by Mysti Parker
My eye is watering like crazy. Nick probably thinks I’m crying, and I’m sure it’s pleasing the snot out of him.
Richard bends behind the desk and opens another drawer. The top of his bald head bobs around like a shiny pale apple. “And as you’ve demonstrated already, I have no doubt you will maintain a professional attitude. Aha, this should work!”
He stands up and hands me a can of AquaNet.
“What do you want me to do with that?”
“Someone drew a mustache on David.”
“Um…?” What sort of Twilight Zone am I in?
Nick takes the can, tossing it around like a baseball. “Hairspray removes ink.”
“Precisely. Carol leaves cans of it all over the place. I should really speak to her about clutter.”
“Why not leave that up to me?” Oh, he’s laying it on thick. “We’ll get that mark off the statue too.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” Richard grabs his coat from the back of the office chair. “I have a meeting with the Orchid Club in half an hour. They want to host their annual convention here. Show Nickolas around, would you Jane?”
Before I can protest, he’s gone, leaving me alone in the office with Nick.
“You’re looking good, babe.”
“Don’t you dare babe me.” I yank the can of hairspray from him and hurry into the lobby, grabbing a few tissues on the way. “Why are you here? Did Brandy get promoted from hemorrhoid to tampon commercials and decide she was too good for you?”
Saying her name brings back all the R-rated selfies I discovered on Nick’s phone the day before he left. That’s when he sprang the news that he was running off to California with Brandy, the bleach-bottle blonde with silicone boobs and a bright future as an ‘actress’. In reality, she had only one lucrative career path in that industry, and those were films you’d find behind a curtain in a naughty lingerie shop.
“I left her, actually.” He follows me to the statue. “Want me to help with that?”
“No.” I drag a chair over to David and climb up. Sure enough, he’s got a curled mustache that would rival any Elizabethan gentleman. After spraying a suffocating amount of AquaNet on the black ink, I start scrubbing. “So what’s the deal? Thought you’d come back and torture me by becoming my boss?”
With every word, I scrub harder, until David’s wobbling like a naked drunk.
“I want you back, Jane.”
I gasp in a mouthful of hairspray, start coughing, and lose my balance. Before I know it, I’m falling, then hammocked in Nick’s arms. The front door chime rings.
It’s Henry, standing there with my coat. “Hey Jane, you forgot your…what’s going on?”
I scramble out of Nick’s arms. “Henry, this is Nick.”
Henry narrows his eyes. “Really? So, this is the jerk who keeps texting you?”
Nick’s Italian face sneers like Tony Soprano about to order a hit. “Jerk? Buddy, I’m her husband.”
“Former husband!” I yell.
“Whatever,” they say in unison.
“Who you calling a jerk?” Nick circles from behind me.
“I don’t see any other jerks here, so it must be you.” Henry circles the opposite direction.
The Muzak, which has been playing movie soundtracks at a whisper soft volume since I arrived, blares the Star Trek fight sequence. I don’t know whether to break them up or look for giant Q-tips so they can pummel each other to death.
Peacekeeper it is. “Thank you, Henry. Let’s go outside for a minute and get some fresh air.” Grabbing his arm, I pull him toward the door.
“Don’t be long, Jane,” Nick says. “Gotta show me the ropes, remember?”
Henry glares at the hotel as we stand by his car. “What did he mean by that?”
“Um…” How the heck do I explain that in the course of fifteen minutes, my ex-husband has become my boss? I may need a cigarette before the night’s over.
And I don’t even smoke.
The Roche Hotel #13
Flower Power
The first van full of Orchid Society members rolls in at 3:30 p.m. They range from middle-aged women with designer clothes and luggage to retirees who wear flowery muumuus and carry Pomeranians in their purses. Their excited chit-chat echoes through the lobby. One of the elderly ladies points to David and giggles. He’s sporting a new loincloth made from a Thanksgiving table runner, thanks to Mrs. Roche.
“This’ll be fun, eh Jane?” Nick gooses me in the side.
Knocking his arm away, I take my place behind the computer. “Keep your hands to yourself!”
“You’re no fun anymore.”
