I nod, though I’m beginning to regret jumping on the “room & board” option in my contract. When I saw that the resort offered housing to certain employees, it felt like the perfect opportunity. I mean, it’s not like I have many other housing options these days. But the more I talk to Mr. Haymore, the less I’m liking the idea of being “on call” at all hours.
I still smile, of course. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
He nods again, finally dislodging that mustache crumb, then passes me a pen. “Welcome to the Huntington Manor family, Ms. Thomas.”
Huntington Manor. It sounds like something out of a Jane Austen novel, and I kind of want to vomit. I mean, I’m insanely relieved that my brother Calder made sure they couldn’t attach our family name to this monstrosity of a tourist trap, but surely they could have come up with something better than Huntington Manor. My great-great-grandfather is probably rolling in his grave right now.
I take a deep breath and look down at my contract. No point in dragging this out. I knew what I was getting into when I walked through the doors this morning. I pull the paper closer and scribble down the signature I practiced a hundred times last night: Addison Thomas.
Addison Thomas is twenty-four and, according to her resume, has a degree in Hospitality and Tourist Management. She’s spent the last two years working at a resort down on the coast (where she received the Gold Customer Service Award last year) and has special training in “Customer Loyalty Administration” and “Trip Planning Assistance.”
Or, you know, Addison Thomas is the brilliant creation of yours truly, the one and only Louisa Cunningham. I was going for something that might get me a position in the Guest Services department of this place, but apparently Mr. Haymore lost his assistant a few days ago and my resume was at the top of the pile. And I charmed him enough in the first interview that he only called one of my carefully-prepped “references.”
I pass the contract back to Mr. Haymore. He doesn’t give the signature a second glance.
“I expect you to report to me tomorrow at 8 AM sharp. In the meantime, you can get settled in your room. I’ve put you in Room 253 in the East Wing.” He reaches into his desk and pulls out a key and fat manila envelope. “This is very important. It contains your employee handbook and an extensive map of the estate. I suggest you familiarize yourself with them as soon as possible.”
A map. Ha. I could find my way around this place with my eyes closed. Backwards.
“I’ll study it tonight,” I tell him.
“Very good.” He stands and runs a hand down the front of his pristine charcoal gray sport coat. “I would show you to your room, but I’m very busy.”
“I’m sure I’ll find my way, Mr. Haymore.” I reach out to clasp his hand. “A pleasure to be working for you.”
He gives a little harrumph before sinking back down into his seat again.
Oh, yes. This will be about as pleasurable as trying to bathe a warthog.
I grab my suitcase and escape out the door before I overload on his charm. It’s not until I’m halfway down the hall that the rush hits.
I’m doing this. I’m honest-to-God doing this.
Instinctively, I reach up with my free hand and clutch the end of my ponytail, but I cringe as soon as my fingers touch the strands. They’re too long, too smooth. But I knew I couldn’t just show up here looking like my normal self—after all, my face has made a few appearances in the tabloids over the past year—so I dyed and straightened my hair. Instead of the dark curls I was always known for, I now have a head of sleek, honey-colored locks. I’m also sporting more makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life. It’s not much of a disguise, as far as they go, but I’ve definitely got the “celebrities without makeup” effect going on here. People are used to seeing me looking a certain way against a certain backdrop. No one expects “Lou” Cunningham, daughter of the late, disgraced Wentworth Cunningham, to show up and take an assistant position at her family’s former estate, the property her father lost through extreme financial carelessness. I’ll just have to make sure to touch up my roots every few weeks or so.
My great-great-grandfather built this house. It was passed down through my family from generation to generation. My brother and I played in these halls as children. But when my father died last year, Calder and I inherited a huge financial mess—and we agreed to sell the property to help settle our family’s debts.
I’ll be honest: this was always too much house for me. The minute I was old enough to understand social responsibility, I realized how outrageous all of this was. I mean, who needs a rooftop pool or computerized closets when there are people out there without basic necessities like food and proper medical care? When Calder suggested we sell the estate, I agreed without hesitation. I told myself this place was just an ostentatious pile of rocks, a symbol of all the things I’d grown to resent about being born to privilege.
But I was wrong.
I look around me as I walk down the hall. Calder sold most of our furniture, so they’ve had to completely redecorate the house from scratch. And apparently they decided to go the Rococo route. It looks like a bunch of cherubs threw up on the walls. It’s very strange. A bit like walking through a dream I know I’ve had before—and yet not being able to recognize a thing.
Is this how they think my family lived?
I stop next to a window and press my fingers against the glass. From here, I can see out across the grounds behind the house. There are the small herb beds—which my grandmother designed after a medieval kitchen garden—and past that, the tall, dark wall of the hedge maze. From here, at least, it all looks exactly the way it did the last time I was home. I can almost pretend I never left.
This house isn’t just stones and walls. And it was never just a symbol of our wealth. It was my home. It holds a lifetime’s worth of memories. Of my childhood. Of my father. Of my family.
And now it’s going to be a megaresort. For just the low, low price of $457 a night (a lot more than I could ever afford at this point), anyone can pretend to be a Cunningham—and sit in their fancy eighteenth-century-style rooms and laugh at us for losing all of this.
It makes me sick. According to Mr. Haymore’s boasts, this place will be more than just an overpriced bed and breakfast. They’ll be offering tours of the house and grounds to day visitors. They’ve converted the twelve-car garage into a full spa center. They’ve torn down the orchards and put in a golf course. And my favorite? They’ve decided to build a small vineyard on the northwest corner of the property. One day, they’ll have their very own Huntington Manor wine, but in the meantime the tasting room will feature “exclusive selections from the Manor’s cellar.” I guess there wasn’t any reason Calder shouldn’t have included some of our father’s extensive wine collection in the sale of the house, but it really ticks me off to imagine some idiot getting drunk off of one of those vintages my family was saving for something special.