Welcome to Ordinary

ONE

I hate you! she screamed through the tears that flowed from her gold-flecked green eyes. You brought us here! I hate it! I hate you, Father! With that, Anne Hambaugh fled the sunlit living room.

Her father stood still, straight and rigid, his face void of emotion. His wife touched his arm to get his attention. She doesn’t mean anything by it, Nathan, said Emma Hambaugh in a soft voice. She’s just upset.

Oh, she meant it, he murmured, resignedly. Whenever she calls me ‘father’, I know she’s really angry. He pursed his lips in momentary thought. A long sad sigh escaped. It was to be expected, though.

Emma Hambaugh led her husband to his well-loved leather recliner and forcibly sat him down. We’ve been here less than a week, she said in her refined British voice. Change is hard, as well you know, but she will come around in time.

Oh, I know, he acknowledged, with an outbreath, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Well, agreed his wife, as she took her usual place on the plush brown leather sofa, we uprooted the children at an age when uprooting can be difficult and plopped them down in a strange place.

He grunted. You got the ‘strange’ part right.

• • •

Anne Hambaugh fled the centuries-old stone country house in a rage. Blinded by tears that flowed freely, the sixteen-year-old ran up the gravel drive to the two-lane Old Mill Road. Nothing was familiar. This was not her home. England was her home: London, Holland Park, and the country estate of her grandparents in England’s beautiful Cotswolds. This was all foreign to her. Wiping her eyes, she started walking toward town, which was a mile south on the winding blacktop. Her mind raced with a million thoughts and rants, none of which stayed with her, but it made the time pass quickly. The tears had stopped by the time she rounded the last turn in the road, and she found herself at the northern edge of town. Colorful, quaint, small houses built of locally quarried stone lined the road to the Common in the center of the small town.

She crossed to the east side of the road and started into the woods. She wanted nothing to do with any of ‘the locals’. Her off-road trek took her mind off things that had infuriated her earlier. Branches tugged at her naturally wavy golden-red shoulder length hair and left innumerable scratches on the fair skin of her exposed arms. She was not sure how long she had been making her own way through the woods when she came upon the faint remains of a trail. Wiping the perspiration from her brow, she looked up and down the overgrown trail. To her right, she assumed, would be town, which was not where she wanted to be. To her left she could just make out the trail as it weaved further into the semi-dense foliage. With a deep breath of the forest’s musty air, the ever-curious teenager set out along the shadow of a path, away from town.

Anne guessed that she had been walking, and stumbling, for the better part of an hour when she came upon the remains of a small log cabin. The roof had long since given way and fallen within the dilapidated structure. Moss grew on the decaying log walls. The smell of decomposition enveloped the remnants of the two-room cabin. Curious, she approached, wrinkling her freckled nose the closer she got. The remains of the wooden door hung askew by a single rusted hinge. Her natural curiosity further piqued, she made her way through the foliage until she stood outside the door. With a nervous hand, she reached out and touched the damp, rotting wood.

The sensation that ran up her spine was electrifying.

She could not explain the feeling that swept through her. There was excitement, fear, awe, and uncertainty. There was a history here within these decaying walls; a story that had long since been forgotten about the people who had lived here. An overwhelming sense of curiosity gripped her with such intensity that she found herself short of breath. The thrill enveloped her. Startled by the unexpected tidal wave of emotions, Anne stepped back quickly. In the process of doing so, she stumbled over the uneven terrain and landed quite solidly on the soft ground with her breath momentarily knocked from her. She was captivated by the complete silence that surrounded her.

Anne took in her surroundings. The woods were eerily quiet. She could not explain what had just happened. The feeling came and went in a moment, though it seemed to last so much longer. There was a niggling in the back of her mind. She knew that something had happened here, long ago, something that was not good. She wiped her damp, dirt-covered palms on her pants, and then slowly picked herself up. Anne could not help but wonder about what had just happened. What she had sensed. As she came to her senses, she realized that her breathing had become shallow and quick. It took her several focused minutes to regain control of herself, during which her mind raced to understand what had just happened. Rallying her courage, she nervously approached the cabin and, tentatively, reached out with a shaking hand to touch the moss-covered logs. She braced herself for another inexplicable episode.

