Carla hung up the phone and slowly walked around the counter to the table, where she picked up the missing device, holding it up with a little shake as she looked over at the woman. “Sorry about that – always something.” The woman frowned, then turned back around dismissively, resting her elbows with a thud on the reservation desk as if she couldn’t stand up straight another second.
As Carla stood there, unsure how to handle what was the most delicate situation she’d ever faced at the Royal, the antique elevator doors opened by the stairs. Wasn’t the car down already? No one could operate it but staff, and right now, that meant Carla.
An incredibly handsome man stepped out wearing a tailored black tuxedo. With that head of hair and mustache, he was unmistakable. A professional impersonator? If so, he’s well worth whatever fee he charges. Maybe he appeared tonight in Sebring?
Before Carla could question his use of the elevator, however, the man held a finger to his lips. Carla stood, open-mouthed, as the spitting image of Clark Gable took a seat in one of the overstuffed brocade chairs and grinned mischievously. He shook his head firmly, then cocked an eyebrow toward the woman at the counter, her back still to both of them.
A little weak in the knees, Carla walked back behind the counter holding up the cellphone. “I apologize for the delay. I’ll just check for that room now,” she said with a frown, glancing up at the handsome figure in the chair. He shook his head again and emphatically mouthed one word: No.
I could get fired for this. “Oh dear,” Carla said with what she hoped sounded like professional regret, “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr. Farmer must have checked out earlier.” She blinked a few times as the color rose in her cheeks. “Before I came on shift. Or possibly he just jotted the date down and was never here. But we don’t have a Mr. Farmer. Sorry.”
The woman frowned, but said nothing.
Carla took a chance. The woman obviously didn’t want to be here. “May I reserve a room for you anyway? I mean, it’s getting late.” Carla’s heart stopped briefly, and she noticed, with alarm, that Mr. Gable’s eyebrows had shot up. Well, whoever he is. And why does he care, anyway?
It was a rambling old hotel with many wings and floors, but the chances of Mrs. Farmer running into Mr. Farmer and the (now obvious) love of his life would still be high. Does this guy know? And who the hell was “he” anyway, to tell her her business. Not tell, exactly, but–
The woman made a strangled noise that might have been a grim chuckle. “Certainly not,” she said, turning on one heel without glancing in the man’s direction. As she walked out the front door, Carla heard her speaking into her phone. “Your idea was horrible, which I should have known. He isn’t even here. Now I have to drive all the way back... No, no... Well, I may stop in Sebring if I see something suitable.”
Carla let out a long breath and stared across the room. Clark Gable’s double smiled, his eyes flashing. “Good job, Carla,” he said smoothly.
“How? Who?” Her eyes shifted to the stairs.
The man stood and walked to the elevator. Good Lord, it just isn’t right for any man to be that handsome, Carla thought as she watched him. Wasn’t it Carole Lombard who’d said he was a lousy lay? Looking at his likeness, Carla found that hard to believe at the moment.
The man whipped his head around. “They’ll be fine.” He stepped inside the elevator, briefly out of view, but stuck his head out again, that famous grin slightly off-kilter. “You know. The Farmers. And by the way, Carole was making a joke. We enjoyed room 207 every bit as much as they do.”
The elevator doors closed as Carla rushed over. There was no one on the elevator. But she had watched him go inside! She’d been staring at him the entire time. There was no way he had escaped down the hall to the breakfast area, but Carla jogged off to search anyway.
There was no one there. She looked inside the bathrooms at that end of the building, stepped outside to look out into the parking lot. Under a light she saw John Farmer’s convertible. Good thing he didn’t park in front.
In a daze, Carla walked slowly back to the lobby and retrieved the missing phone from the counter. Her feet felt heavy as lead as she walked up the stairs. Any other time, she would save her knees with the elevator. Not tonight. Friday the thirteenth indeed. There was no way she was getting on the elevator ever again, if she could help it.
As Carla made her way down the hallway to room 207 she heard a low chuckle. Just an old building noise. I do not believe in ghosts. There is a logical explanation. She passed one of the small sitting areas. Mr. Gable sat on a rattan couch with a smirk on his face. I don’t believe in ghosts, she told herself again.
The man laughed heartily as if he had heard her. “Oh no? Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” He wiggled his eyebrows and just like that, Carla was alone. Again, she searched frantically behind the heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains, out on the balcony, even under the couches. Nothing, or rather, no one.
Finally, remembering the phone in her hand, she walked down the hallway and tapped lightly on the door of room 207.
When it opened, John Farmer’s quick smile changed to concern. “Are you okay? You’re white as a sheet!”
Carla’s mind was saturated with a jumble of feelings, but whoever this couple was, they were in love. Despite her ethical dilemma, she felt good about protecting their relationship, if only for a night. “I just had a bit of
