One
If Mom was alive, she never would have let me get on that plane. She would have yelled, cried, bribed and begged me to stay home. In that order. But she’s gone, my credit card is that much closer to being maxed out, and I’m here.
Standing on one of those iconic San Francisco streets, at the top of a hill, the city ripples out around me. I’ve always wanted to come here. There’s a buzz in the air you can sense through the pictures. I feel it now, though it might just be anger pulsing though my bloodstream.
Behind me, the automatic door clicks shut. I take a deep breath to clear my lungs of the cloying scents of death and antiseptic. Instead, I get a lungful of exhaust fumes from the ambulance idling at the curb. Do they just sit out here waiting for people to die?
Of course, that’s the pot calling the kettle black. Isn’t that what I’m doing?
I walk back to the Hotel Montagne. These two blocks are the only part of the city I’ve seen since I arrived two days ago. A well-to-do couple emerges from the building; the man holds the door for me. His wife is sleek and sparkly—diamond studs, necklace, bracelet, rings. I shrink inside the door, pulling my battered department store coat closer around me.
The gleaming lobby is a gallery of mirrors, marble and chrome, with strangely shaped furniture dotting the space. I keep my arms close to my body, so I don’t sully anything with my fingerprints. I imagine a squadron of maids must lurk in the shadows, scampering out to dust and polish an object as soon as it’s been touched. This is definitely the poshest place I’ve ever been.
The same day I received The Phone Call—the one that upset my quiet, meandering life and turned it into this exercise in futility—a gold and purple envelope covered in glitter arrived in the mail bearing a coupon for The Montagne. A very generous coupon for a very expensive boutique hotel two thousand miles away. Once I looked it up and found the place was two blocks from the nursing home, I thought the coincidence was just too much. For better or worse, my decision was made.
Mom’s voice rang in my head as I paid for a mind bogglingly expensive plane ticket for the next day. She screeched at me all the way to the airport, quieting down once I’d actually boarded. She’d always been afraid to fly. Her voice has also been silent the entire time I’ve been here. Maybe the silence is a punishment from beyond.
Growing up, we only ever visited roadside motels. Mom would leave a husband or a boyfriend and we’d move in for what she said would be “just a couple of days,” but inevitably turned into months. As funds dwindled, the quality of the places would deteriorate. But they were usually a welcome reprieve from wherever we’d just left.
Mom would get a kick out of this place.
“Welcome back to the Montagne,” the desk clerk greets me with a smile. I smile back; everyone is so friendly. It’s like they don’t know I don’t belong here. The paltry amount I’m paying doesn’t even come close to what my stay must cost. But it’s nice, for once, to not feel like the rich kids are looking down their nose at me. I even go so far as to wave at the clerk.
The click of my heels echoes in the empty lobby. I’m headed to the elevators, but the idea of being cooped up in another tiny room, albeit a gorgeously decorated one, does not appeal. The clerk is young and apple-cheeked and looks like he stepped out of a J. Crew catalog.
“Hi, is the bar still open?”
“Yes, it closes at one-thirty, ma’am.”
I check my phone for the time, stunned that it’s so late. The nurses never enforce the visiting hours in the hospice wing, and that place is like a casino—curtains drawn tight, no clocks on the walls. Maybe they don’t want to rub it in to the dying people that life is going on without them.
I thank the clerk and change direction towards the small bar. It’s more muted and comfortable looking than the lobby—less chrome, more leather. It’s also currently empty, no patrons and no bartender. I settle in on a barstool and take off my coat. The hotel is pretty small. I figure the bartender will be back soon.
To pass the time, I scroll through my phone looking at the pictures I took today. An old man in a bed, tubes attached to his arms. He looks so harmless. The giant hands I remember from childhood are now shrunken and shriveled, like the rest of him. I click the phone off. Nothing about that man is harmless.
The anger creeps back and I’m eager for a drink to whittle away the tension in my neck and shoulders. I turn at the sound of footsteps behind me.
“You’re not the bartender.” It comes out more harshly than I mean it to.
The man in the entrance looks down at himself and then back at me, cracking a half-smile. “No, I don’t think I am.”
He’s the picture of a modern rake. Tallish with a medium build, black jacket over a white shirt, top buttons undone, grin set to mischief. Dark eyes flash as they appraise me. Lean, sexy, dangerous.
I swallow as the energy in the room changes. This man is an electrical storm; I could swear the lights short out as he enters. He sits one barstool down from me and I stifle the urge to adjust my skirt where it’s ridden up, exposing a tiny sliver of thigh. Though as he assesses me, I’m not sure whether I really want to pull the skirt down or slide it up and feel the heat of his gaze sizzle over my skin. The place between my thighs hums to life, and with a mouthwatering whiff of his cologne, a furnace switches on inside me.
Can you have a hot flash at twenty-six?
“So, this bar is missing one important element,” he says, scanning the empty room. My heater cranks up another notch when his gaze comes back to me along with a high voltage smile.
He gets points for not staring at my chest, which is covered in a very modest V-neck sweater. His focus stays on my face with the intensity of a spotlight. I’m caught in the beam, hoping someone else comes in to divert his attention and spare me the scrutiny. But my skin tingles, and I may actually be starting to sweat.
I break our eye contact. Clear my throat. “Should we, um, alert the hotel staff? Perhaps the poor guy has met with foul play.” I shift in my seat and re-cross my legs, tugging my skirt down in the process. Subtly swiping at my brow, I’m convinced I’m dripping like a hog, but my fingers come away dry.
“Maybe we should start a search.” His eyes twinkle devilishly and he stands and leans over the bar. “He’s not down there.”
“Hmm,” I say, swiveling on my stool, glad the focus is off me. I bend at the waist and look around. “Don’t see him hiding under any tables.”
He moves to the wall and peers behind the oversized flat-screen TV mounted there. “Not here either.”
I shrug. “I think we’ve mounted a pretty exhaustive search, don’t you?”
Hands in his pockets, he saunters over and stands next to me, his thigh brushing my knees. “So, what are you having, assuming a bartender does appear?”
I try to ignore his closeness. “Tea.”
“Tea?” He raises an eyebrow. “Iced or—”
“Scalding, preferably. Yes, I’m one of those people who goes into a bar and orders tea. I’m a tea-drinking teetotaler, sad to say.”
“I’d ask if you were the designated driver, but…” His lips are so sexy. A day’s stubble dusts his face and I struggle to focus.