She pulled his sleeve, whispering, “It’s probably the television, dear.”
But as he followed her down the hall, instead of reviewing his list of songs in his mind, he watched her plump derriere sashay dramatically side to side. Her full skirt was a wonder to behold, and he felt stirrings in his groin. Catching up to walk beside her, he said, “How long has it been since we’ve–”
His wife stopped in her tracks, a question in her eyes. He nodded as he fondled that enticing bottom. “Well then,” she said, demurely lowering her eyes, “I suggest you get through your music in record time.”
5
Too Many Mrs. Farmers
Carla’s shift was nearing its end. She’d spoken with dozens of guests throughout the afternoon and evening, wishing them a pleasant dinner. “Enjoy yourselves, now!” she’d called. The Farmers had gone out about seven, but judging from the time they were gone, they had stepped across the street for the world’s best hamburger before going back upstairs for the night. As always, they had looked happy to be together, as if that was the goal of their very existence.
It shouldn’t bother me, but it does, damn it. Unless she was mistaken, Mrs. Farmer was roughly her age, maybe a little younger. Or older, it was hard to tell. Her hair had more gray, but her face was smoother. Bigger breasts, definitely. But can she play golf? She knew it was ridiculous to make comparisons. This separate bedroom thing was getting to her though.
Mr. Farmer might be a bit older than Doug. His beard and busy eyebrows were salt-and-pepper, a neat, closely trimmed style. Briefly, she wondered what a beard would feel like between her legs. Doug had always insisted on being clean-shaven, even when she’d asked him to grow a beard years before. He still had a full head of hair, which he kept fairly short.
Mr. Farmer, in contrast, was obviously balding, but the way he kept his remaining hair clipped so close, it was quite an attractive look in Carla’s opinion. I shouldn’t be lusting after another woman’s husband, she thought. But honestly, what good was it to lust after her own? He was prepared to just call it quits in the lust department, apparently.
The lobby was dark and quiet. The small but elegant dining rooms had not been rented out for a party or wedding. Students were in their rooms studying, or sleeping, or getting into various kinds of mischief. Carla sighed. Katie would have been one of them by this time, if she had lived.
Carla leaned back in her swivel chair. As far as she could tell, all of the guests were present and accounted for. If any guests were still out, they had keys to open the back door once she was all locked up.
The pianist and his wife had already headed upstairs, no doubt already asleep. For an hour in the evenings he filled the lobby with beautiful music (even when there were no guests) in exchange for a greatly reduced rate for year-round lodging. Sometimes guests would break into song as they walked past. Mrs. Farmer, for one. Tonight, he didn’t play as long as was his custom. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well. Carla reminded herself to inquire the next day.
Her eyes instinctively traveled to the little mail cubby on the wall that bore the number 207 which reminded her of Mr. Farmer’s quip earlier in the evening. She chuckled softly as she wrote a note for housekeeping.
Always smiling, those two were, she thought, as if being together at the Royal Poinciana Hotel was the pinnacle of their year. For all her speculation, she hadn’t figured out what either one of them did for a living, or why their jobs required them to arrive in separate vehicles. His credit card information placed them on the Atlantic coast. Not an outrageous drive, but why this place? Hospitality workers were expected to be somewhat aloof. The Farmers treated her more like a friend.
Mrs. Farmer had led the way downstairs this evening wearing a colorful print dress that showed a bit more leg than Carla would dream of attempting. Not flashy but flattering, and, from the expression on Mr. Farmer’s face as he watched her walk in front of him, admired.
“What a nice outfit!” Carla had called to her from behind the desk.
“Thank you for noticing,” Mr. Farmer had answered, grinning. “The shirt is new.”
“Oh, Mr. Farmer!” she’d retorted. “You are a silly one.” She had watched wistfully as they walked through the lobby hand in hand and later, when they returned.
All of her duties presumably done for the shift, Carla let her mind wander. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Doug had held hands in public. The separate bedroom thing was an issue, but not the hand holding so much. That, she didn’t really mind. Public displays of affection had never been their way. Or was it an age thing, for the most part?
For all she knew, all couples on the east coast laughed as easily as the Farmers, holding hands as if they were madly in love, she thought wryly. As if rural Florida was some kind of Shangri-La. No, Carla got the distinct impression that it didn’t matter where the Farmers were, as long as they were together. Even though it made her jealous for what they had and she did not, it warmed her heart to know that she knew at least one couple that was truly happy.
Carla frowned at the neat row of keys. All the rooms were taken. Sebring was hosting that big downtown event tonight and Saturday. A bigger, more prosperous city, they would have music, vendors, bounce houses, even fireworks tonight, weather permitting. So far, so good in that regard, anyway.
She’d get home about one, and sleep, hopefully. In the morning, Doug would have breakfast waiting for her. Breakfast was the one thing she still had that reflected a modicum of affection. She’d never asked him to do
