Guestward Ho! (9 page)

We tried. We tried hard. But we failed. They loved Bess
and they missed her. They didn't love us and they obvi
ously weren't going to miss us, since they cooked up
a series of half-baked excuses and departed forever. There
had been no words, no scenes, no incidents—we just hadn't hit it off.

We felt badly about our failure, especially since the
women had planned to stay much longer than they did and
every day short of their proposed visit meant twenty dollars less in the till. But Bill and I talked it over with some of our competitors who had been in the business for years and they told us the reason.

"The ranch business just isn't like the hotel business. It has all of the headaches, but there the similarity ends.
A hotel is supposed to be impersonal—plenty of service and privacy and ice water, but nothing else. A ranch has
to be personal, and in every guest ranch in the Santa Fe
area the personality of the owner is stamped on the place
as clearly as a brand on a steer," is the way one of them put it.

You can go to a big heavenly place like Bishop's Lodge
and meet the owner, Mrs. James Thorpe, her son Jim, and
his pretty wife and the littlest James Thorpe—all delicious
people, most people and I think. But if you don't happen to care for the Thorpes, you're not going to like Bishop's Lodge. No need to point out that the food is superb, that
it's the setting for Willa Cather's
Death Comes for the
Archbishop;
you've got to like the Thorpe family or you'll
be absolutely miserable. Start packing and look elsewhere.
You might love the Brush Ranch, but in doing so you have,
to love Tom and Patsy Old, who run it; the same thing
holds for the O'Bannons at Mountain View and the Hoo
tons in Rancho del Monte. It's odd, perhaps, to say that
all the guest-ranch operators around Santa Fe have learned
to be entirely impersonal about their own personalities,
but they have. If they were sensitive they'd have all been
suicides years ago.

And this personality thing works two ways. After our
first failure, Bill and I soon got to know, just from the
way people got out of their cars, registered, and examined
the rooms, whether they were going to like it or not.

Bill got so bold as to say, "The life here is very simple and so is the food and it's just possible you might prefer something a little more elaborate. I could call Jim Thorpe
at Bishop's and see if they could take you or Tommy
Thomson at Hotel La Fonda and try to have you put up
there."

Usually the prospective guests were limp with relief and urged him to make other arrangements for them. I was never so blatant, but my intuition got to working
fairly well, especially the day when two perfectly matched
Cadillac limousines rolled up in formation. I was expect
ing at least six people to pile out of the two cars and I
was in a frenzy about rooms and meals, since the reser
vation had only mentioned a mother and her son and
no
chauffeurs.
But, sure enough, Chauffeur Number One
opened the door of Cadillac Number One and Mama got
out, with all the grace and tenderness of a destroyer.
Chauffeur Number Two opened the door of Cadillac Num
ber Two and Sonny Boy got out, a mere child of twenty-
four. Mama advanced on me like a Panzer division, with
Sonny Boy bringing up the rear.

I could have told her at twenty paces that she might as
well turn around, that she wasn't going to like the place
or Bill or me any more than I liked her, but she was so
formidable that when I opened my mouth no sound came
out.

She registered for herself and Sonny Boy with so much
pressure on the pen that we still have her vital statistics
carved in the desk. She looked at my pretty new lounge as
though it were a flophouse, looked at me as though I be
longed in it, and then clomped up the stairs with Sonny
Boy, Curly, Buck, the two chauffeurs, and enough baggage
for a traveling circus.

She didn't show up until dinner, dressed for the open
ing of the opera. She was perfectly beastly to a whole
flock of charming people, snarled all through the meal, and
then disappeared again with Sonny Boy.

The next morning she was downstairs bright and early,
followed by Sonny Boy and a perfect avalanche of luggage,
to check out. While the two chauffeurs stowed the bags into the poop decks of the two limousines, she haggled
down to the last penny about her bill and Sonny Boy's bill and the chauffeurs' bill until I told her it was on the house,
just to shame her. She wasn't in the least ashamed. Her
purse snapped closed like the jaws of a crocodile. Then
she piled into her limousine, Sonny Boy into his, and they
were off.

