by Gail Hewitt
"Then there's nothing you want to change about the arrangements?" Mr. Beverly asked.
"There will be a board at the desk, another directing participants here from the main corridor, and one next to the door in this corridor?"
"Of course," he said, as if slightly offended that she might think his organization would overlook something so obvious.
"Then everything looks fine to me. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go to my room. It's been a long day."
"Of course," he said. "We return to the main corridor, then go right, continuing the way we were walking when we turned into this corridor."
As the corridor meandered along, Maggie became aware that the Christmas carols had been replaced by dance music, Gershwin she thought. It made her think of Miles. He was especially fond of Gershwin. "Catchy music," she commented, but Mr. Beverly was frowning.
"Thank you, but it isn't what's supposed to be playing. Do you mind if I look inside the Tea Lounge to make sure everything's all right?"
The music shifted, from the lilt of the Gershwin song to a more plaintive ballad, the sort to which her parents had danced as music drifted across the warm summer night from the phonograph in the living room. She could almost recall the words, something romantic, yet wistful. She remembered sitting on the stairs, clutching her teddy bear, watching the two of them moving slowly, the closeness of their bodies and precision of their movements giving meaning to lyrics she did not understand. "Castles in Spain" – those words she had understood. Her parents had been to Spain, had stayed in a castle. There was a picture of the two of them standing close together on the ramparts, looking out toward the sunset horizon of a crimson sea. In the photograph, they looked impossibly young – younger than the duration of her memory – and happy. Her eyes filled with tears. Perhaps her father had been the lucky one, to die while he was still himself. She doubted her mother could even remember the castle in Spain, much less the late-night dances with the husband now dead for over three decades.
When they reached what turned out to be the Tea Lounge, its sliding doors were open. Mr. Beverly paused and looked inside. It was a larger room than any other they'd passed, probably forty feet square with beamed ceilings, a bank of windows at the far end, and a substantial ceiling fixture dimmed to the level of candlelight. Before the windows, at one side, stood an enormous Christmas tree whose lights were reflected in the glass, their glow a warming color against the near-darkness. The music was coming from a quartet playing next to the tree – violin, cello, flute, and baby grand, its shiny black surface also reflecting the tree lights. On one wall a sizable fire blazed on a stone hearth large enough to walk into. Clusters of small chairs with balloon-shaped backs sat around the perimeter of the room, and, in its center, parquet provided a dance floor that was being used by one couple. They moved gracefully across its polished surface, their form so classic that Maggie almost felt she was watching one of the old Fred Astaire movies that had so fascinated her on TV when she was no more than eight or nine. The whole thing was beautiful, and unexpectedly moving, an image of the sort of elegant pleasure that this time of year should bring, but so rarely did. Perhaps the scene affected Mr. Beverly in the same way, for he hesitated before advancing into the room. It was only after he'd begun to move toward the quartet that Maggie realized several older women were sitting together, close to the tree, watching the dancing couple.
They were worth watching. They did not put a foot wrong but seemed to be drawn along by the music, the man leading and the woman following as a single unit. It was clearly a case of movement as art and a couple still very much in sync, she thought, but then she took a closer look and realized that this almost certainly wasn't a couple as such. The woman was much older, probably in her seventies and beautifully dressed in a rose-colored gown that swung around her legs, while the man, wearing a dark wellcut suit, couldn't have been more than thirty or forty. Mother and son, Maggie decided. The music stopped when Mr. Beverly reached the end of the room, and the dancing male said something to the woman and walked over to where Mr. Beverly had begun to talk to the pianist, who was evidently the leader of the group.
She waited just inside the door, watching. When the younger man arrived, Mr. Beverly turned as if about to confront him, then his body posture changed and he extended his hand, his smile visible even from the door. Must be an honored guest, Maggie thought wryly. Then the two men turned and headed toward her as the quartet resumed its playing of Christmas carols. The younger man stopped for a moment to say something to his former partner, then he looked up and straight into Maggie's eyes, and she saw that it was Miles.
