Nereids and Neptune (standard:romance, 1287 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Aug 12 2006	Views/Reads: 3600/2275	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I'm simply showing the draft with changes....this is the last one posted here...but it won't be the final story. Doubtless I will edit and rewrite this story ten times before leaving it alone for six months.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

The caller is a man, tall, early sixties, with short grey hair and
wearing a dark blue pin striped suit with a gold tie. Tom smiles but 
does not reply, continuing to watch the receptionist. 

“May I introduce myself? My name is Dalby, James Dalby, hotel manager,
welcome to the Sir Francis Drake...Mr....?” 

“Magnus....Tom” 

“Mr Magnus would like an alternative room, Mr. Dalby.” 

“Very good, what room is prepared for Mr. Magnus, Georgette?” 

“The King Executive.” 

“There's a problem with this room, Mr. Magnus?” 

“Yes.” Tom replies. 

“Very good, then we'll find you another. If you'll permit me, may I say
what a privilege it was to meet your father?  He frequently stayed with 
us when visiting San Francisco, it was most upsetting to learn of his 
passing.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Georgette, please see to it that Mr. Magnus stays in the Presidential
Suite this evening.” 

“Yes, Mr. Dalby.” 

He turns to Tom, almost apologetically. 

“Of course, I'll have to trouble you for a fingerprint, Mr. Magnus, as
our security and your entry to the Presidential floor depends on it.” 

“That's fine.” He responds, then turns back to the receptionist. “I
don't like my bed turned down and I don't like mints. I like quiet.” 

“Very good, sir.” She says, slightly ruffled with her newness. 

Dalby raises a hand, letting his fingers waggle the attention a security
guard; busy scratching his beard. The uniformed man removes his cap and 
steps forward. 

“Please escort Mr. Magnus. He requires a key to the Presidential Suite.”


Tom suddenly remembers something. The receptionist halts her breathing
momentarily. 

“Also,” he says, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a card,
“I've ordered a car to take me to Petaluma Airport tomorrow morning. 
Please call me immediately it arrives.” 

“Do you require a wake up call, sir?” 

“No.” 

The security guard walks away. Tom Magnus follows, then hesitates and
turns back to face the receptionist. Her chest inflates. 

“Georgette, is it?” 

“Sir.” 

“I've seen less agility from fingers playing a harp than yours on that
keyboard. Fascinating. Thank you for everything. I appreciate it.” 

The receptionist feels a rush of blood returning to her smile. 

“You're welcome, Mr. Magnus.” 

Tom turns and walks after the security guard, now waiting at the
elevator. 

Dalby turns to the receptionist, leans over the counter and whispers an
instruction. 

“Call up immediately and have the initialled bath robes changed.” 

“Yes, sir....sir, Mr. Magnus doesn't have an account with us.” 

“Tom Magnus is now head of Magnus Oceanics, Georgette. Invoice the
company, I'll endorse it.” 

If Tom Magnus had chosen to return home, as promised, he would have been
with her that fateful day. Now, two years after her death, he's heading 
back knowing her clothes still hang in the bedroom closet, her perfumes 
and make-up still clutter the bathroom, and it is this intimate 
knowledge that sets aside any certainty he will, when he arrives, enter 
the house he promised her was his new beginning. 

Tom Magnus was drinking coffee when the concierge informed him the limo
was waiting. He checked his watch, fifteen minutes early, he liked 
that. 

The chauffeur stands by the dorr to greet his client. 

“Good morning, sir.” 

“Good morning. An English accent.” 

“Indeed. May I confirm with you that our destination is Petaluma
municipal airport?” 

The Lincoln town car pulls smoothly forward. 

“Correct. A London accent?...north. Hackney, maybe?” 

“Islington.” 

“Stone the crows, really. Is the Island Queen still knocking them out?” 

“Certainly is. Glad to say it hadn't attracted the new century yuppies
last time I was there, or those who just want to get bladdered.” 

“How long ago was that?” 

“Six months.” 

“What on earth brought you to America?” 

“An American woman.” 

“Yep, that'll do it every time.” 

The two men bantered all the way down highway 101, turning stories over
like a weathercock turns in a slow wind. 

“We're just about there. Enjoyed your company, sir.” 

“Well, let me wish you the best. They say this place is the land of
dreams.” 

The chauffeur smiles, leaps out the door and walks smartly around the
rear of the car to open the passenger door. 

Tom Magnus puts a twenty-dollar bill in the man's hand. 

“The gratuity is included, sir.” 

“Maybe...but not the stories, eh!” Tom Magnus smiles and walks away. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

Magnus, his back to the chauffeur, raises an arm. 

The twin engine Cessna sits waiting on the tarmac. 


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