by Gail Hewitt
Upstairs, Maggie unpacked the cases and garment bag she'd brought and checked the contents before putting everything away. She'd packed a lot of stuff, she realized, probably because she seemed totally to have abandoned the corporate-uniform concept, which meant that little coordinated.
Were her days of efficient packing over? A lot of things were changing, it seemed. Maybe. She checked the Palm. It was still powered and still silent.
She called guest services and requested a wakeup call for 7 a.m. the next day with coffee and biscuits, then room service for a sandwich and Diet Coke to be sent up ASAP. She tried to read for a few minutes, a professional journal, but couldn't get into the article. Giving it up, she put on her coat and walked out onto the covered balcony. It was cold; her breath almost crystallized in the clear air. The lake today, while not as solidly frozen as the last time she'd seen it, had ice floating within its rime-rimmed banks. Across the way, a couple walked, arms wrapped around each other, their laughter faintly audible. Further along, on the far side of the large meadow that formed part of the gardens, youngsters slid down the hillside on small toboggans, their shouts and squeals ringing dimly in the cold air. From somewhere around an invisible corner, a brass band began to play.
Lake View was surprisingly unstuffy for such a venerable establishment, she realized. She thought of the old photograph album Thomas Beverly had shown her and wondered what it would have been like to be part of a family tradition of coming here, of going anywhere together. Her parents had traveled a great deal, but mostly before she was born. Afterwards, she'd been left with a nanny when they went away.
The wind shifted, and it was suddenly too cold to remain on the balcony. Inside, she picked up a booklet about the resort's history and was leafing through it when a knock sounded. Her food had arrived. She chewed the sandwich slowly while she read the booklet. Much of its contents repeated what Bev had told her, save for the bit about an heirloom apple orchard dominated by a rustic chapel, "popular for summer weddings" as the booklet put it. The words produced an image of white dresses and apple blossoms drifting down, an image that for once had personal resonance. Always assuming, always assuming . . .
Why didn't Miles respond to her text? It had been two days, and nothing . . .
When she finished eating, she took out her list and realized there was one item remaining that only she could do. She went downstairs to the soda shop and bought the same kinds of candies that Miles had bought before, plus a handful of seasonal heart-shaped sugar wafers.
Back in the suite, Maggie stripped off her clothes and went into the bathroom, where she stood under the shower for a long time, thinking about Miles. Miles and his generosity. Miles and his nice family. Miles and his gift for happiness. Miles, Miles, Miles. Was Miles going to show? There had still been no response to her text. She pulled on the hotel robe and went into the sitting room, where she powered her ancient laptop and tried to distract herself by doing online searches for jobs in her field. Then she read a couple of reviews of books she should probably get. Then she checked her emails. It was pointless; she couldn't shake this sense of restless foreboding. She curled up on the sofa, the Palm in the pocket of the robe, and tried again to read the article in the professional journal.
Six hours later, she woke up and realized it was after ten o'clock, the journal had dropped to the floor next to the sofa, and she was starving. The dining room was closed, room service had stopped delivering, and all she had to eat were a package of chips and what remained of the now-lukewarm Diet Coke that had come with the sandwich she'd ordered for her late lunch. Then she remembered the candy and added a Payday from the soda shop bag to the menu.
She supposed it was the tension of the week, but — in spite of the long nap — she was suddenly so sleepy that she barely made it into the bedroom, where she pulled back the coverlet on the huge bed and flopped onto the sheets as if she'd been pushed. The next thing she knew, the phone was ringing with her 7 a.m. wakeup call and a knock at the door announced the arrival of her coffee and biscuits.
In the spa, there seemed to be an entirely new contingent of aestheticians and masseuses, but perhaps that was because she'd been here before on a weekday and now it was Saturday, Super Saturday as it were. Or possibly not, since she still had heard nothing from Miles. It was during her pedicure that the attendant mentioned that Aimée Girard, the French supermodel, had been a guest a couple of weeks earlier and had come into the spa for one of their special facials and a hand treatment.
