(no subject)
Lipton sat down in the wooden chair and rested his forearms on the desk. The office area of the Boarding House wasn’t particularly big; it didn’t have to be. It held a desk, a chair and a couple of simple shelves for papers and miscellanea. Everything was impeccably neat and looked as if it hadn’t been used for months - which, Lipton considered, it probably hadn’t.
From what he knew, the Boarding House had been built by Jane Bennet’s husband, who was now gone from the island. Then, a Mr. Darcy had helped her run it, but he was also now gone. When it had come up in casual conversation that Lipton had helped his mother to run a Boarding House back in Huntington all through his teenage years, Miss Bennet had asked if he would like a job. And here he was.
Lipton picked up a pencil and rolled it between his fingers idly as he looked around the small room. He’d done this before, the day-to-day, the repairs, the paperwork. But that had been years ago, during the Depression, when he’d helped with the house, gone to school and held a part time job on the side all just to make ends meet for his family. Then came the war, which had dragged him out of his solitary life and forced him to learn how to lead and how to kill. He was a different man than he’d been three years ago; and yet somehow he was back to sitting behind a desk and looking at a sheet of paper hold the names of all the current residents of the Boarding House.
Greg Harris. Cole Porter. Juliet O’Hara. Lionel Thayer. Peter Smith-Kingsley. Lloyd Henreid. Nate Fick.
Lipton had never met any of them. He’d only been on the island himself for a few weeks. He looked up at the open door to the office, to where it looked out to the open space of the first floor, and thought that perhaps he should go introduce himself.
((Open to anyone, ST/LT welcome!))