The dining room was immediately adjacent to the hall, about half the size but still enormous, and with floor-to-ceiling windows. There was still just a little bit of light in the sky, enough so that the pond was visible. She and Bruce were brought to a table for two near one of the windows. The woman who seated them lit their table candle, then presented them each with a single piece of paper with the menu choices. It was a four-course meal, two or three choices per course.
“Good lord,” Abigail said. After studying the menu, she looked around the room. Most of the tables were set for two, but there was a long communal table that ran down the center of the room, and several of the men she’d seen at cocktail hour were now being seated there. The atmosphere was incredibly hushed, and she privately decided that it would be better if music was playing in the background, even though she was sure that was against the aesthetics of the resort.
A waiter arrived, same outfit, but he had a large dark beard, and long hair knotted into a top bun. Abigail ordered the lobster tortellini to start, the pomegranate sorbet, then the seared Maine salmon for the main course, and a blood orange crème brûlée for dessert. After Bruce placed his order the waiter asked if they wanted the sommelier to come out to talk about bottles, or if they’d prefer wine pairings by the glass with each course. Bruce looked at Abigail, who shrugged and said that the wine pairings would be fine. After the waiter left, Abigail said, “What’s the actual employee-to-guest ratio at this place, do you think?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“But it’s got to be something like five-to-one, at least, right?”
“From what I’ve heard, more guests are arriving late tonight. There are times when there’s no one here, and then there are times when there are all-company retreats, or an entire wedding.”
“So, when no one is here what does the staff do?”
“They’re all on yearly salary, and it doesn’t change depending on the number of guests. Some months are busy, some months they can take off and go traveling. That’s the way Chip described it to me. For all of them it’s a two-year commitment.”
“It makes me feel bad that the sommelier could just be sitting back there desperately hoping that someone will ask for him and he can actually do something.”
“He’s pretty busy, I think. He does all the wine pairings.”
“I know. I’m just saying.”
They were both quiet for a moment. Now that the candle on their table was lit, the window reflected the two of them. After a brief hesitation, Abigail said, “Don’t tell me if it makes you uncomfortable, but how much does it cost to come here?”
Bruce’s brow creased slightly, and Abigail quickly said, “No, don’t tell me. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, no,” he said. “It’s fine. I just hesitated because there’s not an easy answer. I was an original investor in this place, so I’m essentially a part-owner, and I pay yearly dues.”
“So you can come anytime?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“So it turns out that you picked our honeymoon place because it was actually cheap.”
“Exactly,” he said, smiling.
Their first course arrived, Abigail’s tortellini and the beef tartare for Bruce. “Just out of curiosity, what does it cost for someone who’s not a part-owner?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” Bruce said. “It might ruin your dinner.”
“You can tell me after dinner.”
“Sure,” Bruce said, smiling, and she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to.
Abigail cut a small piece from her single tortellini, sprinkled with slivers of black truffle, and took a bite. She immediately concluded it was the single best thing she’d ever put in her mouth.
After dinner, a little bit uncomfortably full, but mainly sleepy, Bruce and Abigail got up from their table and walked back into the hall. There were a few men around the bar.
“Nightcap?” Bruce asked.
“Oh God, no,” Abigail said. “But you should get one.”
“Maybe I’ll order a whiskey at the bar and have it sent to our room. You sure you don’t want anything? A Baileys?”
“Thank you, no, I’m fine.”
She stood in the center of the hall, immediately under the chandelier, which seemed dimmer somehow. Maybe the candles had burned down or maybe they weren’t candles after all, just an elaborate illusion. She stared at it, but she didn’t have her distance glasses with her and the chandelier was blurry. The periodic sense of unreality that she’d been feeling since meeting Bruce flooded her again, but this time it was accompanied by an empty feeling. It was the combination of extreme luxury and the feeling she couldn’t quite shake that Bruce was still somehow a stranger. There was something else as well. It was the emptiness of this resort; it reminded her of a theatrical set after the season was over. It echoed.
She looked toward the bar, where Bruce was waiting to talk with the bartender. Her vision blurred drastically, a sign she was very tired and a little drunk. She heard footsteps, loud against the stone floor, then soft, then loud again, someone walking across one of the scattered rugs. Then she realized the footsteps were coming toward her, and she turned, expecting to see Jill or Alec, or else another employee pushing an after-dinner drink on her.
But it wasn’t Jill or Alec, or an employee of the resort. It was Scottie from California, a tentative half smile on his face.
Abigail’s legs went weak, and for a second she thought, I’m going to faint, right here in the middle of this hall.
Scottie stopped, and then he must have seen the color leaving her face because he immediately moved toward her again, closing in as though to catch her from falling.
Abigail raised a hand, though, and he stopped short of actually touching her. She regained some of her composure, and said,
