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AMELIA
I’m sitting here thinking about my marriage. I hear stories all the time of abusive relationships … physical abuse … emotional abuse; but what is the difference? Emotional, physical, it’s all abuse. Both have physical and emotional impacts on the abused. I’d love for someone to argue with me on that point. I live everyday with physical scars, yet they’re unseen to the naked eye. Maybe those are the worst kind of scars, I don’t know. Is a scar just a scar? Can physical abuse exist without emotional, or can emotional abuse exist without physical?
I’m Amelia Johansson and I have a story tell, but no one is listening. Who would I even share it with? My secrets have ruined any ties to my friends; I have no coworkers because I’ve allowed myself to be manipulated and my family has passed on. Sadness feels my soul remembering my sweet daddy, laying in the hospital alone and dying. I couldn’t even be there to hold his hand in his final hours. Yet he’s the man whose hand always held mine. He made me a strong independent woman. Today he wouldn’t recognize the shell that once hosted the soul of his only daughter.
The anxiety is almost overwhelming at times; it’s usually worse when we’ve just had another typical day of screaming, doors slamming, furniture kicked across the room, and, oh yes, my personal favorite: watching a grown ass man throw his cell phone or the remote control across the living room in a fit of rage. Yes, that’s what I find most attractive about my husband—his ability to single-handedly demonstrate what a true ass the male population can be.
He is the true epitome of why I never wanted to marry. He wraps up the very essence of what a bad marriage is with a big pretty bow! Boy he’s a great player; master manipulator. I see glimpses of my true self, yet only glimpses remain.
I look up when I hear a car pull in. I’ve got to pull myself out of my self-loathing pity party; it’s time to play the perfect hostess. One of the many masks I wear nowadays. I plaster on my hostess smile, and as I make my way from the back of the house, my grandmother’s antique oval mirror catches my reflection. I stop and turn, looking at myself. I don’t have to worry about smile lines, because I’m never overly happy. Just pleasant I reckon, looking at my complexion, and I smooth my flyaways. As I reach my hostess desk, the door opens.
“Hi, welcome to Amelia’s.” I recognize my repeat guests: Marty and Jeanette Compton. They come every year for the Isle of Eight Flags Shrimp Festival. This is one of my busiest weekends of the year, with the festival attracting more than one hundred thousand visitors; and the pirate parade is always a highlight. We’re usually booked in full by this time, but this has been a slow season.
“Hello darling.” Marty’s long southern draw makes me laugh. He’s such a sweet man who adores his wife; I’m envious.
“Hey sugar, aren’t you just a vision,” Jeanette sings. Her brimming toothy smile is quite charming in a southern belle kind of way. Sometimes I wonder if she can actually not smile or close her mouth completely for her teeth. “Isn’t she just a doll, Marty?” She grins, taking me in with her hand clutched over her bosom like a proud momma bear.
“She sure is. I reckon she’s still off the market.” I smile at his joke. He’s hinted I should meet their eldest son since they first started visiting my inn, four years ago. “She’s as pretty as a ripe peach on a hot summer day.”
I’m laughing on the outside, eyes rolling on the inside. “Yes, I’m afraid I’m still off the market. You might as well find that boy of yours another catch.” I take their credit card and swipe it to complete their payment. “Okay, you two are in your usual room.”
“Tell me, peaches, are you booked up for the weekend?” Marty inquires as he slides his card back in its rightful spot. Smiling, he tucks his leather wallet in his back pocket.
“Not yet, it has actually been slow,” I say fanning my hand through the air, “but I’m sure some procrastinators will fill the rooms.”
“Are you making those delicious cinnamon rolls?”
“Marty, they’re already rising.” I wink. I watch them walk towards their room, laughing and talking about the lovely décor of my quaint bed and breakfast.
Yes, I suppose areas of my life aren’t dark and dreary. Eric did buy us a turn-key establishment in the historic sector on Amelia Island four years ago. He told me ‘we’ were going to run it; truth be told, I’m running it … pretty much alone. The only real change we made was to the third level of the home—now our private quarters, consisting of three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, and office area. The former owners used the main level bedrooms as their private quarters. Of course it is the least he could do, for what he caused to happen in the first place. I hate to go there; it will only bring my sour mood back with a vengeance.
I glance at my book. “Hmm, only one more booking for this weekend.” I don’t recognize the name: they haven’t stayed at our establishment in the past.
My timer goes off in the kitchen, pulling me from my thoughts. We don’t serve dinner but we do offer evening appetizers. The savory aroma permeates my all-white gourmet kitchen. Tonight I’m serving goat cheese asparagus tarts, cream puffs, and a charcuterie board. I take the tartlets out and set them on the counter to cool when the door chimes. “Looks like my next guests have arrived.”
“Hello, welcome to Amelia’s.” I beam as I walk towards my desk. A homosexual couple! This should go over well with my narrow-minded husband. I look at my book. “Marcus and Gerry?”
“Yes, doll. I’m Gerry.” He grins. “This is my main squeeze, Marcus.”
I smile. “I’m Amelia and it is a pleasure to have you two visiting for a few days.”
“What is that wonderful smell?” Marcus sniffs the air.
“Oh, that’s tonight’s complimentary appetizers. I just pulled goat cheese asparagus tartlets out of the oven.”
“Oh that sounds divine! They smell absolutely delicious,” Marcus says as I take their credit card to finalize their payment.
“Would you two care for a tour of the grounds, since this is your first time visiting?” I ask, handing over their credit card.
“Of course we would.” Marcus loops his arm through Gerry’s as I walk around my desk.
“Well, why don’t we start with showing you two to your room—follow me.” We walk up the curving staircase to the second level and follow the oversized hallway to the end. “This is what we call the French quarter room. I trust you will find everything you need.” The walls are covered in an elegant country Labrador blue shade, with bright white trimming. A massive four poster bed dominates the room, the rich mahogany fireplace screams romance, and the large box bay window sitting area flows with natural light. “You also have a private bath; complimentary toiletries and fresh towels are provided daily. Just ask when you need more.”
Gerry looks pleased, touching the luxurious bedding. “Look Marcus, isn’t this just the most charming room? I wish we had brought our handcuffs, if you know what I mean.” They giggle affectionately.
I bite my bottom lip so I don’t stand there with a gaping mouth, and, feeling the heat of my cheeks, I pull myself together rather quickly and clear my throat. “Well okay then … I don’t supply those,” I tease, giving them a playful smile as I turn. “Shall we continue the tour?”
“We shall, you feisty hostess,” Gerry teases. “I already like her, Marcus.”