I kept wondering why two people had to travel in two
limousines while I cleaned up her room, but when I got
to Sonny Boy's room I thought I knew why. Sonny Boy,
at twenty-four, was a bed-wetter. Maybe he was a Cadil
lac-wetter, too, and Mama understandably preferred sep
arate vehicles. I'll never know. But Mama had her own
cross to bear with Sonny Boy and I was just as glad she
bore it to some other place.

However, Rule Number Two at Rancho del Monte was
based strictly on personality—
our
personality and there
fore the ranch's. It went roughly like this: "If they don't
like us, let 'em go. Don't toady or kowtow to guests, because it will make them uncomfortable and us miserable."

With one or two glowing exceptions—
phosphorescent
exceptions—that rule has worked, too.

Rule Number Three was: "Don't Bully the Guests." I
think that speaks for itself. If there's anything I hate it's
to be organized into things I haven't the faintest desire to
do. I'm a big, grown girl and I can find my own activities.
I hope that the guests of Rancho del Monte are just as
well equipped to run their own lives without some brash
personality kid of an owner or an employee constantly after them to ride, play water polo, have a community
sing, square dance, toast marshmallows, get up a bridge
game, or go on a pack trip when they don't
want
to ride,
play water polo, have a community sing, square dance,
toast marshmallows, get up a bridge game, or go on a pack trip.

Lord knows, Bill and I are agreeable to almost anything
and we'll join in any kind of fun, but if our guests want to
just sit, we'll let them just sit. If they want to go on a picnic, fine. If they don't, that's fine, too. After all, it's their
money and their business.

Perhaps we have lost guests because we haven't been
energetic in our entertainment of them. But we've asked
ourselves if people who have to be looked after every mo
ment, coaxed and wheedled with fun and games like
children in a nursery school, are the kind of constant companions we'd like. The answer is No. Lord knows,
there's plenty to do on the ranch, but let those whose re
sources are so limited that every minute of the day and
night must be planned go to the thousands of big hideous
resorts where an ulcerous Social Director—I believe that is the term—does just that. They deserve each other.

Rule Number Four concerned the little ones. It read:
"We love good children—no others need apply." The
ranch was a wonderful place for kids. There was the pool, there were the horses—we even had some gentle old nags
and tiny saddles so that very little children could go out on rides—and there were twenty-four hundred acres to
run wild over. However, the play area did
not
include the
lounge, the office, the dining room, the kitchen, or the
terraces—all places where children were welcome as long as they behaved, but also places that were clearly marked
"Adults Only."

True, there were a few hellions, but here Bill took over
and I was amazed to see how well he handled them on a
basis of pure, cold logic and with just a hint of "you-behave-or-else" in his voice.

'"Now, Roger," I overheard Bill saying to one par
ticularly obstreperous little boy whose mother had ob
viously never heard of the word
no,
"when we're outside
we all act like kids. We ride and run and shout and splash. But when we're inside we act like grownups. Indoors, you
see, is a grown-up world and outdoors is a child world.
We'll join you and play your way out there, but in here you have to play
our
way. Isn't that fair?"

Roger didn't believe a word of it until late that after
noon, when he thought bouncing on the sofa would be a
perfect whee.

"Remember what I told you?" Bill said a trifle mena
cingly.

Roger apparently didn't, but it was quickly recalled to
him when Bill picked him up bodily and carried him out
to the yard. Social ostracism worked its magic and little Roger was as meek as a mouse on the grownups' reser
vation ever afterward.

"It's just a question of showing who's boss," Bill said
modestly when I congratulated him.

Rule Number Five was the best of all. That one was: "You mind your own business; we'll mind ours." With,
again, those famous one or two exceptions, we've never
had any trouble over that, either. And why?

