Holiday at HanserHaus

By Neal Cooper

His eyes followed up the avenue of lighted trees lining the esplanade, and it somehow reminded him of postcard scenes he remembered having seen through the years—of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris, France, after dark. An occasional park bench was intermingled at measured intervals along the boulevard below the ornamental pedestrian lighting and tucked in neatly aside the trimmed hedge work and decorative floral plantings. His eyes continued to follow the beauty of the scenic moment until they came to rest on his purpose for the evening’s crosstown travel. A hotel. It wasn’t just any hotel. At the end of the avenue sat HanserHaus, a wonderful piece of vintage nostalgia that had remained vacant for several years. Now, through a variety of handshakes, partnerships, and with a certain amount of entrepreneurial risk, Jim’s investment firm had just bought it, and he had big plans for it.

For years, the holidays were more of a game between him and his wife trying to outdo one another with surprises under the Christmas tree. Jim knew he would win this year! He had just purchased the hotel with plans to gift it to his wife for Christmas.

Little did Jim realize the gift he was about to discover hidden within its walls from another holiday many years before…from a holiday at HanserHaus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781636302829

Book preview

cover.jpg

Holiday at HanserHaus

Neal Cooper

ISBN 978-1-63630-281-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63630-282-9 (Digital)

Copyright © 2021 Neal Cooper

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

What a Christmas Present This Will Be!

Decorating for the Holiday

The Move West

Unscheduled Meetings

A Prince Is Coming

One Wrong Turn

Vagrants in the Lobby

Nanette the Suffragette

The Recipe Cards

HanserHaus Is in Trouble

A Slight Change in the Room Assignments

The City Square

Don’t Miss Christmas

Who’s to Blame

The Gift of Eternity

1

What a Christmas Present This Will Be!

Jim was unable to catch the earlier bus that he had hoped for. His plans of leaving work a little early had been thwarted by a last minute emergency meeting full of hot tempers and egocentric personalities more fixated on just releasing their two cents of opinion into the conversation than actually listening to anyone else occupying space around the conference table. Managing the helm of a highly successful real estate investment firm had its advantages, but it certainly had its challenges, too. Contending with pugnacious dispositions was among the top encounters he hated most on that list. At first, it seemed that reaching any decent conclusion was definitely going to be a daunting task. Surprisingly though, he was able to referee the bedlam into a workable armistice, fire off a few last minute confirmation emails documenting the discussion, and run out the door.

The route should only take me a few minutes, he assured himself. After all, the bus station was just a few blocks away.

He paused as he reached the sidewalk to look down and check the display on his wristwatch one last time. In an instant, he was on his way, weaving in and out of slower pedestrians strolling in his path and ignoring a few do not walk traffic signs as they flashed in the intersections ahead of him. Thankfully, he arrived at the station on schedule, just as he had planned. Entering the side doors of the terminal, he allowed himself the luxury of a momentary stop at the soda machine just inside the door to quench his thirst during the trip aross town.

What do they have that’s diet? he asked himself.

Quickly, he claimed a few dollar bills from deep inside his trouser pocket and inserted them into the machine. He made his selection and once again checked the time on his watch. Retrieving the can of diet soda as it dropped into the tray below, he hastily resumed his pace through the station, leaving behind the small amount of change from his purchase as it began to drop into the coin slot on the front of the machine. He was in a hurry and was focused on getting to the bus before it left the station more than anything else. There was one goal on his mind at the moment, and that was getting across town in time to admire his latest acquisiton. Passing through the gate, he scanned his e-ticket and rushed out onto the deck as soon as the safety arm lifted to clear his path. Luckily, he was able to hop onto the 4:20 p.m. express that afternoon just as it began to pull away. He popped open the can of soda and took a drink. With a deep sigh, he cautiously reclined his seat to enjoy the fall scenery that was now passing outside the window of the bus. Slowly at first, it weaved its way through the grid of downtown streets and then picked up speed as it entered the highway and began its short trek across town.

The time passed much more quickly than he realized, and by 5:05 p.m., he was standing in front of his intended destination. Unfortunately, it was late November, and the afternoon’s sun at that time of year had begun to swiftly surrender its grasp of the day to a rather cool and dark hand of winter taking hold on the city. The neighborhood seemed a bit quiet and unobtrusive, but with the seasonal effect, it grew darker much sooner, and most nearby shop owners were winding down for the evening.

Good, he thought, as his eyes panned the length of the city street in front of him. The shops are close enough for patrons to enjoy but distant enough to keep the ambience of the neighborhood perfect for those looking to find a certain level of quality and sofistication for their overnight stay.

His eyes followed up the avenue of lighted trees lining the esplanade, and it somehow reminded him of the postcard scenes he remembered having seen through the years—of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris, France, after dark. An occasional park bench was intermingled at measured intervals along the boulevard below the ornamental pedestrian lighting and tucked in neatly aside the trimmed hedgework and decorative floral plantings. There were sporatic pedestrian appearances as they stopped for a brief moment to gaze into the lures of shop windows along the walkway. His eyes continued to follow the beauty of the scenic moment until they came to rest on his purpose for the evening’s crosstown travel. A hotel.

It wasn’t just any hotel. At the end of the avenue sat a vacant hotel once known as HanserHaus, a wonderful piece of vintage nostalgia. Its heyday long in the past; it had remained vacant now for several years. Most long-standing residents of the town could only recall it from their earliest of childhood memories. Now, through a variety of handshakes, partnerships, and with a certain amount of entrepreneurial risk, Jim’s investment firm had just bought it, and he had big plans for it.

