming, artfully presented fare before Paige with a playfully servile flourish and a nod.

  “Would mademoiselle trust me with selecting a wine as well?”

  “Yes, that would be lovely, but –” Paige breathed in the aroma – “what is this?”

  “Try it.”

  Paige did. “Oh . . . my . . . god . . . this is . . .” Her body was melting from her tongue to her toes. “Okay, tell me,” she insisted, taking a second bite.

  “It’s a little something the chef created this afternoon. I thought you might like it. It’s a ricotta and chickpea ravioli in a parmesan wild-mushroom and truffle broth.” She poured a glass of a silky, soft-hued red wine – “Try this with it.”

  “Ah . . . oh . . . yes . . . thank you. That works perfectly. A Burgundy . . . A Givry, or a Gevrey-Chambertin?”

  “The latter. Very good!”

  “I’m never leaving here,” Paige said between bites. “Ever. And you have to work here forever. This will be our routine every evening. You will feed me and pair the wine, and we’ll have witty conversation, and the rest of the world can rot.”

  “As delightful as that sounds, I’ll agree to it only if, in turn, you’ll wait on me hand and foot every day at lunch.”

  “Sorry, can’t do it. I’m afraid that would cut into my sunning and reading schedule.”

  “I suppose you’ll just have to keep tipping me damned well at dinner then, won’t you?”

  Paige couldn’t help but smile, her first of the evening, her first in too long.

  “Ah, there it is. . . .” Sandal smiled and winked, pleased with her accomplishment.

  Paige wanted to launch a retort and thought of several, but she was too busy enjoying the ravioli, the wine, and the company. She could feel the warmth of the room caressing her – the richness and solidity of the mahogany, the comfort of the barstool cushion, the warming and soothing atmosphere – the fire in the fireplace, the soft music in the background. It had taken three weeks, but in this place she was healing. From the very walls around her, from the moment she had arrived, she had felt the embrace of a benevolent, gracious hospitality, as though she herself were the sole beneficiary of the intent that had designed and created the retreat that was The Sophia, as though it were all just for her.

  She and her new friend made small talk about the food, the wine, the cute waiter who kept finding excuses to pass through, the spring weather. At the high-desert elevation, the days were typically toasty warm, the nights refreshingly cool. The flowering plants around the property were in bloom – Sandal could hardly believe that Paige had yet to get outside and tour the resort’s gardens. She made her guest promise to do so.

  For Paige it was good to talk again, and at a normal, unreserved volume, to be conversing unreservedly in English with a native speaker with whom she could cut loose with any American idiom that might spill off her tongue. And so she talked, hearing herself chirping away about everything and nothing, like a lovesick teenage girl. It was good to be home. It was good to be eating so well. From room service, she had been ordering simple sandwiches and salads as her system readjusted to Western fare. Her previous meals off the menu had been quite good, but this evening’s offering from the chef’s own hand, with Sandal’s wine pairing, was from a higher, exalted realm.

  Sandal had brought out a second course – braised short ribs with a Cabernet Sauvignon reduction on a bed of trumpet-mushroom risotto, accompanied by haricots verts sautéed with almonds and capers, paired with a single-vineyard estate Cabernet. Paige could only nod wordlessly, humming her appreciation. It was minutes before she spoke again, between bites.

  “So – where did you learn wine?”

  “My father used to keep a few racks of mysterious, dusty bottles in the basement. We were accustomed to having wine at dinner growing up. He taught me the basics. I think my parents were into it because they thought it was very European. The wine almost made up for being raised vegetarian.”

  “Oh – sorry.”

  Sandal laughed. “It’s okay. I can still make a vegetarian lasagna that would make you never want to go back. I learned more about wine in the restaurant I worked in prior to coming to The Sophia. The chef here has taught me the rest. I’m always learning.”

  Dessert was a dark chocolate pot de crème with beurre noisette and warm beignets. An elderly gentleman and several couples had ventured into the restaurant proper for dinner, but Sandal and Paige were still alone at the bar.

  “Well, you’ve thoroughly spoiled me tonight,” Paige said, adding real cream to the coffee Sandal had French-pressed for her.

  “I think you needed it.”

  “If you only knew. . . .” Pleasantly sated, she felt the most relaxed she had been in years. “You know, I think I’m ready to stretch my legs a little. Is there anything in town worth seeing?”

  “I’d show you around myself, but I’m not off until eleven-thirty. You can take the lane out through the front gate and walk down a few blocks through Old Town – the gardens around the Victorians are pretty this time of year. You’ll end up at the plaza, our town square. It’s early – most of the shops will still be open.”

  “It’s safe then?”