Well, just as I told you before, we simply had wonder
ful luck with our guests. They were all nice people and
we've loved them, every one—well,
almost
every one.

One of my duties at Rancho del Monte was to handle the
correspondence. Sitting at my desk every morning, I sent
out the descriptive circulars, confirmed reservations, an
swered inquiries in a ladylike backhand, and more or less
saw to whatever clerical work didn't involve mathematics.
Since it was work I knew how to do, I rather enjoyed it
and I used to examine the varied penmanships and writing
papers and make up little fantasies about the people be
hind them. It was fun.

Late that May, though, we received a communication
that looked more like an invitation to a papal audience
than a mere inquiry. It was typed with an electric type
writer on a sheet of paper that felt like velvet and weighed
nearly a pound. At the top the name of an impeccable
law firm was engraved so deeply that it almost drew blood
when I ran my thumb over it. The letter asked, formally
and perfunctorily, about our rates and accommodations, if
the ranch was far out from Santa Fe, and whether or not we had a bar. It was signed by a senior partner of the
firm.

I answered, a little ruefully, that Rancho del Monte was,
sorry to say, eight miles from town and that, even sorrier to say, we did
not
have a bar. I sealed it with a sad little sigh, said, "There goes a heavy spender," and wondered
for the hundredth time if we had been wise in refusing that
expensive liquor license.

Wonder of wonders, two days later a reply came via
airmail on the same magnificent paper instructing me to
"please reserve the two-bedroom house for Mr. Clyde van C. Nameless, Junior, and valet for the months of
June, July, August." And possibly longer, the senior part
ner hinted.

"Hot damn!" I gasped.

The letter went on to explain that Mr. Nameless, Junior,
had been ill, was to have absolute quiet, was not to be
disturbed, and that weekly bills were to be submitted to the law firm.

Zowie, I thought, here's somebody willing to take a
guest house off our hands for three months, maybe more, and not even haggling about the price! And a
valet,
yet!
Right then and there, with the aid of
Who's Who,
the
Social Register,
and an old issue of
Fortune,
I did a little
private research on the Nameless family. While Clyde van
C. Nameless, Junior, wasn't mentioned in any of them,
Clyde van C, Senior, and all the rest of the Nameless family took up pages. The Namelesses were in gold and
in practically everything else, but especially in gold. Poor
little rich boy, I thought. Poor little rich boy
and
valet. The little darling needs a mother's love.

When Bill came in that afternoon, I was practically
dancing with joy. "Just look at that, would you!" I sang. "Croesus is going to be spending the whole summer with
us."

"Who?" Bill said.

"Croesus," I said, "or at least Croesus, Junior. It's Clyde van C. Nameless, Junior—
and
valet—and they want a whole house for the whole summer! They're in
gold. I looked them up, just to make sure it wasn't a gag.
He's so rich and so fancy that he doesn't even have to
make his own reservations or pay his own bills. He has a
whole law firm just to handle details like that for him."

"Sounds fishy," Bill said with none of his maddening
enthusiasm, which made him even more maddening at that moment.

"Oh, come off it, Bill," I said. "This is a big thing for us. He may even discover gold on
our
land so we can
spend the rest of our lives in a simple chateau in the south
of France, living on our vein, or whatever you call it."

"It still sounds fishy," Bill said.

"All right, spoilsport, so it
still
sounds fishy, but it's virgin sturgeon. And I tell you that this is going to mean
a lot to us. We're really going to start the season with a
splash."

And we did.