The HanserHaus Hotel rose five stories above the lights in magnificent grandeur. In its day, HanserHaus boasted a notable European architectural style and design found in Germany and Switzerland. For those who maticulously built it many years ago, it represented all the opulence and splendor a midsize mining town in the Rocky Mountains might exhibit to notables and opportunists seeking their hand at finding hidden minerals and gems along with unexpected wealth. Now, having passed through the hands of a few investors through the years, it sat desperately vacant; anxious for another financier to once again try their luck. The opportunity was calling Jim’s name from the first time someone brought up the idea.

Jim had reached a point in his career and in his personal accummulated wealth that he felt capable of heeding the call for such luck seekers. He willingly stepped up to lead the charge for the building’s resurrection back into its rightful place along the boulevard. As primary investors, he and a limited number of assembled partners were enthusiastically set to restore the facility to its original majesty. Economic forecasts were predicting an increase in regional opportunity throughout the next five to ten-year period. With lowered borrowing costs from financial institutions, along with the friendly assistance of the City’s Development Board, certain grant-funded initiatives for specified opportunity zones had enabled new hope to be born in the minds of entrepreneurial stakeholders such as Jim and his group. Such optimism had not been seen since the mining heydays of the city’s origin. The proposals and estimates received from contractors who had expressed an interest in Jim’s vision for nothing but the finest repair and restoration efforts were well within the anticipated limits of available capital, and their business plan presented an expeditious return on their investment. So to him, there was nothing left to think about. It was a done deal.

Jim quickly bounded up the front steps of the hotel and found himself face-to-face with a rather ornate door knocker that instantly reminded him of something from the pages of a Charles Dickens novel, or out of a black and white classic movie thriller freely available on a cable station late Friday or Saturday nights.

Whispering out loud to himself as he gazed into it’s face, he whispered, If it comes to life and calls out my name, I’ll—

As if on perfect cue, he was interrupted by an eerie voice coming from behind him, on the street level below. He reacted with a justifiable amount of shock when he heard his name pronounced slowly in a rather haunting dramatic fashion.

Jimmm…

Jim whirled around to see the face of his commercial Realtor, Jackson Lassetter, looking up at him from the street level below.

You were looking rather intently at that door knocker, Jim, Jackson said with a laugh. He bounded up the steps, joining his friend at the door and continued, I just couldn’t help myself, he said. You’ve always been too easy to spook.

You got me, Jackson. Jim surrendered with a smile. Now open this door so we can get inside. It’s cold.

Jackson Lassetter had been Jim’s commercial Realtor practically all of his career. They grew up two streets apart and graduated from the same high school in the same year. With a couple of years experience behind them, school leadership was soon wise enough to separate the mischievous duo from sharing the same classes unless limited scheduling oppotunities made it absolutely unavoidable. It seemed the only way to minimize habitual rogue teenage behavior from the two, and, as much as possible, optimize order in the classrooms. Most summer afternoons, however, were spent in the basement at Jackson’s home enjoying endless games of pool on the blue velvet-topped pool table they called Birdie, with unlimited bottles of grape soda and banana cream moon pies. Jackson’s father had discovered the specialty moon pies from a distributor on a business trip down in Georgia several years before. Ever since then, he was sure to keep the cupboard stocked with ample inventory. With the common bond of their grape soda and banana cream moon pie affinity, Jim and Jackson were definitely connected vicariously to the South and were undoubtedly connected to each other as lifelong friends. As adults, they had remained business associates throughout their individual career paths as investor and commerical Realtor.

Standing at the front door to HanserHaus that evening, Jackson pulled a piece of folded paper from his overcoat, opened it up, and carefully punched in the sequence of numbers into the electronic key pad that he had written on the paper earlier in the day. In an instant, the key holder’s security sensor beeped, acknowledging the accepted code, and the hidden compartment sprange open to reveal the front door key. Jackson took the key from the slot, stuck it in the keyhole, and began to open the door.

He paused for a moment and turned to Jim with a smile. Say, Jim, have you told Chelsea, yet? he asked as he turned the doorknob.

Told her what? Jim asked, brushing past Jackson and pushing the door open to step inside.

You never do, Jackson said, shaking his head as he followed Jim inside the front door of the hotel. You never tell Chelsea what you’re up to until you’ve signed the papers. How will you break the news on this one to her? Huh?

Jackson turned and closed the door behind him in an attempt to try and block out the cold winter air that followed them through the doorway. They each removed their overcoats and laid them over the arm of a chair just inside the lobby entrance.

Jim reached into his pocket and pulled two military-grade flashlights from his overcoat and handed one to Jackson.

Tell her? Jim said as he turned on his flashlight to ignite a steady beam of four thousand lumens of light across the darkened lobby. Why would I keep it from Chelsea?

Dang, dude. Where’d you get these? Jackson said, as he switched on his flashlight.

Online, of course, Jim replied. Four thousand lumens of light.

Lumens, Jackson repeated matter-of-factly.

Lumens, Jim said once again. He looked at Jackson. You mean, you don’t know? he asked. Basically, one lumen is the amount of light emitted from the light of a single candle flame.

Sure. I knew that, Jackson said rather unconvincingly.

Of course, Jim responded. Next time you buy a flashlight, read the package. Not all flashlights are the same. I was shopping for Chelsea’s Christmas and just happened to come across these babies. Always check the amount of lumens when buying flashlights, he instructed Jackson, the more lumens there are, the better you’ll be able to see.

He took a moment to manuever his light