  “You could say that. In Aurelia, if you left your purse sitting on a plaza bench it would probably still be there three hours later, that is unless someone had it in hand, trying to track you down to return it to you.”

  “It seems an unusually nice place.”

  Sandal shrugged. “If that’s what you’re into.” At Paige’s questioning look she changed the subject. “I’ll talk to management about your visitor today. Be assured it won’t happen again.” She smiled convincingly but seemed to have cooled a degree, as if in retreat from a line inadvertently crossed.

  Paige added a healthy tip to the check and signed it to her room. She rose to leave, feeling a momentary, urgent desire to go to the girl behind the bar and to
embrace her, and even more urgently, to be embraced in turn. How long had it been since – ? In a crushing flash, she recalled that the last human she had embraced had been dead. She pushed the memory down and stayed on her side of the bar.

  They exchanged warm, polite farewells. Paige left her book with Sandal for safekeeping. Crossing the lobby to The Sophia’s front doors, she realized that, despite it all, she was beginning to feel – normal. And normal was good.

  * * *

  Sandal watched her guest walk out of her bar and back into the world. She picked up the bar phone and pressed the top button.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Hale, it’s Sandal. Do you have a moment?”

  “I’m in the garden. Do you need for me to come in?”

  “No, ma’am, but one of the guests had a problem today.”

  “Yes?”

  Her phone in one hand, pruning shears in the other, Sophia Hale listened while continuing the careful snipping of her roses. As her bartender related the incident, emphasizing the rider’s apparel, the shears’ blades paused mid-air. “It was an Angel then?”

  “It must have been, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Sandal. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Sophia ended the call, sighing in consternation.

  Hearing her tone, the Great Pyrenees lying at her feet raised his big white head alertly, scanning the property, a low growl in his throat.

  “It’s okay, Jax,” she said, scratching him between the ears. “I’ve got this one. Thank you, though.”

  The dog lay down again, keeping an eye on her with lingering concern.

  The gardeners maintained the grounds in pristine condition, but they weren’t allowed to touch her prized tea roses, the more delicate varieties of which she had brought out of the greenhouse only a few days ago, now that the danger of late spring frosts had passed. She had been looking forward to her quiet time in the garden, but Sandal had been right to call her.

  A tall, slender woman with silvery blond hair, Sophia Hale carried herself with a poise and carriage more often associated with ballet schools and society ballrooms. Strangers often mistook her gentility for aloofness and her magnanimity for weakness, but her friends knew her to be entirely unpretentious. Those who crossed her learned that she could be as tough as gunmetal if necessary. Before her parents had sent her to private school in the East, she had birthed lambs in the dark hours, mended barbed-wire fences in the middle of thunderstorms, and on the distant reaches of her family’s ranch, shot mountain lions from horseback without hesitation or regret. As a fourteen-year-old, she had single-handedly chased off a gang of cattle rustlers, firing shots over their heads and at their feet, leaving holes in the tailgate of their truck for good measure.

  After marrying into the Hale empire, she had helped design and oversee the building of the eponymously named resort, and from the property’s first year, The Sophia was consistently rated second to none west of the Mississippi. Though still classified as a boutique hotel, over the years its occupancy had doubled in size, with the addition of the third floor of suites, the spa, and the cottages around the garden. The golf course, wrapping around the lower west side of the hill and spanning the river gorge, had been completed the autumn prior; over the past months the company had broken ground on a dozen luxury villa sites above the course on the eastern side.

  At fifty-eight, Sophia felt as though she were still in her prime. While her husband managed the balance of the Hale family’s properties and business concerns, holdings that were now six generations in the making, she still loved managing the resort herself, working six days a week when not traveling. On paper, it was true, she was an exceptionally wealthy woman – from the day she married she was neither required nor expected to lift a finger – but having worked the high-desert plateaus of the ranch in her youth, she had spent more than one night huddled under a blanket in a freezing rain, hungry, knowing what it was to want nothing more than a warm, comfortable bed, a hot meal and a dry roof over her head. Few of her wealthy guests had ever known with such immediate clarity what it was to want the simple comforts, but every one of them benefitted from Sophia Hale never having forgotten. She thrived on being the consummate hostess to appreciative guests, providing the ultimate in comfort, peace, well-being and – security.

  She snipped another rose stem at a clean angle, holstered the shears in her gardening-apron pocket and placed a call to her security captain.

  “Jim, to your knowledge have there been any Angels on the property lately?”

  “Yes, ma’am. One of the night guards thought he saw an Angel riding up around the new construction last week, but whoever it was took off before we could be sure. Then yesterday, one of the fellows was riding a big roan right through the valet parking lot like he owned the place. He left the property when I confronted him, but not before giving me a cold stare and a quote of scripture.”