"She was as nice as she could be, just like you and me," the attendant said. "It was a pleasure to work on her."
"That's interesting," Maggie said absently, considering what she had just heard. So Miles had brought her here, the French supermodel – worse, the nice French supermodel? No wonder Bev was so anxious that she not hold past 'flings' against Miles. His concern made perfect sense if the door were still swinging behind the last co-participant. Then the ludicrousness of this attitude hit her. Disappointed as she was that Miles had shared this special place with Aimée, she could hardly justify taking the high road, given that she and Tom had reconnected during the same period. Still, it wasn't a good sign, especially since she'd heard nothing from Miles. He could be somewhere with Aimée Girard right now.
Slightly after two — buffed, polished and refreshed, albeit increasingly doubtful of success — she returned to the suite and wondered what she should do. With no word from Miles, it was more than likely that he wasn't coming. Still, she reasoned, she would have to pay for everything she'd arranged, whether he showed or not, so she might as well proceed with her plan on the assumption that he would. Stripping, she took a quick, cool shower, being careful to keep her hair dry, then put on the lacy white undergarments she'd bought at Bergdorf 's — the bra that was little more than a suggestion, the garter belt with the sheerest of lace-topped stockings, the thong, and the short, full half-slip. She paused for a moment to admire the, for her, unusually frivolous lingerie. Then she stepped into the red wool swing skirt that stopped two inches above her knees, buttoned the pearl studs that closed the red-and-cream print blouse, and slipped her arms into the cream-colored blazer with the slightly nipped waist that Maja had assured her would be the latest shape come spring. The gold, pearl and diamond earrings that Miles had given her were, apart from the vintage Rolex she always wore (the last of the benefactions from her grandmother), her only jewelry. The crowning touch was the pair of very high-heeled Christian Louboutin black patent peep-toe pumps with their striking red soles. When she was done, she felt very sophisticated, very sexy.
She went around the rooms of the suite, checking to make sure that everything was exactly as it was supposed to be. The roses were in place, a gigantic red, white and pink bouquet for each room, the tender blooms already beginning to emit a delicate scent. The bed was freshly made, the curtains already drawn against the waning day. The iPod sat on its speaker base, positioned on the bedside table. She scrolled its menu until she came to the newly created playlist designated merely as "Miles," and then started its rotation. There were several hundred songs in the list, all dripping romance; it'd play for hours. From her small case, to the strains of Rod Stewart singing Our Love Is Here To Stay, she pulled out the bag of Sexy Heart Condoms, red in variously colored heart-decorated packages that were labeled with the same sorts of silly sayings as the candies they were modeled after: Be Mine; Ur Cute; So Fine; Kiss Me; My Guy; Ur Hot;Mad 4U; Sexy; I'm Yours; and – last but not least – Love You. She'd located them by phone and picked them up on the way out of the city the morning before. Now, she scattered them on the table next to Miles' side of the bed. She stood for a moment, looking around the room. Had she forgotten anything? Probably, but at least the essentials were here.
Then she realized that she'd overlooked one very important thing. Getting out her Palm, she texted Tom. Her message was brief, to the point, and unmistakable. Thanks for asking, but she wasn't going to marry him. She dropped the device into her pocket, s
till powered in case Miles should text her.
Back in the living room, she did a last-minute lipstick check and tidying of her thick, curly hair. In the sitting room, with the strains of Cheek to Cheek in Fred Astaire's oddly affecting voice soft but distinct in the background, she took a final look at herself in the large, gilt-framed mirror over the console table by the door. The outfit was killer, her hair hung becomingly about her face, her eyes shone with anticipation, and the earrings Miles had given her glowed and glittered. It was the moment of truth; this was as good as it was going to get. Time to go downstairs.
At a quarter to four, she stood in the reception area and looked around. It was a popular check-in time, so it wasn't surprising that so many people were milling about. She turned around, debating what to do, and literally ran into Miles.
