Already his nose was red, and the skin above his beard blotchy. He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, and Dini was about to insist he go back inside, really, when a gray car with the Lyft logo in its window turned the corner.
“There’s my ride,” she said, lifting a hand to flag it. “I’ll see you Sunday. Do your reading.”
“I will. I promise.” He opened the back door, leaned in, and verified the driver. His solicitude seemed a second nature—opening doors, escorting, protecting.
She had one foot in the car when she called out, “Hey, Quin Carmichael.” Unnecessary, because he hadn’t yet taken his eyes off her.
“Yes, Dini Blackstone?”
“Do me a favor, and don’t read the whole book. Okay?”
He looked quizzical. “Okay?”
“Just up to page”—she closed her eyes and scanned her memory—“fifty-one.”
“Fifty-one. Got it.”
When she was settled in the car, he handed over her satchel, told her to buckle in, and the driver to be safe. The car was warm, scented with a freshener meant to make you feel like you were inhaling fresh laundry on a line. The driver, a fortyish woman with long blond hair pinned on the sides with sparkly barrettes, commented on the sudden change in the weather. “I was running the air conditioner at noon.”
“Yeah.” Dini looked over her shoulder to see Quin, still standing on the street, watching them drive away. “It’s crazy.”
Chapter 2
Excerpt from
My Spectral Accuser: The Haunted Life of Hedda Krause
Published by the Author Herself
I will spare you, Dear Readers, from the sordid details of my life before I walked through the doors of the Menger Hotel. What matters is this: I arrived with a heart burdened by grief, my dead husband’s words echoing in each beat.
“Promise me,” he’d said. “Go search out a life where love will find you.”
By some cruel trick, I cannot see his face, but the memory of his touch, his hand grasping mine, comes to me as a tangible phantom, a pressure against my pulse.
“There is no love waiting for me anywhere but here, my darling,” I told him. “Where would I go?”
I could never seek any life other than the one he’d given me. His cozy hearth was my cozy hearth. His bed, my bed. Never mind that I was his third wife to share it, or that his sons would never grant me a place in his life outside of it. Their father died in that bed while I sat beside him. It was late in the afternoon, and their shadows filled the doorway within minutes of his last breath.
“Go, now,” the older one said, his voice so like his father’s that I wondered for a moment if he’d stepped back from the angels.
“Where would I go?”
“Anywhere.” His voice colder than his father’s lifeless touch.
How came I to San Antonio? What guided my steps to the Menger Hotel? Surely the same Divine Guidance that made me mistress of my late husband’s parlor carried me over the threshold and dropped me onto these shining parquet floors. It was early October, cool, and sloppy with rain, making the crackling fire in the fireplace just past the desk a welcome sight indeed. I made my way straight to it, holding my hands out to its warmth. With no idea how long my bit of pocket money would hold out, I’d had to choose between transport for my trunk and transport for myself. Thus, having been assured my luggage would arrive within a few hours’ time, I’d walked from the station, feeling the cold seep in one step at a time.
The heat from the fire dried the thin layer of damp on my skirt and cloak, though my feet remained numb within shoes too thin for a walk in such weather. In time, my face grew uncomfortably warm, and when I turned to enjoy the warmth on my backside, I realized I’d caught the attention of a copse of gentlemen seated nearby.
I knew my skin glowed with a radiance brought on by flame rather than youth, though at twenty-seven my youth was not totally spent, and through no conscious pains I had my figure displayed quite artfully. There is simply no other way to stand by a fire. Though decorum at the time would never allow an unmarried woman to strike up a conversation with a man—let alone a small gathering of them—in a hotel lobby, I returned their murmured salutations with the slightest nod and a “Good evening, gentlemen,” spoken with the controlled lilt I’d learned on my late husband’s arm.
I was spared any further conversation when the station’s porter approached the front desk, my luggage in tow. Even if I hadn’t recognized the porter, I would have spotted my trunk from a mile away. It had been a wedding gift, crafted to withstand the travels that marked the early days of our marriage. The distinct aquamarine leather made it stand out in any cargo hold. Its gold-embossed latch was fashioned to look like two swans facing each other, the lock peeking through the heart-shaped space formed by the curvature of their necks. Instinctively, I raised my hand to touch the outline of the key, tied with a ribbon and nestled next to my heart. Everything I owned was in that trunk, and maybe a few things where ownership was a matter of opinion. But when one is given only a few hours between a funeral and sundown to pack up a life, some details must be swept aside.
The porter was using a hand truck, as the weight of my trunk—even empty—is prohibitive. From across the lobby I could hear him banter with the desk clerk. I couldn’t make out all the words, but the porter rolled his shoulders as if injured. He would surely expect an extra tip.
I acknowledged my admirers (no other identifier would fit) and took slow, measured steps to the registration desk.
“I see you have safely transported my belongings, sir.” I added an extra bit of warmth to my voice to counteract both the cold of the night and the unsuitable number of coins in my hand.
“Feels like you have all your house and home in there.”
I initially bristled at his overfamiliarity but recovered with a small laugh. “I hope this will compensate the effort, along with the fare I paid at the station.” He looked as if to say that, no, this bit wouldn’t compensate at all, but there is no sweeter creature than a man entranced.
“Well, indeed.” He pocketed it quickly and turned to the desk clerk. “Want me to take it upstairs?”
My eyes darted from the porter to the clerk. The porter looked like every other porter I’d ever seen: brawny and gruff, with two days’ beard and a cap worn low. If I told him to be gentle with my trunk as it contained stockings made of spun glass, he would have been too inflamed at the word stockings to give any doubt to my claim.
But the front desk clerk was another animal altogether. I knew he’d been looking at me since I walked in, though his attention lacked admiration. He was tall and slight, with sleek dark hair and a thin moustache. His suit jacket fit a tad loose (I would have suggested a tailor take it in at the shoulders and maybe a nip at the back) but was of good quality. He made a show of opening the large, leather-bound registration book and running his finger down the page.
“I do not believe I see the lady’s name listed among our guests.”
I stood straighter. “How odd, given that you don’t know my name.”
He offered a smile that turned his moustache into something of a wavy line. “Forgive me. What I mean to say is that I see no reservation for a Mrs …”