A Little Hotel in Cornwall by Laura Briggs

Author:Laura Briggs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cornwall, cornish romance, feel good romance, feel good read, cornwall romance
Publisher: Laura Briggs

***

Folding sheets in the laundry room early Sunday morning, I had time to think about my dilemma. My body hadn't quite adjusted to both the time change and the early rising hour, so the dryer's steady rhythm was trying to lull me back to sleep in between, as it tumbled the newly-washed sheets from yesterday's rooms.

The washing machine reached the end of its latest load, and I scooped out an armload of staff laundry. A lipstick stain on the sleeve of Katy's maid's uniform, a grease spot on the knee of one of the porters' trousers. I reached for the stain treatment with a sigh.

Doing twelve loads of laundry didn't seem like the kind of adventure Wallace Scott had been talking about.

The dining room was different today when I approached its hall linen cupboard with freshly-folded tablecloths. Long serving tables occupied the section in front of the kitchen, with chafing dishes and serving trays, and employees in kitchen whites. No little complimentary packets of butter and jam for brunch at the only vacant table or two in the room — the rest were packed with diners, as if the entire hotel was taking in a late breakfast.

"There you are. Brilliant." Katy the dark-haired maid tapped my shoulder. "You're on the serving line today."

"Me?" I echoed.

"They're a bit short. New person always takes the job. Now, go grab a kitchen smock before Ligeia notices one of her precious lines is lacking a server."

Ligeia was the hotel's cook and in charge of the kitchen staff, to which I now unofficially belonged. I hurried to the kitchen, reminding myself this was all part of the experience. At least serving people food was a familiar skill, thanks to the Fiesta Cafe.

I pulled my long hair from behind the stiff, white collar of a kitchen smock. "Does it matter that the rest of my uniform isn't black?" I asked the dish washer, who was spraying down a crusty cooking pot in the adjoining space, a scouring sink located by a large automated dish washing machine. The cook's jacket covered the blue cardigan I was wearing over my uniform, but not the striped skirt below it.

"Nah. Nobody sees your legs," he said. "Just smile and scoop a bit of food on their plates, and you'll be fine." He sloshed some soapy water down the drain.

The hotel's Sunday brunch was lavish — mini egg pies like quiches, crisp bacon, fruit cakes and savory scones, and even an 'American' buffet featuring a spiral ham, fried chicken, and a mashed potato dish flecked with sweet onions and red peppers. Someone stuck me on that line, doling out crispy half-breasts and drumsticks and trying to answer questions about what seasoning was in the bean salad and what the difference was between a scone and a biscuit.

In the crowded dining room, I glimpsed a neon yellow shirt and sports coat that seemed a little familiar — exactly the sort of thing Ronnie would wear, which is probably why it was on his body.

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