The only thing she'd retained that was modern was her doctor's bag, and even that really wasn't used as such by her. She kept it more as a kind of emergency kit than anything else. But it had been her grandfather's, and he had used it as it was intended, as his father had before him. So it was an antique of sorts. Frankly, it was pretty impractical for nowadays, but she would have felt lost without it even though it didn't see much use anymore. And you never knew when bandages or triple antibiotic cream would come in handy.
Although she'd spotted the hotel out of the corner of her eye, she ambled past it to walk to the edge of town so she could get the lay of the land before returning to check in. The hotel wasn't above a saloon, as some might assume it would be. Instead, it was much like the hotels of today, albeit with a lot fewer amenities and quite a bit more sparsely decorated; with a front desk, a small lobby, and a small restaurant on the bottom floor, and some rooms—but not many—on the next level. The fact that there were so few places to actually stay in Twain Ridge made it that much more expensive to do so, which was one of the reasons why Cimmy hadn't been able to afford to go there herself. Her cousin was several years younger and much more adept at everything techie than Cimmy was, and she hadn't had to spend all those years in school. As a result of that and the fact that she had fallen in love with someone who had at least as much talent in regards to software as she did, Eva Rivera was quite comfortable financially, and enjoyed taking the opportunity to spoil her hard-working, nose to the grindstone cousin.
It made Cimmy happy to see several people in the restaurant. Everyone dressed and acted appropriately. The men inclined their heads to her and tipped their hats, murmuring, "Ma'am." It was the first time in her life she wasn't unhappy to have been called that.
A young bellhop showed her to her room. "Welcome to the Granville Arms Hotel. You are lucky enough to be staying in the exact same room that Mark Twain stayed in when he visited the hotel," he said.
"Oh, I had no idea. That's nice to know. Thank you for telling me."
He nodded as he set down her luggage. "They say the room is haunted, but I wouldn't worry none. I hear the ghost is friendly. This whole town has its fair share of spirits." He winked and gave a huge Cheshire grin. "It's what makes Twain Ridge special."
"I would have to agree with you. This town does have a certain magic about it. I can't quite put my finger on what, exactly, but I really like it so far."
Cimmy tipped him nicely before looking around her room. It was just as she'd imagined, with floor to ceiling windows, bracketed by heavy velvet curtains with delicate Irish lace inserts. A pitcher and washbasin sat on top of the antique bureau—which she could see had a discreet price tag hanging from the mirror. A small Governor Winthrop writing desk with a finger oil lamp sat against one wall, and a chifforobe stood in one corner and a full length mirror in the other—one of the obviously antique kinds that swiveled, done ornately in a very nice mahogany. In the center of the room sat a very plain bed with an iron headboard, although she would have bet that the quilt it was made up with had been handmade.
Cimmy's happiness almost deflated when she looked in the desk and found information about the room itself, including prices for everything else she'd missed the price tags on, including the quilt, which, considering it was barely a double bed, especially by today's standards, was extravagantly priced at nearly four hundred dollars.
It was pretty though, done in pinks and blues in a pattern she recognized as the pinwheel style. But her pocketbook, as well as her lips, puckered just at the thought of paying that much money for a bedspread, no matter whose hands had made it.
She dutifully put everything away in the gorgeous armoire, admiring the obvious craftsmanship as she did so. The bed was surprisingly enticing, and she had a hard time avoiding the temptation to stretch out and fall asleep. She'd been in Arizona two days now—this being the second—but the jet lag had yet to ease up, probably because she'd been so sleep deprived to start with, although she refused to acknowledge that fact. Just as she was in danger of nodding off, the banjo clock on the wall chimed five o'clock, reminding her that there were things she wanted to do other than dally in her room. By scurrying down the stairs, she barely made the orientation lecture, but only barely.
The talk was given in the dining room, which was convenient for the authentic dinner that was served right afterwards. It was very simple fare, typical of the time; baked ham and boiled cabbage, which she wanted to avoid like the plague but forced herself to partake of for nostalgia's sake alone. But the flaky rolls and the butter were… heavenly. She rarely allowed herself to eat either of those things, but they were absolutely amazing.