An odd sort of feeling came over her, a kind of warmth that she hadn't felt in a long time. It was as if she'd been wandering alone, and now suddenly felt she'd reached what she'd been seeking and, amazingly, it was Miles who waited there. A tingle went through her body, and she hugged herself. It seemed to take the two men an eternity to cross the room to where she stood. Mr. Beverly immediately began to apologize.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Mr. Beverly said. "It turns out that Mr. Brewster," he nodded toward Miles, "was giving a treat to the ladies. They expressed a desire to dance, and he persuaded the musicians to make it possible. He's evidently been taking turns with each."
Meanwhile, Miles had reached out and enveloped Maggie in a tight hug, saying to Mr. Beverly over her shoulder, "Don't worry, Bev, it's perfectly respectable. We're old friends." Maggie was immobile. The whole thing was so unexpected. Her heart had actually stood still before it began to beat wildly. She stepped back, glad of the dimness of the lighting, sure that she was blushing. Miles said nothing as she moved away, but the look he gave her was quizzical, even appraising, making her even more uncomfortable.
"Mr. Beverly was about to show me my room, but I think I'd rather hear what you're doing here," she told him.
"No reason you can't do both," he said reasonably. "I'll tag along and explain."
He did have a reason, of sorts – his mother, he said, had asked him to check out a specific venue for a business party she was thinking of throwing and he thought it would be more fun to do it when he knew Maggie would be here.They could at least meet for dinner. When he said that, Thomas Beverly gave Maggie a look that, although friendly, could only be described as having more an air of evaluation than was entirely comfortable. It made her suspect that the hotel manager knew Miles very well.
The three of them rode a somewhat creaky elevator to the hotel's fifth floor. "We don't count the mezzanine," Thomas Beverly explained. Off the elevator he continued to point out other features. "Our master suites on this floor are off that corridor. They consist of a sizable sitting room and two to four bedrooms, each bedroom with a private bath. If you require larger accommodation during your stay, Ms. McLaurin, I'm sure we could arrange to have you moved."
"What's already arranged will be fine," she assured him hastily. His manner, which had been pleasantly professional from the outset, had suddenly become gracious, and she knew why. It was the fact that Miles had shown up. Everyone, it seemed, knew Miles, or at least knew his family. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Miles had substance. Her mother would have approved of Miles, especially when she was still totally herself. He was exactly the sort of man she would have been pushing at Maggie. Was that why she hadn't warmed more to him before, at least romantically? The lack of attraction had nothing to do with his looks or personality. She'd always thought him appealing, and the giggly girls weren't the only ones who noticed how well he wore his clothes or the deep blue of his eyes.
Now he was interesting. Not handsome, better than handsome — compelling. She caught her breath, puzzled. What was going on here? When his arm brushed hers as they walked along the corridor to her room, she instinctively moved away, already far too sensitized to his presence to invite further contact. She realized that she should say something, anything, that she'd been far too quiet.
"When did you arrive?" she asked Miles.
&
nbsp; "Last night," he told her. "I had some things to do."
"In connection with the event?"
"Definitely in connection with an event," he told her.
Mr. Beverly had stopped before the last door, at the end of the corridor. "I think you'll like this accommodation. Because of its location, as I mentioned earlier, it has windows and balconies that overlook both the lake and the gardens."
As she'd expected, the junior suite was more than acceptable, with its vaguely Victorian furniture and two sets of large French doors, presumably leading onto the balconies. It was a pretty room, with rose-upholstered chairs, real watercolors of forest scenes in gilt frames, and a rose-and-tan carpet with a faded pattern of random paisley. Through the French doors that led into the bedroom area, she could see that the color scheme carried through. Even the bed had a coverlet of faded tan-and-rose paisley.
Mr. Beverly continued to point out the features of the junior suite, telling her that the fireplace worked. "Your first fire is laid, and you'll find additional wood in the chest next to the hearth. If you need more, just call downstairs and your room attendant will take care of it."
"Thank you," Maggie said, impressed. She might be on her way out at WHT, but at least she was going out in style.
"Where did they put you, Mr. Brewster?" the manager asked, turning to Miles. "Did your usual preference become available?"
"The Prince Albert," he nodded. "Just what I wanted."
"And your other arrangements?" Mr. Beverly lowered his voice somewhat, and Maggie found herself wondering if Miles had brought one of his girls here. More to the point, she found herself caring if he had, which was something completely new.
