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Fiction Short Story

by Daniel Marshall Wood

Final Rest

"We may have to sleep in the car."

The elderly woman’s comment astonished me. She and her husband arrived at my bed and breakfast, following an availability inquiry from the boutique hotel on Main Street. Two rooms had recently cancelled, so the referral was welcome.

I dashed out to greet them on a frosty January late afternoon in upstate New York, motioning their car into the snowplowed driveway. The older man and I shook hands. The woman, still buckled into the seat, said to her husband, "Ask him how much it is."

The price I quoted was thirty-five dollars less than usual for a Saturday in the height of ski season. The wind pelted my face with bits of snow. Her face twisted into a frown and she shook her head. I urged them to come in, knowing a welcoming fire and comfortable English Country House furnishings would certainly make them reconsider.

Not removing their coats, the pair walked quickly through the reception rooms as I rattled off only a portion of my spiel on the home’s illustrious history. I led them upstairs, offering the choice of two charmingly irresistible bedrooms.

"We may have to sleep in the car."

I looked to her husband for assistance. His silence revealed the balance in their relationship, but I politely appealed to his sense of romance. "Surely your wife deserves such wonderful accommodations."

He said nothing, romance apparently no longer a priority.

"Yes, it’s nice, but we can’t afford it." The woman shuffled toward the stairs.

The temptation of nutmeg pumpkin-oat waffles and my assurance that the price had already been reduced brought no acceptance to stay.

As we walked downstairs, I assessed them and the situation. I didn’t think they were angling for a lower rate, as I had already told them of the discount. My price was more than fair for top-level accommodations in the busy winter season.

The couple (I nicknamed them Maude and Claude) was neatly dressed. Maude wore navy polyester pants and a floral blouse, her hair in complementary blue-gray curls. Claude sported a dated plaid jacket and black eyeglass frames too large for his head. Their big Mercury was late model.

I knew the type very well. I had a set—Imogene and Eugene—just like them back in Oklahoma, dressed similarly but driving a Ford. They all grew up in the 1930s, poor-but-proud families plucking their way through hard times. Later, union jobs provided a comfortable middle class existence for their families. Their small house of fifty years was long paid off and retirement income more than allowed a few short driving trips each year. They likely had ten thousand in a checking account plus a substantial nest egg of IRAs and CDs.

These two could easily afford Hedgefield’s rate. They just wouldn’t budge from a stingy mindset, saving for the rainy day never to arrive. The residuals of scrimping and denial would be showered on their children, church and animal charities unless healthcare took it all.

Maude and Claude were returning from a family reunion, headed back to central Massachusetts. Here they were on a prime winter weekend without a place to sleep. Fools! The closest city, Albany, was an hour east, the route not providing even a Bates Motel for respite. Chances of an Albany room at the rate they’d pay were non-existent.

Ever the mindful host wishing to exercise Christian charity to weary, but penny-pinching, travelers, I called a nearby bed and breakfast of lesser quality.

Yes, they had one room available, I told Maude and Claude. The rate was twenty-five dollars less, though I assured them Hedgefield offered much better value.

No, that was still too much. Maude repeated the possibility of auto accommodations and picked up a slightly tattered handbag.

An arctic blast greeted us at the open door. I handed Maude my brochure—for future accommodation, I told her. ‘Future’ should be within the hour when they realized how foolish they were to embark on a journey into the enveloping frigid darkness.

"You’ll wish you’d stayed here. Have a safe trip home." I closed the door, and Claude and Maude disappeared into the night’s chilling unknown.

If only they would allow themselves an occasional extravagance how different their lives might be—luxuriating in a cozy guestroom, splurging on a tangy Zinfandel, indulging in an appetizer. Romance might be rekindled. The inheritance wouldn’t be squandered; the kids would never know.

Maude and Claude, however, would be added to my repertoire of cocktail party stories on colorful guests joining the obviously unbalanced woman whom I feared might commit suicide and ruin the good sheets, and the Russian photographers’ seminar, replete with props including an orange fright wig and what I assumed to be a fake pistol. Claude and Maude would also feature in the sure-to-be-best-selling tell-all book I had in mind. My version of "A Year in Provence" would provide my early retirement and a quality nursing home for Imogene and Eugene.

At midnight, dying embers gave little warmth as I readied the house for sleep.

* * *
"Hedgefield," I answered, placing a vase of fresh April tulips on the library table. The official tone of the voice alarmed me. "Yes, officer, you’ve reached the owner. Are you looking for a romantic weekend getaway with someone special? — Some other time, then. — Yes, somewhat familiar, though I don’t recognize the names. — Yes, that’s the car. — No, just for a few minutes. — That’s all I know, officer. I’m sorry I can’t be of further help. If only they had stayed with me their lives might be so different."

Claude and Maude (I don’t recall their real names) had been discovered after melting snow revealed a car once hidden in a deep gorge. Claude had apparently fallen asleep only ten miles from home. The car slid on a curve, flying three hundred yards through bare trees, depositing the couple into an icy mausoleum, shrouded in snow, embalmed by bitter cold.

Huddled under a blanket in the back seat, Maude’s stiff fingers clutched my brochure, her wish to sleep in the car long fulfilled.


About the Author
DANIEL MARSHALL WOOD leads a double life—as proprietor of Edgefield bed and breakfast in Sharon Springs, New York, and as an executive assistant in New York City. He has written umpteen short stories (several published in the Internet magazines, Reflection’s Edge, The Writer’s E-Zine, Crime and Suspense and HandHeld Crime) and a manuscript on how to start and run a B&B. A play is currently under consideration for a mystery play festival in May 2006. Daniel also leads a double life as identical twin to the five-minutes older David Michael Wood, an interior decorator in New York.