He automatically reached out a hand to steady her.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," she said.
"I almost didn't," he admitted. He appeared tired, almost haggard, as if he hadn't been getting enough sleep. His sandy, wavy hair looked as if he'd shampooed, but forgotten to comb it. The black blazer and washed out blue jeans were rumpled, normal perhaps after a lengthy drive, but hardly characteristic of Miles.
"I'm glad you did," she said, tentatively touching his arm.
He shifted his position so that she lost contact. "So . . ." he said. "What gives?"
"Let's get out of this mob," she told him, starting down the corridor, wondering if he would follow.
"All I'm asking is will this take long?" Miles asked irritably.
"Why don't we go somewhere quiet and talk, so you can decide for yourself how long it will take?" she suggested.
She began to walk away, and he had little alternative but to follow.
"What kind of game are you playing at, Maggie?" Miles asked, rather impatiently. "If you need more career advice, then . . ."
"Last thing in the world on my mind," she said breezily. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked puzzled and even slightly hostile, but he was following along.
They rounded the corner, and she led him straight to the private dining room where they'd talked in December. The garland of silk roses glowed against the dark paneling. The candles in the pair of multi-armed candelabra on the linen-hung table were lit as before. A fire burned on the hearth. As in December, the only things on the table were two pads, each with a pen neatly atop it, laid before chairs that directly faced each other across the narrow part of the table.
She held out the nearer chair for Miles. Now looking more puzzled than irritated, he allowed her to seat him and watched as she went to the other side of the table and took the remaining chair. "Okay," he repeated, "what gives?"
She held up her hand and shook her head. "I listened to you before. Now you have to listen to me."
"But . . ." he began.
She again held up her hand and shook her head. "I listened to you. Now it's my turn."
"Fair enough," he conceded after a moment, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest.
"Have you missed me? And don't bother to lie about the French supermodel. Several kind people sent me YouTube clips, and she's remembered fondly here at the spa."
He looked uncomfortable.
"All I want to know is, have you missed me?"
He unfolded his arms and laid them on the table top, hands up in a gesture of capitulation. "I missed you. Happy?"
"Not particularly. I've missed you too, and I haven't been exactly cloistered myself."
He started to say something, but stopped. A burst of laughter erupted in the hall. Inside the room where they sat, only the fire was cheerful. Maggie and Miles sat and looked at each other for a moment, as if neither was sure of what should happen next.
"I thought you'd be too busy with your new life to spend much time thinking about me," he said finally.
"It wasn't the new life I lay awake at night and thought about. It certainly wasn't the new life that made me dream I'd lost you forever, which fyi was a horrible dream."
"Don't exaggerate," he warned her. "To you I'm just a useful habit."
"At one time," she admitted, "but something happened. The universe shifted or something. Maybe it's just a dirty cosmic trick," she shrugged. "Whatever it is, it is disturbingly unpleasant not having you around, and I've got just one thing to say to you. I am in love with you. I think about you when I'm going to sleep. I wake up thinking about you. I go through the day thinking about you. As someone else said not long ago, I can't go on like this, so we're going to settle this now. To use my context, we're going to have a seminar – call it a relationship seminar. I'm going to tell you why I think we should get married, then you can tell me why you think we shouldn't, then we can negotiate a compromise . . . "
"Maggie . . . " he began, an odd expression on his face. Her heart fell, but she persevered in spite of growing nervousness. "The pads are in case either of us needs to take notes."
He settled back, now expressionless, arms again folded.