"Yes, thanks. The staff's handled everything perfectly, Bev," Miles grinned. "As usual."
"Excellent. Now if you will excuse me . . . " Mr. Beverly started to leave, then turned back. "I almost forgot, Ms. McLaurin. Your office requested a couple of spa appointments for you. The first is for one of our special seventy-five-minute facial treatments, and it's due to begin in," he checked his watch, "a quarter of an hour. I'm sure we can change the time if that's inconvenient . . . " He glanced at Miles as if to get his approval, then turned his eyes back to Maggie.
"No," Maggie said hastily. "The appointment is fine. I think a facial would be wonderful. Just what I need after a long day." She had been feeling awkward standing next to Miles, not ten feet from a bed. She wondered if the manager would leave the two of them, thinking they wanted privacy. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, all things considered. What happened downstairs had blindsided her. She needed time to sort out this odd feeling, this unexpected shift in her reactions to Miles. Here was breathing space, an excuse for leaving the room that was provided by circumstances.
"I'll go with you, and you can point me in the right direction."
"I know where it is," Miles said. "It's next to the gym. I'll show you."
"Excellent, excellent," Mr. Beverly said absently, looking at his BlackBerry, his mind already on the next thing he had to do. "I'll see you back to the elevator lobby and leave you two on your own."
After he left them in the elevator to continue to the ground floor, Maggie turned to Miles and said the first thing that came into her mind.
"That was very nice of you to dance with those women in the Tea Lounge."
"I enjoyed it," he told her, looking sincere. "I hope I can still get that much fun from something when I'm their age."
"I didn't know you could dance like that."
"I have many unsuspected talents," he said, smiling, "and others with which you are definitely familiar, such as ordering food. In fact, I've reserved a private dining room next to the hotel dining hall, and we're having dinner there. Just meet me at the reception desk at 8:30, and I'll show you the way. There's something of a dress code, by the way."
"No jeans or bare feet," she grinned, relieved. If he were here with someone else, surely he wouldn't be asking her to dinner.
The elevator came to a creaking stop, and they went into the corridor where, a few feet away, was the entrance to the spa.
"Well, maybe designer jeans," Miles grinned. "But definitely no bare feet." He leaned over and kissed her, his lips warm and firm, then opened the door to the spa and ushered her inside, her cheek still tingling.
Just Girls Together
The spa reception area, all grayed greens with accents of exposed rock, was dominated by a wall of windows that, she supposed from the floodlit portions that she could see, overlooked the famous Lake View gardens. A woman in a green blazer, white blouse, and tan slacks looked up from the glass desk at which she'd been working on a sleek computer terminal. "Ms. McLaurin? Mr. Beverly just called to confirm your reservation, and he asked that I offer you an additional service, with his compliments. You're already booked today for our Rejuvenation Facial. Do you have a preference about which additional service you'd like? We can add other elements to your facial – hydration, for example, or a total balancing treatment. We have an excellent manicurist who does a variety of hand and foot treatments — your service would include both. Or we can offer you massage — Swedish, shiatsu, hot stone, or Thai." She paused and looked helpfully at Maggie, who in turn looked at her watch.
"I need to return to my room no later than 7:45. It all sounds great. Given the time issue, what would you suggest?"
The reception clerk thought for a moment and consulted her computer terminal. "Mindy is doing your facial, which requires seventy-five minutes, which leaves you only half an hour, so it's going to be tight. Would you mind if the services overlap? That way you could have your pick of anything but the hot stone or Thai massages."
"That sounds fine," Maggie said. "How about a manicure and pedicure?" She might as well start intensifying her grooming schedule — new people, the kind who interviewed you for jobs, noticed things like that, and she hadn't felt able to afford them for a long time.
Minutes later she was following an efficient-looking, clear-faced young woman in a tan-and-green smock and matching pants to the first of the closed doors that lined the wall to the right of the reception desk.
"I'm Mindy Burns, your aesthetician. You're booked for a Rejuvenation Facial, but you can select something else if you like. You can change into a treatment smock behind the screen, then we'll do a cleansing and see where we are."
