The Summer of Moonlight Secrets (6 page)

15

Allie Jo

“And this is the service tunnel. At the turn of the century, most of our guests traveled by train or stagecoach and stayed on for several months. Naturally, they had large wardrobes to pack.”

We're standing in the entrance to the tunnels that crisscross under the hotel. Mom's giving her tour, which, this being a Tuesday, has a small turnout: me, Chase, Sophie, and Ryan and Nicholas, the two brothers I babysit. Nicholas is seven and Ryan is four, and they live in the family suite on the first floor since their parents work here too.

I stand beside Mom, facing our audience. As she speaks, I mouth every word she says; I know the whole thing by heart. If they pay attention, they'll learn a lot of stuff.

“After the guests disembarked, porters ran out to unload the trunks, and there were many of them, as you— Allie Jo?” She turns to me. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Please continue.” This is fun.

“There were many of them, as you can imagine, and they were quite heavy. The porters loaded them onto handcarts and pulled them up the lawn to this service tower.”

I gesture around with my hands like she does. Nicholas snickers.

Mom gives me that mom look. I make sure to look innocent.

“Servants were not to be seen back then, so, as you can see, these tunnels have paths leading to every corner of the hotel— Allie Jo, what are you doing?” She whips around, one hand on her hip, a little smile on her lips.

“She's saying your words!” Nicholas yells. Ryan bursts out laughing, and I see Sophie's and Chase's mouths struggling to keep straight.

“Well, you know the tour as well as I do,” she says. She looks at our little group. “Ladies and gentlemen”—she gestures with her hand—“your new tour guide.”

“Thank you, Mom.” I bow as Mom steps aside.

I swing open a heavy cedar door. “You will notice the brick-lined rooms on either side. The small one on your left was the first one built. It was the icebox. It's been gutted, but you can still tell by its pantry shape how it might have been used.”

Sophie raises her hand.

“Yes? In the back?” I ask.

Chase guffaws.

Sophie steals a glance at him, then looks at me. “You mean like a refrigerator?”

“Yes. Huge blocks of ice were carried in and stored in there with food. The hotel became so popular, a second room was needed.

“Now, our young men were off fighting in the First World War, and then the Great Depression hit. This was also the time of Prohibition.”

Mom raises her hand and speaks before I call on her. “What does that mean?”

“Good question,” I say, then direct my answer to Chase and Sophie.

“Prohibition is when the government wouldn't let people drink alcohol. But these were times when people needed relief the most, so Mr. Meriwether built the second room really big”—I look around the way Mom does at this point, as if she can't risk the wrong person hearing the next part, and I stage-whisper—“and he turned it into a speakeasy.” I straighten up and let that sink in.

Only they just stare at me. “Don't you know what a speakeasy is?”

They shake their heads.

“It's a place where people could come and drink and forget their troubles. This is where Mr. Meriwether met Mrs. Meriwether. She was already married, but once she spotted Mr. Meriwether, that was it—love at first sight.”

Chase's features pull together and he frowns.

“They'd meet here in secret until her husband found out and divorced her. You see that porthole, that little window? Well, the doorman inside the speakeasy would slide it open to make sure the person knocking wasn't a policeman. Mr. Meriwether used it to make sure it wasn't the husband on the other side.”

Sophie gasps with pleasure, her face lit up, but Chase looks positively stormy.

“I wish the husband had beaten the door down and punched the guy out,” he says.

“That wouldn't have happened,” I say, wondering a little at his remark. “The old chief of police himself was usually in there, trying to win some of Mr. Meriwether's money at the poker table.”

“Oh, my gosh!” Sophie says, which, of course, is the correct response.

I look at Mom and she smiles back. I've done pretty well, I think. I let her take over again, this being as far as she ever leads anyone into the tunnel. We go up the stairs and she shows us the framed black-and-white photos of long-ago movie stars sitting on the veranda or, in Clark Gable's case, eating The Meriwether's Famous Blueberry Pancakes in the Emerald Dining Room.

Mom ends the tour at the front desk and gives everyone, me included, a Meriwether magnet, then says good-bye, what a good tour group we were, and all that stuff.

Ryan tugs on my shirt. He cups his hand to whisper, waiting until I bend. “What's wrong wif his arm?” His breath is hot and moist on my ear.

“Fractured femur,” I say. It's the only bone word I know.

“That's a leg bone,” Chase says. He turns to Ryan. “I broke my arm.”

“Oh.” Ryan's mouth puckers. “Did it hurt?”

“It hurt a lot. You want to sign my cast?”

Both boys shriek and jump. Instead of dinging for Clay, I get the markers myself and give one to each boy. Ryan knows how to write his name, and it turns out pretty well for a four-year-old. Nicholas takes great care in writing his name.

I ask Sophie and Chase, “How'd you like the tunnel?” For most people, the tunnel and the speakeasy are their favorite parts of the tour.

“I don't think you guys should be talking about people leaving their husbands,” Chase spouts. “You tell it like it's a real love story.”

I stare at him in surprise. “I thought you liked the tour.”

“I didn't like that part,” he says.

Sophie's fingers press against her lips. “I thought it was kind of interesting.”

“Well, it's not interesting to me,” he says. “There's nothing interesting about that, okay?”

Most people like the tour. “What's the matter with you?” I say. I am surprised and a little annoyed with his lack of appreciation.

He glances up at me, and I swear, his face looks all lost for a second, then he pulls it together and says, “Nothing. I didn't mean that. It was a good tour.”