Nothing.

Encouraged, but still not completely sure, she reached out with both hands. Again, there was nothing. She breathed easier. Standing back from the rotting remains of the log cabin, she glanced about the immediate area. She walked slowly around the ruin, but nothing appeared unusual. It was just an old, dilapidated, moss-covered remnant from a distant past. Carefully, she stepped just inside without disturbing the askew door. It was a sad place, with the roof littering the interior, and a rotted timber across a corner of the trap door to, she assumed, the root cellar. As she exited the ruin, she could not help but wonder about the family who had lived here. What had become of them? What was this feeling she had experienced?

Anne looked at the shadow of the trail that had brought her to this place but was not keen on returning that way. She wondered how far she was from town, or the road leading to town. A faint sound reached her ears. It was a gurgling sound, and gradually it came to her that it might be the stream that paralleled the only road that linked the small town to, in her way of thinking, civilization. Knowing that it was her best chance for returning to her new home, whether she was keen on the place or not, she settled on a direction and began moving toward the sound. Her shoulder length wavy red hair was a mass of knots, complete with twigs and leaves, and her attire was the worse for wear when she finally emerged from the woods.

She was tired, winded from her adventure through the woods, and desperate for a hot bath. It was then that she realized that she was on the wrong side of the fast-moving stream. She glanced up and down the stream in search of a place to ford. She had noticed, on the trip of almost a week ago, that the stream varied from as little as a few yards to as much as twenty-odd feet wide, and it seemed to average about half dozen feet below the road, with some areas of the embankment being steeper than others. Where she currently found herself was probably as good a place to cross as any, she decided, and then she would scramble up the embankment to the road above her. She looked skeptically at the stream, then at the embankment, frowned slightly, then threw back her slender shoulders and moved forward. Gingerly, she stepped from slippery stone to slippery stone, on more than one occasion almost losing her footing, until she was successfully across. Encouraged by that accomplishment, she began scrambling up the embankment, using jutting stones and thick roots and branches to aid in her ascent. At last, she pulled herself up on to the gravel shoulder of the road where she sat for several minutes, recovering. Her gold-flecked green eyes gradually traveled to the marker that identified the edge of town.

Welcome to Ordinary. Founded 1793.

It was an immense, rough-hewn block of dark granite with the legend deeply chiseled into its polished face.

With a tired sigh, she got to her feet and walked the few yards to the massive weathered block, from there she gazed rather despondently upon the town. There was only one road leading into Ordinary from the outside world. It wound its way along the swift-moving stream, through a mix of old growth trees, through the quaint town center, and ended at the boardwalk at the lake’s edge on the southwest end of town. It was a boring two-lane blacktop, nothing out of the ordinary really. Patches of sunlight slipped through the branches. A light breeze coming off the lake moved silently through the woods, causing her wavy red hair to dance about her freckled face. It was very peaceful at the edge of Ordinary.

The soon-to-be-seventeen-year-old, as she was wanting to remind people, chewed absentmindedly on her lower lip. A Norman Rockwell painting, she murmured in her noticeably English accent.

Do you always talk to yourself? queried a voice from behind.

Anne spun about with a startled gasp to face the speaker. She was about Anne’s age, her dark brown skin was smooth, and her black hair was uncontrollably attractive. Sorry to frighten you, she said, with a sparkling toothy smile. She extended her hand, adding, I’m Constance Bascomb, Connie to my friends.

Anne hesitated, eyeing the girl with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Finally, she accepted the offered hand after wiping hers on her jeans. Anne. Anne Hambaugh.

Your family just moved into that old place on the lake? Connie Bascomb asked as she dismounted her neon green mountain bike.

Yes.

There are rumors going around that you are royalty.

Indeed? was the curt response.

Connie burst into laughter to the extent that her soft brown eyes became teary. Well, small towns, you know, it doesn’t take much time for juicy stories to get around.

Quite, was the clipped English reply.

So, what’re you complaining about?

Ordinary, was the unhappy response.

You’ve been here all of a week, girlfriend! laughed Connie. After gallivanting all over the world, of course life in Ordinary is going to seem a bit slower.

