gone looking for him, she instead found Kyle, who persistently made snide comments about The Carriage House’s trickling turn-out. “Yeah, we’re slammed every night over at room service,” he’d say. Then he’d grin. “How about you?” Asshole, she’d always answer in thought. Then he’d always ask, “When are you and me going to go for a dip? Oh, that’s right, I keep forgetting, you don’t have a swimsuit.” That’s right, Kyle, and I’II never have one as long as you’re around.
Their second weekend, Vera was surprised to book a few guests into the small wing of second-floor rooms that she’d been put in charge of. The mayor had some relatives in town, and there were a few others. Vera made sure that their rooms were in pristine shape, and that anything they’d order from upstairs was of the highest quality. It infuriated her, though, to discover that Kyle’s room-service elevators bypassed the second floor, which meant that her food orders had to be carried through the atrium and up the stairs. Afterward, she’d received some odd comments, however. “I hope you enjoyed your stay,” she remarked to one couple. “Oh, your accommodations are superb,” the wife had replied, “but it’s a bit loud, isn’t it?” Loud? Vera thought. “We kept hearing this thunking noise—” The doors on the room-service elevators, Vera suspected; she’d heard them too, opening and closing. “We had a very nice time,” another couple cited to her, “but your housemaids aren’t very friendly.” Shit! Vera thought. Yet another couple had actually submitted a complaint card about similar noises and smirking housemaids. She felt it her responsibility to report the complaints, but when she mentioned them to Feldspar, he didn’t seem to care at all. Instead, as usual, he commended her on the job she was doing, and claimed that the upper suites were booked solid. “Business couldn’t be better,” he’d said, and then invited her to sample a glass of Montrachet ’83.
She’d hotly wanted to point out to him the foolishness of maintaining such a large inventory account for the restaurant. A million dollars? It was ludicrous. Less than a hundred thousand would be more then ample; the rest could be put into a higher-yield CD and at least be earning interest for the company till. But she never brought it up, far too used now to the man’s lackadaisical attitude toward financial management.
And all the while, her distraction deepened. Paul, she thought. That final night, and its obscene imagery, had never ceased to churn through her memory. She hoped she never saw him again, but that was a false hope. Sooner or later, she’d have to see him. There were still a few things back at the apartment that she needed to retrieve.
Sooner or later, she knew, she’d have to go back to the city. She’d have to face him one last time.
««—»»
Dinner wound down. The third night of their second week. Twenty-two dinners tonight, she thought. Not bad. Breaking twenty dinners per night was their new goal, akin to breaking one hundred in golf. Not too good, but better than shooting sevens on every hole.
The last of the diners complimented her as they left. “A simply lovely meal,” an elderly, perfumed woman gushed, donning a mink stole. “I’m glad you liked it,” Vera replied. “Please come again.” “We will,” promised the younger man with her. He looked like Dapper on The Three Stooges. While the rest cleaned up, Vera meandered to her office in the west wing. She cashed out, wrote up the night’s receipts, and logged in the payroll hours. All the while, though, her mind wandered, never stopping on a single thought, image, or notion. Paul. Feldspar. The Carriage House. Paul. She poured herself a Cordial of DeKuyper Cinnamon Schnapps and felt even more remote. Paul. Sleep. The dream. Feldspar. Kyle…sex.
“There I go again,” she muttered to herself, and locked up her files. Poor little oversexed Vera.
The Inn was quiet; her office felt unoccupied even with her sitting in it. Then she noticed the package.
What is this?