  “Do you remember the verse?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I jotted it down.” She could hear him shuffling through notes. “Here it is: ‘How hard is it for those who trust in riches to enter into the kingdom of God.’”

  “I see. Well, unfortunately one of the Angels, perhaps the same gentleman, was peeping through the hedge at one of our female guests in one of the Valley View suites this afternoon.”

  The security captain swore under his breath. “I’m very sorry, ma’am. I’ll adjust our procedures and increase the rounds. With your permission, I may need to hire one or two more guards and install a few more cameras.”

  “Do what you need to do, Jim, but see to it that it doesn’t happen again. I’ll be making another call to the Church. Please keep me apprised of any future incidents. The Angels are not allowed on the property. No exceptions.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She disconnected and placed a second call. A secretary answered.

  “Brother Lundquist’s office.”

  “Good evening. This is Sophia Hale. Is Reverend Lundquist in?”

  “Brother Lundquist is preparing the Sunday sermon, ma’am. He cannot be disturbed. May I take a message?”

  “Please let him know that it’s Sophia Hale. He’ll take my call.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but he can’t be interrupted.”

  “Young lady, may I ask your name please?”

  There was a hesitation. “This is Sister Tina, ma’am.”

  “Sister Tina – I appreciate that you’re doing your job, and I’m sure that you do it very well, but Reverend Lundquist is going to be quite upset if he learns that I called and you refused to put me through. Now please do as I requested.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sophia walked up the stone path toward the gazebo, Jax following. She wondered what interest the Angels could possibly have in the new construction and how they might have accessed the area. The road to the villa sites – the lower, paved portion of the old mining road leading to the top of the hill – was accessible only through the golf course gate, which was always shut and locked at night. There was the lane and the path between the golf course and the resort proper, but while the resort’s front gate was open through the evenings, it was well monitored. All other accessible segments of the property’s perimeter were fenced. The fencing along the front of the golf course, though, was low enough that someone on horseback might –

  “Mrs. Hale, it’s so very nice to hear from you today. To what do I owe the pleasure?” The deep timbre of the pastor’s voice never failed to excite a small tremor in Sophia, quite against her wishes.

  “Reverend Lundquist, I would like to – ”

  “Please, Mrs. Hale, if you won’t call me Brother Lundquist, please call me Brother Cole – or, really, just Cole. I’m the last man on earth who should be revered by anyone. Only our Lord and Savior above is deserving of reverence.”

  “Reverend Lundquist, I believe we had a conversation last autumn about the presence of Angels on the resort property.�
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  “Why, of course, Mrs. Hale. I hope that they haven’t been inconveniencing you again.”

  “It’s not a matter of inconvenience, Reverend, but of respect for private property. I trust that you haven’t been encouraging the congregation to commit trespass.”

  “But of course not, ma’am – ”

  “This afternoon, one of your Angels was seen looking into a private suite here, and either the same gentleman or another was confronted yesterday riding through the valet parking lot. There may have been other, less blatant incidents over the last months, but this seems to be an escalation, and it’s unacceptable. I hope that we won’t need to get the sheriff involved.”

  “Oh, of course not, Mrs. Hale, and I am so sorry. I can assure you that breaking Man’s law is the last thing the Angels want to be doing. As we discussed before, the Angels do have their own ways, and as you know, they’re tasked with helping keep our sacred valley safe – I’m sure they’re simply trying to help keep an eye on things – ”

  “And as we discussed before, we have our own security, and we’re perfectly capable of calling the sheriff’s office when and as necessary. I trust that I won’t have to mention it again.”

  “No, no, of course not, ma’am. I was completely unaware that they’ve been on the property again, and I ask your forgiveness. You know, the younger lads can err out of zealous dedication to the mission from time to time, but I know that their hearts are in the right place. I’ll see to it that they stay off the property in the future.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re so very welcome, ma’am. I hope we can still look forward to seeing you in church again Sunday morning? You were quite lovely in your blue dress last Sunday. It is new, yes? I don’t believe I’ve seen you wear that one before.”

  “If you have the same music group perform again this Sunday as last, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. My ears could barely tolerate it.”

  “Oh, yes – Thorny Crown. Well, they were a bit of an experiment, you know, and just between you and me, those kids aren’t to my particular taste either, but today’s young people seem to respond to that kind of music style, and we’re always trying to find a balance, you know, to inspire the youth to praise God in whatever musical language they know and are comfortable with, particularly to draw in the kids who aren’t already Flock. I believe the group was to be on the program again this Sunday but – now that you mention it – I think you’re entirely right, Mrs. Hale, and I thank you for bringing it up. Perhaps we should save the more contemporary music for Friday night youth services.”