For the rest of the week I did little besides get the two-bedroom guest house into the sort of shape I felt it should
be in to be most suitable for one of Nameless, Junior's, station. And while I worked I indulged in a good many
fancies about having other people who owned gold mines
visiting the place, too—perhaps for the ski season. And
not satisfied with gold alone, I soon dreamed Rancho del
Monte into a sort of home-away-from-home for the whole mineral set. The place would be overflowing with Hearsts and Guggenheims and Patiños—all of them dripping with
charm, contentment, and ore. We were in. Rancho del
Monte was destined to become the playground of the rich
Although the Nameless family's law firm had been most
explicit about when the scion and valet would arrive, they
hadn't said much more about him. I knew that he had been ill, but I had no idea as to the nature of his illness,
or as to whether I should rent an oxygen tent, prepare his
bed for traction, or keep a doctor on tap. I puzzled for
a good many hours as to special diets and, having no idea
how old Nameless, Junior, happened to be, I was sorely tempted to lay in a supply of Gerber's baby food and I
wondered about getting in a Shetland pony, a pogo stick,
an Erector set, and a few other things for his entertainment.

As the time for his arrival drew nearer, mountains of
luggage preceded him by Railway Express—all of it very
elegant luggage in canvas slipcovers bearing the stickers of
all the best hotels in all the best places. I was impressed.
In my imagination I began equating our place with all the
most famous hostelries in the world—The Carlton,
Cannes; The Ritz, Paris; The Royal Danieli, Venice;
Claridge's, London; La Reforma, Mexico City; and Ran
cho del Monte, Santa Fe. It didn't quite ring true, but it
was fun to dream about. The last and most impressive
forerunner of our honored guest was a folding massage
table from Hammacher Schlemmer.

Finally the great day arrived. As discreetly as possible I asked the other guests please to be very quiet for the
balance of the summer, and then I turned the suite into
a perfect bower of lilac and iris, quietly hoping that young
Mr. Nameless had no allergies and that all that purple
wouldn't seem depressingly funereal to one who had al
most been snatched by the jaws of death.
Then I got myself done up fit to kill and waited for the
steam yacht, private train, or chartered plane which was to drop this richesse into our laps.

Around four that afternoon I was getting a little overheated and awfully overcome with the jitters, so I asked Buck to bring a cold can of beer out to the terrace where I was keeping my vigil. With the speed of a very old tortoise, Buck began to shuffle back into the ranch house.

Just then the golden chariot of my Apollo appeared and I use that term advisedly because there, turning off the road, was the longest, raciest Jaguar convertible ever created and painted a blazing iridescent gold. "The
deus ex machina!"
I said aloud to nobody but me. Then I stood up and ran through my gracious hostess speech while the car came up the drive.

I had imagined young Mr. Nameless to be so many different things that no concrete picture remained in my mind, but none of the Mr. Namelesses of my fantasy world came even close to being like the real thing. And in spite of my carefully arranged smile of welcome, my face must have fallen perceptibly as Prince Charming got shakily out of his gold car.

He was older than I had expected, but younger than I thought—if that makes any sense. I guess it doesn't. He stood about five-feet-five in his lifts and he seemed about that big around the middle. (I'd rather romantically hoped for a long, lean, El Greco-style aristocrat, phthisic and wasted from a long, exhausting lung ailment. Those living skeletons wear their clothes so well.) Yet he did look quite sick. He was the color of a lizard's belly and his plentiful flesh gave the impression that if you stuck a finger into it it would be like poking an eiderdown puff—except that terrible things would ooze out. While he had the puffy, featureless face and the body of an inflated baby, I guessed him to be at least thirty. (He was thirty-five and the veteran of three richly deserved divorces.) Just then, I was awfully glad that he and his valet were to be housed outside the main building. He hadn't quite the
ton
I had anticipated. But, as he stumbled up the steps, I still gave him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he'd been
sick.

"Welcome to Rancho del Monte, Mr. Nameless!" I said a bit too effusively, extending my hand a bit too high, as though expecting it to be kissed.

"Jus' call me Junior," he said, rather thickly.

"And you must call
me
Barbara, Junior," I said, quickly withdrawing my. hand, for I had seen
his
hands and a more scabious pair of paws have never before been flashed in front of my horrified eyes.

