A Novella by Austin Girl © 2008
Word Count = 1020
Chapter One
The Assignment
Monday morning. Early. Dawn. Unusually foggy. Austin Girl meandered down a dusty, asphalt road in Austin, Texas in her gray Jeep Wrangler. The young, ambitious neophyte reporter for the Daily Dirt Magazine had been personally requested to interview the recluse owner of the infamous Ghost Hotel.
Austin Girl had been at the Daily Dirt less than three months. Her mundane assignments consisted mainly of writing about local black-tie events thrown by elderly philanthropists who have too much money and too little personality. Her stories were hidden in the back of the magazine between a full-page liposuction ad and the Keeping Austin Weird Guide. But, as luck would have it or as some say fate, she had been sought out and personally requested to write the cover story about the owner of the nostalgic Ghost Hotel – Mr. Ceedy.
Mr. Ceedy had recently lost his wife of twenty-five years in a small-engine plane crash. No one survived.
Austin Girl maneuvered her vehicle into the deserted parking lot. She quickly noticed both Avgas and Jet A fuel as she passed the FBO—The Fixed Based Operator. Her heart raced when she realized both piston and private jet aircraft could land on the five-thousand-foot runway. She loved planes. As a teenager, she flew with her dad on weekends; receiving lessons on take offs and landings.
Situated behind the old, abandoned rodeo fairgrounds—just two miles south of Main Street off of Highway Sixteen, the Ghost Hotel had Austin Girl believing she had descended back in time. The anxious reporter excitedly grabbed her interview gear—a small green notebook, two ballpoint pens and her antiquated digital camera—and dashed inside the WWII, aviation and South Pacific-style hotel lobby. Oh yeah, Austin Girl thought. She’d gone back in time all right—to the 1940s. The air was balmy with big band sounds, and staring back at her from the wall was a vintage looking “Uncle Sam” poster that read: GHOST HOTEL WANTS YOU.
Strolling around with wonderment in her eyes, she noticed an authentic old-time switchboard phone sheltered behind the guest check-in desk. A skinny young man with big teeth and cropped hair gave her an unwelcoming glance. “Mr. Ceedy is expecting you,” he grumbled. His words stopped Austin Girl in her tracks. How did he know who she was? “He’s in the Officer’s Club.” The man pointed to a dark, narrow corridor, never looking up from his papers. Austin Girl looked at his name badge. It read ‘D*ck.’ She felt insulted. D*ck didn’t have to be so unfriendly. “Thanks, D*ck,” she said sarcastically. Rolling her baby blue eyes, she slung her oversized canvas bag over her shoulder sauntering off in the direction of the dark, narrow corridor.
Austin Girl scanned the dark lobby with its mahogany wood trimmed-paneling, towering palm trees, bomber-jacket leather chairs and walls splashed with an army-fatigue green. She stopped in front of a smoked-stained oval mirror by the stairwell and thought she saw a frightened woman in her thirties staring back at her in 1940s attire—peep toe platforms and all. The woman had blond hair wrapped in a sleek Victory roll. Her face looked utterly familiar. Wow. My imagination is un-tethered, she thought to herself.
Austin Girl tore away from the mirror. She was eager to interview Mr. Ceedy. She made a list of questions to ask the man responsible for this enchanting portal to the past.
Officer’s Club. Ominous.
Austin Girl shook hands with Mr. Ceedy. He sat in a red buttery leather chair sipping a Vodka martini, legs crossed. “I spent three years researching and perfecting the hotel,” Mr. Ceedy said confidently. “I traveled to Europe, studying and buying the vintage lights, mirrors and nostalgic watercolor paintings,” he added. An ordinary-looking female waitress entered and sat a cup of coffee down in front of Austin Girl. She quickly vanished through a creaking wooden door.
Austin Girl sank into one of the leather-bound chairs next to Mr. Ceedy and relaxed to Tommy Dorsey’s, “Getting Sentimental Over You,” quietly floating away, back to an era when music was music and times were simpler and slower. The revelation hit her. The thing is, she thought, once you enter a portal to the past, at least this particular portal, it seduces. Snapping back into reality, Austin Girl dropped her eyes and wrote feverishly, occasionally sneaking a glance at Mr. Ceedy’s tan, muscular arms. Damn, he was hot, she thought. He wasn’t at all what she had expected for a man twice her age. He was ruggedly handsome in a cowboy sort of way. “I’m a former NASA engineer,” Mr. Ceedy said. “And, a daring, imaginative lover of planes,” Austin Girl quickly added, twisting a few loose strands of her wavy hair.
Uncrossing his lengthy legs, Mr. Ceedy reached for a bottle of Vodka at a side table. “Austin Girl, you’ll find that I stay focused with my visions,” he said. She watched as his thick hands wrapped around the bottle, pouring. “I find respite in the past.” Austin Girl stopped writing and leaned forward with a surprised expression, “Isn’t the past painful?” Mr. Ceedy finished off his drink, ignoring her question. “Ghost Hotel is a romantic voyage,” he grinned. Mr. Ceedy studied Austin Girl’s beautiful face for reaction. “I find that most people enjoy staying in a haunted hotel,” he quipped. “How so?” She inquired. Mr. Ceedy stood. “To find answers. Follow me,” he said.
They ambled through the double-doors from the Officers’ Club. Austin Girl passed by the smoked-stained mirror again and visualized Bacall and Bogart seated at the bar sipping Hangar One Vodka martinis, while behind them at the pool table, with cue sticks in hand, were Chuck Yeager and Bob Hoover—two pilots famous for “pushing the envelope”—swapping stories. Taking the cup of coffee with her, Austin Girl followed Mr. Ceedy outside, where they observed 22 single- and twin-engine planes and one Malibu Mirage Turbo Prop queued up on the tarmac. “My wife, Linda, died in a Malibu,” he said, pointing to a plane. Mr. Ceedy turned to Austin Girl and asked, “Have you ever lost a loved one?”
**Continuation**
