Carol rubbed her tired eyes without fear of smearing her makeup. Oh naturale worked for her at the hotel and while playing golf (her passion), attending church (an interest), or out on the town with Doug, an increasingly infrequent event. Doug, Doug, Doug, she thought with a sigh. Would it be thirty-three years this year or thirty-four? She’d lost track.
Carla glanced at the calendar by her desk. Down the hall was the business office, but that was mostly used for staff meetings and such, when they didn’t want to be in the public view. She could hire someone else to fill shift slots such as this one which would free her to focus on administration, she supposed, but she loved interacting with guests.
February 13. Ha! Friday the thirteenth. Not that she was superstitious. Life in Crosby wasn’t exciting enough for that sort of thing. Same old life for her, that was for sure. It was unlikely that anything extraordinary would transpire in the Danvers household any time soon. No surprises. Nothing to rock the proverbial boat. Put in the time until retirement, then more time for golf. And, she supposed, for church and her husband. She wasn’t looking forward to him being underfoot all the time. He probably felt the same way about her.
“Hmph,” Carla said aloud. It suddenly dawned on her that Doug’s suggestion that they sleep in separate rooms checked the box for her mental list. It would certainly rock her boat. Maybe I should just leave him. I’m still young enough to find someone else, if he doesn’t want me. She looked over the bookings and smiled. She’d been right – the Farmers had made a reservation for two nights. She looked forward to seeing them again.
One sees a lot and hears a lot in the hotel business, but the Farmers were Carla’s idea of perfect guests. They were polite, friendly, attractive, always holding hands as they walked through the lobby. Even the housekeepers had noticed them, for two very different reasons: their bed always looked extremely well used and they always left a generous tip when they checked out.
“What do you mean ‘well used?’” Carla had asked the first time it was mentioned. “All our beds are well used. People sleep in them. Isn’t that what beds are for?” From her own years as a housekeeper, she knew exactly what was implied, but it amused her to watch the girl blush.
The young Hispanic woman’s face had turned a deep crimson as she chattered something in Spanish to her fellow housekeeper which sent the pair into a fit of giggles. “Oh, Señora. The Farmers’ bed, they do mucho more than sleep!”
As she checked the last shift’s paperwork for errors, Carla wondered what the Farmer’s secret was. She wondered about their story. Usually she was satisfied checking people in, checking people out, taking them up on the elevator if they requested it. She assumed the best of people, assumed (officially) that every couple was married, and hoped they were all happy – even while often seeing evidence to the contrary.
No one, it seemed, was as happy as the Farmers were. They usually came separately. Scratch that. They always arrived separately. Sometimes one would wait for the other outside, at least in the beginning. For the last few years, though, they were such regulars that either one might check in, sign the register, and grab the room key. Sometimes when Mrs. Farmer arrived first, she would come down a bit later to wait for her husband with a cold beer.
Mr. Farmer drove a distinctive convertible. His wife’s car was more nondescript. There was usually plenty of parking along Main Street, but as Carla checked her computer screen she thought, Maybe not today. Looks like we have a full house.
During the day a few individuals checked in. Three or four families had booked suites for overnight or the weekend, possibly visiting grandparents or checking out the area before deciding to move there. Crosby was a pleasant place to live, she always told people who inquired. “I’ve lived here all my life,” she’d say cheerily. “Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
She would, however, trade the notion of separate bedrooms for a more intimate life with Doug almost anywhere. What went wrong? She knew the answer; she just didn’t like to think about it.
Eight years earlier, their daughter had drowned. An accomplished waterskier, she’d been out with friends that day. It was an accident. No one’s fault. Just one of those tragic things that happens. Carla sometimes wondered if it would have been harder or easier, had there been someone to blame. She had embraced the grief, cried her eyes out, then attacked projects at the hotel with a vengeance, working the pain out physically while allowing her emotions to settle.
Doug, being Doug, had pushed it all down. He never spoke of their precious Katie, never visited the cemetery. In the beginning, when their grief was so raw, he’d told her that having photos of Katie all over the house was difficult.
“I agree. The only thing more difficult would be if we didn’t,” she’d told him. Maybe I should have taken them down, she thought. Maybe I wasn’t sensitive enough to his feelings. Maybe that’s when he stopped loving me, because it hurt so much to love Katie and then lose her.
4
Mr. and Mrs. Farmer
Greta pulled off the road and into a convenience store parking lot to touch up her lipstick. She wore one of her favorite shades of pearly deep pink, but she didn’t have a signature shade like some of her friends. She was too pragmatic – whatever was on sale and wasn’t peachy was good enough. John told her she was complex the