She took a deep breath and plunged in. "We should get married because: (1) I adore you; (2) I will nurture you and cherish you and help you fight off dragons; (3) you are the only person I've ever been willing to tackle dragons with; (4) I think you're incredibly sexy — I can barely keep my hands off you even now; (5) I value you; I think you're one of the kindest, nicest, smartest people I've ever known; (6) I can't imagine a future that wouldn't be happier with you in it; and (7) if you give me a chance, I will do my very best to make you happy and to keep you happy. As for my personal qualifications, I'm reasonably good-natured, somewhat clever. I have a B.A. and M.A. from the University of North Carolina. I enjoy my work. My financial situation is so-so; but I'm working on improving it. As to family, I'm an only child. My father died when I was twelve, my mother's still alive but suffering from Alzheimer's. Even when she was totally herself, she was not a very pleasant person, and she didn't particularly like me, probably one of the reasons I've been in therapy off and on throughout my adult life. I have no arrest record, no problems with controlled or uncontrolled substances. I do as much volunteer work as my schedule permits. I give to Heifer, Best Friends, Literacy in America and Habitat for Humanity. I may not be the paragon you are, but I'm no monster either. I don't think there's anything about me that is so horrible that it's a deal killer, that is, assuming your general acceptance of the total package. Your turn."
He hesitated so long that she thought he was going to refuse to play the game, but finally – a troubled expression on his face – he began to speak. "We shouldn't get married because I can't handle even the thought that you might care for someone else in a way you could never care for me, and that you've shared emotions and experiences with another person that we can never share. That makes me do and say crazy things that make me realize I'm not as cool and logical as I think I am."
He stopped and looked away, as if remembering something he'd just as soon forget. Then he looked back at her and took a deep breath. "I don't have much experience with this long-term relationship thing, Maggie. I can't give you any guarantees or even any decent references."
"That's because you've never been in love," she said tenderly.
"Well, actually, I was," he said, staring steadily and unsmilingly at her, "fairly recently in fact. "
"What happened?"
"She broke my heart. She walked out on me for the old boy friend," he said bluntly. "I came off like a dictator. She came off like an automaton unwilling to listen to anything. Neither of us was at our best."
"You were an idiot. She was an idiot," Maggie said. "I was an idiot, but there's a rumor that idiocy can be cured by the right practitioner."
"So the 'idiocy,' as you call it, is curable in this instance, you think?"
"It's been rumored," she repeated.
They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, and Maggie's skin crawled with the tension.
"Anything else?" she finally asked.
"Then it seems to me that the negotiation should begin and end with your agreeing to marry me as soon as possible. I haven't heard anything that seems like a deal breaker." She reached out and touched his hand lightly. "Let me tell you how this is going to come down. I am going to push this button for the captain and they are going to serve us afternoon tea. During tea, we won't talk about this, but I want you to think about it because once we've poured the last cup, we're going to settle it."
"A fight to the finish, huh?" He remained expressionless.
"No," she said quietly, echoing what he'd said in December, "a fight to the future." She reached behind her, and pushed the button.
As teas went, it was a beautiful presentation, and they even managed to make enough small talk to keep the general silence from being embarrassingly oppressive. After they'd each nibbled at a watercress sandwich and eaten enough of a scone to make it seem as if they were interested, Maggie signaled for the waiter, who took away took the cart and left them with only the large heart-shaped cookies, frosted in white, "Maggie loves Miles" written on them in red and pink icing. The cookies sat on a crystal plate on the table between them, and Miles couldn't seem to take his eyes off them — but still he said nothing.
Maggie sat and waited, and waited, and waited, until — at last — she could stand it no longer.
"Well?" she asked.
He looked up at her. "How do you know it's not just about the sex?" he asked her, perfectly straight-faced.
"Well," she conceded, smiling a little, "I'll admit that it would be acceptable to jump into bed with you, any time, any place, but do you think I'm only after your body, which admittedly is very nice?"
"That's not what I'm saying," he said, still expressionless. "As someone else once said, we're not kids and this isn't prom night. It's commitment time. Commitment implies a certain reciprocity. Are you sure you're ready for that? What about Tom Scott?"
She'd been dreading this moment, unsure of what to say, unsure of how much to say. She looked down at her clasped hands and shook her head.