Clad in an unusually roomy, floor-length tan smock and draped with a light honeycomb coverlet, Maggie found herself half-reclining on a chair that reminded her of the one in her dentist's office, answering a series of questions. Did she follow a skin-care regime? Yes, well most of the time. Did she exercise or go to the gym regularly? Yes, some days the exercise was all that kept her going. Was she on a special diet, any medications? No fried foods, no medications. Had she noticed any skin problems? Not really. Did she have any specific requests? Unscented products preferred. All that out of the way, Mindy placed pads over Maggie's eyes and turned on a bright light.
"I'm just examining your skin through the super magnifier. Actually, it looks pretty good. You must be very sensible in your routine. The first thing we're going to do is to cleanse. I'm using our special line of French facial products because they're unscented, as you indicated you prefer. They're gentle, but very thorough. When I'm done, we'll have a better idea of what you might need."
Maggie felt cool liquids on her face. Mindy's touch was gentle. Then she heard the door open and a cheerful voice said, "Is this Miss McLaurin? I understand she's having a manicure while you do the facial. Just let me move my table inside, and we'll get right to work."
Mindy said only, "That's right," but Maggie could tell from a stiffening of her touch that she wasn't pleased. Mindy apparently did not like sharing a client's person.
"I'm Edna Wheelwright, your manicurist, Miss McLaurin," the cheerful voice said, "I'll also be doing your pedicure. The first thing we're going to do is to remove your polish." She hesitated, holding Maggie's hand. "Are you wearing polish? It seems not. Well th
en, we'll begin with a really good nail soak and cleaning." She pulled aside the coverlet and tugged at the fingers on Maggie's far hand.
"Really, Edna, this isn't going to work," Mindy said, obviously exasperated. "I don't see how I can give her a facial while you're shoving and pulling at her."
"I understand the problem," Maggie said. "Let's don't overlap the services. Just eliminate the pedicure, Edna, and you should have time when Mindy is through to do the manicure."
"If that's what you'd prefer," Edna said, sounding not quite so friendly. "I'll check back with you in an hour."
Perhaps it was her irritation that made her careless, but she did not quite close the door behind her and Maggie was aware for the first time of noises from outside, mainly a conversation about something that hadn't been booked but was supposed to have been. The disappointed would-be client was being insistent, her voice strident.
"Honestly," Mindy fumed, stopping what she was doing long enough to close the door. "I apologize. Some of these girls are anything but professional. Not that I don't like Edna. She gives a great manicure."
Mindy set to work, her touch deft. It felt marvelous. Maggie wondered if the hotel in Seattle offered anything like this, maybe with a discount for those booking their conference facilities? Maybe she should call ahead and find out. After all, the Seattle seminars were only three weeks away.
It was then that the reality of what had happened at lunch hit her. She couldn't afford anything, much less spa treatments, given the fact that in three months, at the latest, she would no longer have a job. As for Seattle, not to mention Lake Louise and Orlando, it was entirely possible that Bill Holmes might change his mind and eliminate the scheduled seminars, especially if the economy caused those who'd signed up to begin to cancel.
Once begun, the worries would not stop with the lost job, but manifested in rapid succession, one after the other. Her mother's condition was deteriorating and, if forced to leave her home, she'd almost certainly go completely over the edge. Amanda was making noises about needing more help, and even Dr. Fowler had said she needed it. The roof of the house on West Paces Ferry was long past the point of no return, and she was barely keeping the lawn and housekeeping services paid. The bank that had been part of her family's financial landscape since the time of her grandparents was not interested in even talking to her about a loan on the house. Her condo in New York probably wasn't worth the loan that was already on it. And she was running out of money, with no prospects of getting more. The litany of problems whirled in her mind like a revolving door that would not stop. She shivered, suddenly petrified with apprehension. Had she run out of options? Was she going to be forced to sell the house and institutionalize her mother? For that matter, in this economic climate, how long would it take to sell the house and what kind of price could she get? Then she remembered Heather Mybawr. If she'd been serious and not just showing off – as Maggie suspected – she'd been interested. Maybe Maggie should call the realtor to get her take on the best thing to do. She'd known Ann Longstreet since they were in rompers; surely, she could be trusted to give decent advice.