Anne gave the girl a slow sidelong look. "A bit? Surely, thou dost jest! While it is true that I’ve spent all my life in merry old England, and have traveled extensively throughout the Continent, I certainly did not gallivant all over the world. This, she said, as she gave the town a dramatic sweeping gesture with her arm, goes far beyond ‘a bit slower.’"

Oh, I think you might be surprised at some of the goings on around here, said Connie, with a mischievous little smile. After a moment of silence, she suddenly asked, Do you believe in ghosts?

Anne looked at her with a shocked expression. After the briefest of pauses, she blurted, What kind of question is that? Of course, I don’t believe in ghosts!

What about the paranormal?

Not likely!

The supernatural?

Anne narrowed her gold-flecked green eyes. Now you’re getting creepy. Why do you ask?

Oh, no reason, was the lofty reply. I was just curious.

Daft is more like it, murmured the red-head. Gazing out over the secluded town, Anne felt an unexpected shiver run up and down her spine. Connie, she said in a quiet voice, you have a bizarrely vivid imagination.

So I’ve been told! she laughed. I was just wondering, that’s all, you being from that part of the world, you know, I thought maybe you’d run across some in a creepy old castle.

Ghosts? Oh, my! sputtered Anne, in mock disbelief. "They’re make-believe! Things of the imagination! Oh Connie, do you think they exist? After yet another briefest of pauses, she added, And here of all places?"

Connie gave a small shrug to go with her small smile. It was just a strange thought that passed through my mind.

‘Strange’ is not the word for it, was Anne’s retort. Her eyes wandered to the woods from where she had emerged. Connie, how long have you lived here?

All my life. My family is one of the original thirteen founding families. Why?

Anne hesitated a moment. There are the remains of an old cabin in the woods, she murmured, nodding in the direction from whence she had come. What do you know about it?

Connie Bascomb looked in the direction Anne indicated and hesitated. Really? I don’t go into the woods.

Anne turned her head to stare at her new-found friend. Why?

With a shrug, Connie replied, I don’t know; I just don’t. Quickly changing the subject, she asked, excitedly, So, what’s it like to be royalty?

"I am not royalty! replied Anne haughtily, bringing herself to her full height of five-feet-three-inches. My father worked for the State Department in the diplomatic corps; that would be the U.S. State Department, by the by. My mum, well, her parents are of lesser nobility. Grandfather is an earl."

Is that like a duke? Connie queried.

Two steps down.

Ah, acknowledged Connie, with a small nod. Then, with a sly smile, she added, So, your mom married a commoner.

Anne could hardly suppress a chuckle. "Grandfather was absolutely livid at the time, as I understand it. Not only did mum marry a commoner, but she married an American!"

And your grandmother?

Well, Grandmother wasn’t too keen on the idea either, but she took an early liking to my father, so it was all right. Poor Grandfather, though, it took him a good long while to get used to the idea of an American in the family tree, as mum tells it. Apparently, he softened up a bit when the first wee bairn, that would be me, came along.

Your dad’s folks must’ve been thrilled at their son marrying into royalty! declared Connie.

There was rather a lengthy pause, and then Anne said quietly, I don’t know what my paternal grandparents thought of it. I never knew them, and my father would never speak of them.

That’s weird. Did they have a falling out, or something?

I suppose they must have had. She paused again for a moment, returning her gaze to the town below. With a forlorn sigh, she added, "I must say that deciding to retire here did not make any points with Grandfather. And I think Grandmother was hoping my parents would retire to the old family estate near Tewkesbury, in Gloucestershire County, though she never came out and said."

Hey, it’s not all bad; you met me! exclaimed Connie, with a broad white toothy smile.

A smile tugged at the corners of Anne’s mouth. You just might be the silver lining, she murmured, with a little nod.

Silence descended upon the new-found friends as they became lost in their own thoughts on that beautiful summer day.

