What was it about the fireworks? Oh yes, the Farmers again. They had stopped at one of the tables in the lobby to flip through a brochure after dinner. “You’re not heading to Sebring for the fireworks?” she’d asked.
The couple had held each other’s eyes for a millisecond before Mrs. Farmer giggled. “Nope. Have a nice evening!”
As they climbed the stairs Carla had caught Mr. Farmer’s whispered remark: “I’m planning on fireworks, though.” Mrs. Farmer had shushed him and looked over her shoulder at Carla. who’d made a show of shifting paperwork on the reception counter.
Carla rocked in the swivel chair. Eleven p.m. The Farmer’s fireworks were likely over. Or not. Carla was not given to imagination, certainly not about her hotel guests, but the Farmers were different. Or maybe it was Doug’s new plan that had her dwelling on the couple. Time to batten down the hatches.
Carla turned the chandelier in the lobby to the lowest setting on its dimmer switch and walked toward the heavy front doors to lock them. Before she reached them, though, the little bell on one of doors tinkled as a woman entered, bringing with her a rush of fresh night air.
The woman was on her cellphone and seemed quite upset. “Well I’m here, anyway. It’s not much to look at and I’m extremely tired, but I’ll call you tomorrow.” The woman didn’t seem to notice Carla as she passed with an aggrieved sigh. Approaching the counter, she rang the little desk bell repeatedly.
Carla cleared her throat. “I’m right here, ma’am.” She walked around the reception desk and took her place behind it. “How may I help you?” She glanced over at the computer. There had been, she saw now, a last-minute cancellation. One room available then. “Would you like a room?”
The woman grimaced. “I do not need a room,” she said crisply. “My husband is here on business. Our son suggested that I surprise him.” She glanced around the dimly lit lobby with disdain. “Perhaps I can convince him to find something a little more... modern... though.”
When Carla’s eyebrows shot up involuntarily, the woman tried to cover her rudeness. “Not that this isn’t very nice, I’m sure.” She glanced up at the chandelier overhead with a sour expression and a little sniff that indicated the need for better dusting. “You have to admit, this place has seen better days.”
So have you, lady, Carla thought. Having developed a quick sense for people, able to size up potential guests up in an instant, she surmised that this singularly unpleasant woman was perhaps on the far side of 60. Not unattractive, but growing jowly around the face and wide at the hips. An air of privilege and indolence hung around her like an Hermès scarf. Hair definitely a bottle job, several shades too dark. As much as she disliked this woman to her very core, Carla recognized that everything the woman wore or carried was top shelf, top dollar. As if price is all that matters.
Carla’s smile was stiff. “The Royal has been here since the 1920s, ma’am, so yes, she’s seen better days. But we are very proud of the hotel and its history. Your husband has excellent taste.” In hotels, she thought. Mentally she took inventory of the guests. The husband must have checked in during the day shift. “Name, please?”
“Martha Farmer. Oh, you mean his: John. John Farmer.”
6
Surprise Visits
The color drained from Carla’s cheeks as the woman continued. “He’s out of town on business again,” she said with more than a hint of disapproval. “I just happened to find your brochure this morning where he’d written today’s date. When I mentioned it to our son, he thought it would make a grand Valentine’s Day gesture.” She rolled her eyes. “Jeff has no idea what the roads here are like. He lives in Orlando, of all places.” Another pause, followed by another glare. “Well? The room number?”
Carla’s mouth had opened a little at the name of her husband and she closed it now, thinking frantically. Her eyes darted to the screen. Maybe there was another Farmer on the register. Please, God, let there be another Farmer.
Nothing.
The woman frowned, losing what patience she’d arrived with. “I’ve just driven for hours. Two-lanes are a nightmare, even at this hour. I don’t know what my son was thinking,” she muttered as if to herself. Narrowing her eyes, she addressed Carla. “I would like to take a shower. You do have hot water, don’t you?”
Carla cleared her throat. “Yes, ma’am. Quite hot. We even have indoor plumbing to go with it,” she said in a low voice as she made a show of sifting through room receipts. Oh, dear. What should I do?
The telephone on the wall rang and Carla walked to answer it, grateful for the temporary reprieve. “This is the Royal Poinciana Hotel, Carla speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hey, Carla, John Farmer here,” a cheerful voice said.
“What can I do for you?” Carla turned and looked at the woman at the counter, willing herself not to change expressions.
“We may have left a cellphone downstairs,” he said. “I’m calling from the room phone. If we call the number from our other cell, could you let me know if you hear it?”
A wave of memories washed through Carla’s mind. The Farmers arriving separately. Late check-outs. Laughter. Holding hands. The sheer joy that beamed off of them in contrast to the gloomy figure standing impatiently in front of her. “Of course,” she said quietly, waiting. She heard a soft ringtone coming from the table where “Mrs. Farmer” had stopped to look at a brochure. “Yes, I hear it.”
“I’ll be right down,” Mr. Farmer said.
“No!” Carla cried, so abruptly that Martha Farmer was startled. Looking right at the woman, Carla continued quickly. “I’m, um, I’m on my way upstairs on another matter. I can bring it up in a few minutes if
