Carla smiled, remembering memorable discoveries over the years. There had been plenty of scandals, but her favorite guests were the ones who oozed a sense of “happily ever after.” She frowned as she pulled up the comforter on her own bed. She and Doug wouldn’t get a high rating on the sexy scale of any savvy housekeeper, that was for sure.
For years, they had gravitated to opposite sides of their queen-sized bed. What had started as a tolerable sex life had gradually become sporadic, infrequent, and now, no sex life at all. Doug slept hugging a pillow instead of his wife. Their intimacy would hardly raise a maid’s eyebrows. Not that we’ll be spending a night at the Royal any time soon.
The Royal must have some tales to tell, Carla mused as she refolded her mother’s knitted afghan and carefully laid it at the foot of the bed. From a statistical point of view alone, at least some of the couples who checked in must be having affairs. Occasionally two men or two women would check in together, and it wasn’t always apparent if they were relatives or something more. It was too bad that people couldn’t just find their true love, get married, and live happily ever after as in the stories and books Carla had enjoyed since childhood.
And then there were the Farmers. John and Greta seemed to be the exception. Carla smiled as she worked, mentally ticking off the weeks since she’d seen them. Valentine’s weekend seemed like a logical time for them to show up, but then again, anything was possible. They could be sick, or traveling the world for all she knew. One thing she was certain of, was that they hadn’t split up. That was inconceivable. Even standing at the front desk in front of me and God and everybody, they can hardly keep their hands off one another!
The Farmers had been coming to the Royal, as locals called the hotel, for seven or eight years now. Once a month, once every three months, but fairly steady. Not once had Carla observed the slightest conflict between them. They fairly bubbled with mutual happiness. Of course, now that she thought about it, that first visit had been a little odd. Well, not the first visit. The second, when the names changed.
Mrs. Farmer had made the reservation the first time, only the name she gave, and the name on her license and credit card, was Greta Fallon. Carla had liked her right away. About her age, maybe a little older. Trim, fit. Colorful, but not trying too hard, confident enough to let her hair begin to gray without feeling the need, evidently, for dying it. Too many women, in Carla’s opinion, refused to take pride in their age, desperately trying to hang on to their youth and doing exactly the opposite.
Greta’s companion had arrived shortly after – a man about her age, maybe a few years older, who gave off none of the vibes you might expect with an illicit rendezvous. His face was youthful. It was always hard to tell a man’s age without considering his hair, and his was kept so short as to be virtually non-existent, but his eyebrows were salt-and-pepper, as was his mustache. Whatever else Carla had noticed that first day, she was convinced this was not a typical married couple. That they were, indeed, a married couple was obvious to Carla, but they also seemed unusually well-matched, still in love at their age. At our age!
Carla had called Greta’s love “Mr. Fallon” for the entire weekend, and he always responded. No one had said anything to suggest she was wrong. The next time, however, when he made the reservation it was in the name of John Farmer. Greta instantly became Mrs. Farmer and had been Mrs. Farmer ever since. Again, no hesitation or correction, only grinning responses.
What I wouldn’t give to be that happy with Doug!
Many women, Carla knew, kept their maiden names. Perhaps she was Greta Fallon-Farmer. It had occurred to Carla over the years that perhaps they were having an affair, but any suspicions in that regard were short-lived. Had they been the least little bit nervous or awkward, or only come to the hotel once or twice, perhaps. The Farmers had been together too long for an affair and their behavior was, at least in public, the opposite of, well, sordid.
Carla sighed as she pulled the car keys from her purse. The idea of having a romantic affair, or a one-night stand, was completely foreign to her. She lacked the imagination to picture Doug having one. He was so disinterested in his own wife these past years, so disinterested in most everything, she couldn’t picture him having the energy for a romance, much less the desire.
Like Carla, Doug had a few more years of working before he would consider retirement. Oh, how Carla dreaded the thought of the two of them, shadows inhabiting the same house day in and day out, saying nothing but the minimum. It was a chilling prospect. Today, however, he was off and she would be at work. When Carla came into the den to tell him she was leaving, she found him in his favorite recliner reading the local newspaper. She peered over the top of the page. “Bye. Have a good day.”
Doug’s eyes met hers briefly before returning to the sports listings. “You too. Bring me some pie if you can.”
Carla nodded before heading for the door. “Don’t wait up,” she called over her shoulder. Of course, he won’t wait up. He never does. This morning, however, it bothered her. All that dwelling on the Farmers had likely done it. She thought about it all the way to the hotel, for once lost in thought, rather than enjoying the rural landscape that separated their property from the town proper. Maybe because tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. Maybe because she dreaded the thought of turning into her parents.
Doug had brought it up again