I stare at him. “Well!” That's all I can think of. If I was done knitting my scarf, I'd whirl it around my neck and storm off.

16

Chase

After the tour, Sophie has to split for lunch with her parents, and Nicholas and Ryan's mom comes to get them. I'm kind of hungry too. I finger the dollar bills from Dad in my pocket and think about that vending machine by the game room.

Strands of Allie Jo's hair cling to her forehead. You know how people say,
It's not the heat; it's the humidity
? Well, it's true. “Let's go to my house,” she says. “I'm hungry.”

“That's okay,” I say. “I'm not really hungry.” I'm kind of leery about going to other people's houses. Once you're in, if things don't go well, you're trapped. Besides, I point out, “I thought you lived here.”

“I do live here and I know you're hungry. I heard your stomach growling.”

Objection!
I think to myself.
The opposition is using evidence not declared by this court!
Still, her kitchen probably has something better than the bag of pretzels I was planning.

Her house turns out to be a suite above the hotel's restaurant. I thought it would be like the room Dad and I are in, but it looks like a regular home once you get inside: living room, kitchen, hallway. There are pictures everywhere: Mom, Dad, and Allie Jo at the beach; Mom, Dad, and Allie Jo with Mickey Mouse; Dad holding a baby—must be Allie Jo. We have pictures like that too, in a box in the basement. Dad thinks I don't know he looks at them, but when I pull the box out, the pictures are in a different order from how I left them.

“Mo-om!” Allie Jo calls out as we enter.

A man comes from another room. Her dad, who is also the manager. Hope I don't get a lecture about obeying the rules.

“Hey, Allie Jo.” He pulls her in for a quick hug. “You're Chase, right? Recognized you by the cast.”

My calling card.

“You're just in time for lunch. You eat yet, Chase?”

I shake my head.

Allie Jo follows him into the kitchen. I don't want to, but I follow her. “Will you make us grilled cheese?” she asks, uncapping some juice and pouring it into two cups.

He waves a spatula. “Boom! You're grilled cheese.”

Now I see where she gets her sense of humor. Still, it's so corny that it's funny.

Allie Jo's leaning on the island, sipping her juice. I gulp mine down. I'm waiting for her to head into another room, like I would, but she stays there, even after her juice is gone.

“Where's Mom?”

Apparently, her mom is running errands. Her dad starts talking about Taste of Hope, the festival coming up in a few weeks.

“Should be a big to-do,” he says, flipping the grilled cheese. He's making three of them. “Chef's already working up the trays.”

Allie Jo's face lights up. “Oooh! I can't wait!” She turns to me. “It's, like, the biggest thing in the summer, and at night it's July Fourth.”

Confused, I ask, “Isn't it July Fourth during the day too?”

“Of course, silly—everyone comes out for the festival, and then stays for the fireworks.”

Her dad puts the grilled cheeses on plates, dumps some chips on them, and sets the plates on the island. “Order up!”

“Thanks, Dad,” Allie Jo says, picking up a plate.

I pick up a plate too and follow her to the table. “Yeah, thanks.”

“No problem,” he says, flipping the spatula like a drumstick. “It's my only specialty.” Then he sits with us at the table.

It is grilled just right. “Mmm, good,” I say.

Allie Jo looks at her dad. “Tell him what you call them.”

He looks a little embarrassed but puffs out his chest and says, “Golden brown crispy with melted cheese in between—Jackson style.”

They pretend-argue over who invented the golden brown crispy part, then move on to other things. He asks me questions, like what grade am I going into, do I play basketball, what can I do on a skateboard, and the weird thing is that he's listening, really listening. He's not lost in his own world, editing stories in his head. When my dad “listens,” I can practically see the typewriter ribbon ticking across his eyeballs.

“Your dad's pretty cool,” I tell Allie Jo after lunch. “So's your mom.” We sit on their sundeck. The view isn't the best—it overlooks the top of the restaurant. Vents that look like chefs' hats hum with blades spinning inside them. Different food smells float up here, but I'm already satisfied by the grilled cheese.

“Yeah, they are pretty cool.” She slouches in the lawn chair and puts her feet up on the railing. “What's your mom like?”

I shrug.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, “visiting other people. When's she coming here?”

I don't feel like making up a story. I take a deep breath. “She's not coming here,” I say without looking at Allie Jo. “She's gone.”

“Gone?”

I cock my head and look at her sideways.

Her face shifts from confusion to shock. Then she covers her mouth. “Oh! That's terrible!”

“Not dead,” I say. “Just … gone.”

“Like, what do you mean? Are they divorced? Don't you see her anymore? Don't you know where she is?”

“She's just gone, okay?” I slam my back against the chair. A seagull lands on the deck by me but leaves when he sees I have nothing for him. “No big deal,” I say in a quieter voice. “Okay?”

Allie Jo looks at me like she's reading for comprehension. What does she know anyway? Her mom probably calls her “honey” and her dad's in the kitchen getting ready to make us ice-cream sundaes.

She starts to say something, but I cut her off. “I think I better get going.”

“Oh.” She looks down.

I get up. “Thanks for lunch,” I call out to her dad as we pass the kitchen. I head for the door and turn around. “Hey, Allie Jo, guess what?”

Her eyes become alert. “What?”

“I have to return my butt to Kmart,” I say. “Mine's cracked.”

She snickers.

I'd fit right in here.