• • •

Ordinary seemed just as its name implied, ordinary. Founded in 1793, by people seeking respite from persecution in Europe, it reminded her, somewhat, of an old English town. In the center of town was the Common, an elongated stretch of thick, rich lawn, where the townsfolk would picnic on warm spring days. It came complete with a magnificent Victorian-era gazebo, which served as the centerpiece of all public celebrations. At the northwest corner of the Common were the playground and picnic tables with colorful shades. At the west end of the Common, and across the appropriately named West Street, was City Hall. The two-story building, built of locally quarried stone, also included the volunteer fire department, the small police department, and, in the basement, the local weekly news journal. Along the streets that bordered the three other sides of the Common were a variety of small businesses. Taking up the entire east end, on East Street, was the Only Ordinary Bed-and-Breakfast, and its various outbuildings, such as the now-unused Ordinary Livery. Carter’s Ordinary Clothiers, Marvin’s Ordinary Market (commonly referred to as ‘MOM’s’), The Ordinary Theater, and other such businesses were found along the entire length of South Street. The various dining establishments occupied the entire length of North Street, what the local citizenry affectionately referred to as Restaurant Row.

The four one-way streets which surrounded the Common were known, collectively, as the Circus Maximus; it was a nickname given in the late 1930s by the youth of that era. When the town was founded in early 1793, the thirteen elders who made up the first Council had written into the Charter that all businesses would have the town’s name included. The Charter, along with its other little idiosyncrasies, had never been amended.

The road that led into town from the northeast became Main Street upon leaving the woods, just at the ever-present baseball diamond, where children and adults played during the long summer days. Coming in at the northeast corner of the Common, the road cut diagonally through the Common, and it exited halfway through South Street, ending at the Ordinary Boardwalk at the southwest end of town. A dozen miles to the south of town, on the reedy shores of an unnamed marsh, was the 1930’s-era Ordinary Aerodrome, unused since the end of the Second World War. Not too far from there, in an easterly direction, was the mid-twentieth century Ordinary Hospital, which was separated from the Ordinary Cemetery by a thick wall of trees. A low wall of locally quarried stone completed the cemetery’s enclosure. The recently overhauled 19th century Ordinary Microbrewery was half a dozen miles to the north of town, along the Old Mill Road. Several miles further along from that, at the end of the road, was the relatively recently abandoned 18th century Ordinary Mill and Quarry. It was, to the townsfolk, the quintessence of the small town, which was just the way they liked it.

It was quaint and picturesque. Day visitors took endless photographs and went from ‘Shoppe to Shoppe’. To them, it was anything but ordinary.

For Anne Hambaugh and her younger brother George, however, this was now home. With a shrug and a sigh, Anne tried to reconcile her fate in that there could have been worse places to which her parents could have chosen to retire. Of course, she thought angrily, there were better places, too!

Everything would be new: a new home, a new school, and new friends. It occurred to her, at that moment, that she had not really had any friends back in the Old Country, back in England. She had acquaintances, of course, other kids she would hang out with on occasion, but no real friends. No one shared her interest in journalism, in seeking truth, separating fact from fiction, the adventure in solving a mystery. Everyone she knew was wrapped up in the latest gadgets, gizmos, and fads. Their parents were also further up the chain of nobility. Here in the boondocks, population well less than three thousand, life was going to be very, very different.

Anne sighed again. She would miss the hustle and bustle of city life.

Suddenly, the tranquility of their world was shattered by the roar of a powerful engine, and the squeal of rubber on the black asphalt. Leaves and dirt were whipped up in a dervish swirl around them.

It was a cherry-red convertible that raced along the final stretch of road toward Ordinary, a late model Jaguar, with its black top down. The white-walled tires gripped the road with unerring determination. The vehicle cornered well, never crossing the broken center yellow line that separated the two lanes. It vanished from their sight in the blink of an eye, only to reappear at the bottom of the hill moments later, where it slowed upon entering Ordinary.

Picking leaves from her black curls, Connie asked, in an exasperated tone, Who the heck was that?

Brushing dirt from her tan blouse, Anne replied, Some nut practicing for the Grand Prix, I expect.

We don’t have a Grand Prix, explained Connie, as she kicked up her bicycle’s kickstand.

Well, won’t he be surprised by that, then, Anne said, with a wink and a smile.