When I saw Junior's hands—he was a nail-biter, all the way to the second knuckle, and a nonwasher, how far up I don't care to imagine—I was certain he had leprosy or scrofula or impetigo at the very least. When he spoke, I drew from my meager fund of medical folklore and came up with facial paralysis, laryngitis, or cancer of the throat. Well, they'd
told
me he'd been ill. But what stunned me the most was the condition of his clothes. He was wearing an Italian silk summer suit that must have cost about two hundred dollars, considering that it
did
fit him and that Junior was no ready-to-wear size. Yet it was filthy, covered with spots of egg and grease and gravy and oil and things I don't even like to think about. His shirt was just as grimy as it was expensive. So was his tie. His shoes were incredibly scuffed and down at the heel, the laces broken and hastily knotted in so many places that they looked like bouclé. He needed a shave rather badly and a haircut even worse. And this was a man with a valet!

The valet came as something of a shock, too. I will readily admit my experience with gentlemen's gentlemen has been limited to movies, the novels of P. G. Wodehouse, and a chance encounter with a man who
claimed
to have been the late Walter Hampden's dresser. However, Murphy, which was the name of Junior's valet, fell something short of what I'd expected. Instead of resembling Arthur Treacher or Eric Blore, he looked like a broken-down old prize fighter. And instead of being sedately clad in a black sack suit and a bowler, Murphy wore a Hawaiian sport shirt crawling with hula girls, surfboard riders, and pineapples, and some wrinkled old Army pants.

Nor was there any restrained, servile bow in my direction. Murphy grabbed my hand, almost pulling the arm out of the socket, shook it vigorously, and said, "Pleezta-meetcha, honey!"

As I was recomposing myself to say a few hostessy words of welcome, Buck trickled out with my can of beer and I was a little put out to think he had; It seemed that in my new role as the Darling of the Rich it should have
been a magnum of champagne at the very least. However,
Junior's face lit up like a pinball machine, his red-
rimmed, bloodshot eyes absolutely sparkling.

"Oh," I said grandly, "can I offer you something to drink, Mr. . . . um . . . Junior?"

Well, you'd think I'd offered him Marilyn Monroe.

"Ix-nay, honey," Murphy said to me under his breath.
"This kid's a bottle baby."

I hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about.

Then Murphy said aloud—and a little too loud, as though he were talking to someone who was simple-
minded or hadn't quite mastered English—"Come on,
Junior. We'll go to the room. It's time you had a nice rub-
down and a little nap."

I could swear that I heard Junior sob as Murphy led him off.

That first season I was terribly solicitous—probably
too solicitous—of the guests; always popping into their
rooms to see that they had enough blankets and hangers
and towels and that all the lights worked and there was
sufficient writing paper and reading material. I am also
honest enough to admit that I'm vulgar enough to be in
trigued by the very,
very
rich. But, curious as I was, a
little something just warned me to stay away from Junior's
de luxe accommodations for a while.

Golden Boy's next appearance was at dinner, and he and Murphy didn't arrive until the six or seven other
guests had finished their cocktails and were seated. I had
sort of planned for Junior to sit at the main table with
Bill and me and a pretty young thing of nineteen from
Galveston, imagining that Murphy would take his meals with the help. Murphy, however, had made arrangements
of his own, unbeknownst to me. He had instructed Buck
to seat them at the, small table for two, where they could
be all by themselves. Although I had planned to do a little
mild lionizing of Junior among the other guests, I was almost relieved that he wasn't eating at the same table. Even if Junior had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth,
nobody had bothered to teach him how to use it correctly.

After dinner was finished, I had just time to introduce
Junior around to the guests before Murphy whisked him
away to their own quarters. And some of the guests looked downright horrified at the sight of Junior. My
career in the gold fields hadn't started out too propitiously.
"Did you ask all the society reporters out to interview your social lion?" Bill asked horridly as we were getting ready for bed that night.