71.Interview with Rose Flagler: Part 3
14 July 2011
– Anyways, Stephens wasn’t as young as my granddaughter. He was fully grown and looked healthy enough.
– I mean, he was still a boy compared to my husband and I.
– He came in to stay with us for the night and he smelled like the Greyhound station. I’ve grown accustomed to the smells of guests, look forward to the variety actually. I can tell certain things with a handshake. Guess whether they came to St. Augustine by plane, bus or car before they say anything concerning the subject. If they came by way of car, I can tell whether it was new or old, if they ate at a rest stop or out of crumpled bags in the backseat on their way to our home; whether or not there were children in there, even if the little ones are waiting in the car when I first see the parents.
– Stephens was a bus rider for sure, I didn’t even have to shake his hand to know that. I just took a look at his belongings, the large swollen duffel bag, the notebook, the jacket he wore.
– He never said more than two words to confirm it though. Just walked in, paid, and locked himself in the room.
– That’s the reason he stands out in my memory so much, actually. I was a little offended that first night, I admit.
– I always assumed people came to Bed and Breakfasts for the experience. It’s why Frank and I started this business, to provide an experience.
– I have this recipe for blueberry pancakes that is award-winning, literally. I entered it on the Food Network’s annual breakfast show a few years ago when they came around to Jacksonville, placed second in the finals. Entered some other recipes too and got a few honorable mentions, great eatings if I do say so myself.
– I’ve got my patented Heavenly Angel Food cake, a barbecue rib recipe with a secret sauce that even Frank doesn’t know how to make, and a corned beef and cabbage dish with diced red potatoes, seasoned specially with ingredients I got from my own Irish mother. It’s all on the brochure and website for our home. We cook meals three times a day, every day. Our kitchen appliances are stainless steel and my Costco membership card has seen much use over the past few years.
– What all that means is I’m accustomed to a certain mannerism from visitors. They come to us for a more personal atmosphere than all the big name hotels. We don’t ask questions unless they bring us closer to our guests. But Stephens didn’t even eat with us, talk with us, or anything.
– I sweated in the kitchen that night, spent extra time steaming the cabbage so it would be extra soft—I was trying to impress the fellow, I still don’t know why.
– I guess—he was just so awfully lonely and sad looking, I felt he needed some cheering up. I set the table and Frank came out and sat and waited patiently and I went to Stephens’ room and knocked and he never even had the decency to open the door. He just called out and told us he wouldn’t be joining us. He had work to do, he said.
– And, you know, sounds drift in our house, as if the walls gossip with each other sometimes. We hear everything and I like to keep it that way.
– That night, after clearing the dining table and throwing away most of that fine meal I made, I lay in bed listening for any sounds from Stephens. I lay there for hours, waiting for the next new snores or sleep moans or gasps when he woke up.
– Anyways, late, after a while, I finally began to drift off. I was almost asleep when the sound from downstairs changed, a different sound altogether than normal sleep. It took me a while to recognize it as someone crying.
– I lay there awake for the rest of the night then, listening to him. Got up at one point to put my ear to his door. It was like a cycle. Snore, moan, gasp, cry, repeat.
– And standing at his door I heard another sound too, in between the gasping himself awake and the crying there was a ten minute interval where I could hear—very faint—the sound of paper rubbing on paper coming from under the door, the way a thick-paged bible sounds when you flip the pages.
– I assume he was looking through that notebook of his. But why would somebody keep reading something that makes them cry every time they look at it?
Who Is Anthony Stephens? 
What Do You Think About The Story Progression So Far? Any Suggestions?