With that, the new friends began the downhill journey into town; Connie walked her bike. They passed the weathered wooden sign for the MacLeod Manor House, an imposing structure of sixteenth century Scottish architecture. Connie recalled the story behind the manor and shared it with a fascinated Anne. It was the ancestral home of a very wealthy, and, reputedly, a very cantankerous Scottish sea captain named Angus MacLeod. Legend had it that, in the mid-1800’s, he had the massive structure shipped, piece by piece, to a remote location on a bluff overlooking beautiful Lake Ordinary. Legend also had it that he had chosen this particular location because it reminded him of his homeland. Why he had left Scotland was shrouded in mystery, though there were plenty of theories. To add further to the legend, upon the mysterious disappearance of Captain Angus and his young bride, the manor house was abandoned, and the restoration never completed.

• • •

Across the Common from City Hall was the bed-and-breakfast. It was a mid-19th century Victorian-style two-story brick house with a deep, open verandah across its front. It had been converted into Desmond’s Ordinary Hotel in 1901. In 1992, ownership changed, and so did the name. It was the only place in town for overnight visitors to stay if they were not staying with friends or family. That was the destination of the Jaguar’s driver. Ordinary was a quiet paradise only occasionally visited by overnight visitors, which was just the way the townsfolk liked it; so, when this convertible came to a tire-squealing stop in front of the Only Ordinary Bed-and-Breakfast, the townsfolk watched. The rumors began immediately thereafter.

The driver slipped from behind the steering wheel, looked at the people who looked at him, and smiled slightly, though not necessarily benignly. He stood at just over six feet, with a lean, solid build. His neatly trimmed hair was dark and thick, as were the eyebrows above his brown eyes. He sported several days’ growth of beard that gave him a charmingly rogue-like appearance. He was casually dressed in tan slacks and blue short-sleeved shirt. Taking a soft-sided, well-used brown leather travel bag from the passenger seat, he went up the dozen steps, through the open double doors, and disappeared inside. He rang the small bell on the counter and patiently waited for service. His wait was not long.

A gentleman in his mid-sixties emerged from a back room attired in black slacks and red-and-yellow checkered vest, with a white shirt and an impressive multi-colored bowtie. The manager ran a hand over his thinning gray hair as he approached the counter. Placing both hands on the counter, he smiled and said, Welcome to Ordinary, young man. The name’s Clyde Bigelow, manager of this quaint little establishment. What can I do for you?

The dark-haired stranger returned the smile. With a British accent, he said, A room, my good man, at the back if possible, away from street noise. I do enjoy the peace and quiet.

Glancing briefly at the six keys hanging on the pegboard behind him, Bigelow nodded. It just so happens I can accommodate you. He placed a registration card in front of the guest and handed him the quill pen after dipping it into the inkwell. If you would fill this card out, please, I’ll see what we have. He waited patiently as the card was completed. You’ll be in room five, he said, handing his guest a large brass key. It’s at the top of the stairs, at the end of the hall, on the left. The bathroom is right across the hall from your room.

Thank you so much, said the dark-haired stranger, accepting the room key with his left hand. He picked up his bag and went up to his room.

Bigelow watched his only guest disappear from his sight, and then turned his attention to the registration card. He raised a quizzical brow and muttered, Mr. Sansnom? That doesn’t sound very English to me.

The stranger stood in the open doorway and perused his room. With a slight nod, he decided that it would suffice, then entered and locked the door with the large brass key. He placed his bag on the bed and glanced about the room. It was of a comfortable size, with a full-size four-poster bed near the only window, an overstuffed armchair in an adjacent corner, and a small desk with a rather uncomfortable-looking straight-back chair near the door. There was a small banker’s lamp on the desk and a colorful Tiffany-style lamp on the nightstand. It was a knock-off, he noticed, bemused. Having originally been a home, there was no private bathroom, but rather a communal bathroom which just happened to be across the hall from his room. Being the only guest, he thought, it might as well be a private bath. He sat down on the edge of the bed, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialed a local number from memory.

I’m here, he said in a quiet voice to the person on the other end, and then he hung up.

TWO

It was six o’clock in the morning when her gold-flecked green eyes popped opened. It