Heart Song Anthology, Carolyn Faulkner [simple ebook reader .TXT] 📗

air. Whenever there was a big party at the Royal, it is said, people living for miles around would drive into town to walk up and down Main listening to the music, hoping to get a glance at one of the honest-to-gosh Hollywood stars or sports celebrities who often visited.

Many of the furnishings in the great lobby of the hotel are original, lovingly dusted and polished by the dedicated staff. Their attitude appears to be that they have been entrusted with the care and protection of history itself. It is a mission they embrace enthusiastically – or, if they do not, Mrs. Danvers, the manager who handles such things, asks for their notice. She is the Royal’s chief advocate, as everyone in town is well aware.

Overstuffed chairs and sofas sit beneath glistening chandeliers. A dozen colorful Highwaymen paintings adorn one special wall that is thirty feet high. The paintings, of course, were not there originally. The hotel predates the Highwaymen, that band of traveling black artists who left their mark on the art world, by a good three decades. In the 1950s, however, they sold paintings of Jacaranda trees, sunsets, and landscapes – some of them still wet – from the trunks of their cars all over south Florida for a fraction of what they are worth now. More than once, someone has suggested selling the paintings to raise money for this Good Cause or that, but the Royal steadfastly holds on to all the dignity she can.

Black-and-white signed photographs of some of the hotel’s more famous guests line the walls of the carpeted hallway to the hotel’s business office and (if you keep going) the swimming pool. Babe Ruth, Clark Gable, Ernest Borgnine, Will Rogers. Citrus and cattle were more profitable back in those days. Celebrities enjoyed the newness of the area mixed with the privacy they couldn’t get in New York City or Los Angeles. They also relished the warmth of Florida’s winters. According to the stories, each star had teams of underlings who traveled with him (or her) – agents and hairdressers, hangers-on and wannabes. Oh, and women for the men, lots of beautiful women. Female celebrities generally confined their attention to one man at a time, a limitation their male counterparts neither understood or adhered to.

From the front porch today, guests can look down the street to one of the area’s numerous lakes or up the street to more modern, less attractive establishments. What they cannot see, in any direction, is a Royal Poinciana tree. The hotel takes its name from the huge flowering specimen that was too damaged in a storm long ago to survive. There are, instead, palm trees growing to unbelievable heights. Numerous oaks lend shade and sport thousands of tiny white lights throughout the year, giving the street a more prosperous and festive air at night. A massive kapok tree also thrives, shedding its fluff at various times during the year and is said to attract small bats.

Amazingly enough, the Royal has been in constant use since it was built. A modest but well-endowed private college currently owns the hotel. Two of its three stories on the west wing serve as a dormitory for students. The east wing boasts tastefully decorated rooms and suites for the smattering of visitors on many days, and the influx of racing fans who descend whenever there is a race or other event at nearby Sebring’s Race Track. There are periodic car shows. Music festivals now and then. College graduation is well-attended each year. The occasional wedding with scores of out-of-towners needing a place to lay their weary heads is yet another boon to the Royal.

This February, however, there are no races or festivals. There are no weddings or parties scheduled. This has not, however, deterred the staff from tastefully decorating to the nth degree. Red bows and candles adorn vertical and horizontal surfaces. Whimsical cupids point golden arrows from bookshelves and atop the antique piano with its “Please do not play” sign, as well as the grand piano which is in use almost daily.

A twenty-foot Christmas tree still graces the corner by the entrance to the grand ballroom which is neither grand nor hosting a ball, its ornaments replaced with hearts and red and white lights only. In a few weeks, it will be covered with pastel eggs for Easter. No matter the time of year, the tree is a constant for the simple reason that it is so big no one wants to tackle the chore of taking it down, only to put it up again in less than a year – the Christmas season seeming to grow longer every year. Crosby folks are practical, if nothing else.

Weekends, the restaurant opens for a mediocre buffet lunch that is loyally frequented by locals and hotel guests. And as indicated by Doug Danvers’ sweet tooth and frequent request, it is known for excellent pie.

3

Just Another Afternoon at Work

Carla Danvers clocked in, glanced over notes on her desk, and frowned at the clock on the wall beside her desk inside the Royal’s lobby. For the next twelve hours she was the sole proprietor of the hotel. It was a post she enjoyed, even at times like this when the rest of her shift seemed to stretch out before her like an endless highway. She had never seen one of those kapok-loving bats in all her years of working there, staying inside as she did.

She had never seen a ghost, either, although there was an occasional report. Strange noises. A flickering of lights. No-nonsense Carla would listen and smile as someone, round-eyed, burbled on about a misty character moving down the long hallway, odd sounds in the high ceiling overhead, or a rush of cold air. She didn’t have the heart to discount these enthusiastic overtures as the utter nonsense she believed them to be. As in other areas, discretion was called for.

It was only late morning, but Carla yawned. She had not slept well. She had not