“You’re not my husband anymore. You may be working here now, but I don’t have to like it, and I don’t have to like you.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more tempted to call in sick. At least Henry took the news well about why I’d been in Nick’s arms and we made up over lunch. Thankfully, I can cling to the memory of hot salsa and even hotter kisses. Every hour spent with Nick is like taking my chances in a dark alley. I never know what he’ll say or do to rob me of my sanity. But for now I have a job to do. At least until the classifieds offer something better.
A woman with a bright pink pantsuit steps forward and slaps a credit card on the counter. She reminds me of a female Bob Barker, with snow white hair and a spray tan. “We’re checking in—should have forty rooms booked for us.”
“Forty?” I double check the reservation list. “Yes, that’s right. Is it all on one bill?”
“Yep, put it on this Visa.” She props both elbows on the counter. “Where’s the bar?”
“We don’t-“
Nick laughs and swipes the woman’s card from the counter, holding it at eye-level. “You’re a gin drinker, Ms. Daniels?”
“Yep, how’d you know?”
“Because gin drinkers have good taste—that’s a Vera Wang suit, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Since the Roche Hotel’s bar is still under construction, I’ll cut a deal for you. Walk right across the parking lot to O’Riley’s, tell them Nick Seymour sent you, and you can put all your party’s drinks on the Roche Hotel’s tab.”
Thank God my jaw is attached, because it almost hits the floor.
Ms. Daniels turns and yells, “You hear that, Fran? Our drinks are on the house!”
The older lady who had giggled at David does a fist pump. The dozen or so other ladies holler, “Whoop!” like a bunch of howler monkeys.
Once they’ve ventured to their rooms, I turn to Nick. “What the heck are you thinking, putting their tab on the hotel? Richard’s going to have a heart attack.”
“You leave that to me, babe.” He reaches over and pinches my cheek. I slap his hand away, and he laughs. “I didn’t wine and dine Hollywood execs without learning a thing or two.”
“If you were so knee deep in executive money, why didn’t you stay there?”
“I told you.” He steps so close, I’m cornered between the front desk and wall. “I want you back, Jane. I was an idiot for leaving you.”
“You’re still an idiot if you think I’ll take you back. I’m happy with Henry—very happy actually, and you’re not going to ruin this for me.”
Nick rolls his eyes and backs away, retreating to the office and the fresh coffee I just brewed. “Right. The Donut Guy. The pastry business is sooo lucrative.”
I imagine how satisfying it might be to stab him with an ink pen. But I grit my teeth and force a smile; I’ll have to save murder for later. Another van full of Orchid Society members has just pulled in.
****
Henry arrives at 7:00 p.m. with burgers and fries. As soon as we’re finished eating, a horde of Orchid Society ladies files in from the parking lot. They’re laughing and staggering, and in a matter of seconds we’re surrounded by people who smell like Avon and Captain Morgan.
We make our escape behind the front desk. It sounds like a wild sorority party. I yell in Henry’s ear,
“I better call Richard!”
“Where’s Nick? Thought he could handle anything.”
“No idea.” He’d disappeared at 5:00 and hadn’t returned. Jerry’s out for his dinner break, so it’s up to me to handle this.
I step into the office with Henry and close the door, quickly dialing Richard’s number. Henry kisses a few choice spots on my neck, so it’s a little hard to concentrate.
“Uh, yeah, Richard,” I say, “Oh, sorry, Susan…yeah, you should probably come to the hotel. We have a bit of a situation.”
“Oh my gosh!” Susan says. “Where’s Mrs. Roche? Is she going berserk?”
“She’s here tonight?”
“Yes—she wanted to visit with the Orchid people—old friends of hers or something.”
“I haven’t seen her, but I’ll go check her room.”
Henry and I make our way into the fray. The lobby’s packed with pastel suits and clashing scarves, feathered hats and ugly sweaters. There’s a yapping dog somewhere in the crowd. As if it wanted to join in the fun, Muzak jars the speakers above with Whoop, There It Is.
I notice they’re all facing the same direction, screaming and cheering, “Go, go, go, go!”
We elbow our way through until we see him. There, in red satin briefs that leave little to the imagination, a male stripper shakes his booty for all he’s worth. Apparently he’s worth several dollar bills in his waistband. He turns around, hands up over his head, shaking his stuff in front of someone seated in one of the breakfast area chairs.
“Oh…my…God,” I whisper.
Henry bursts out laughing. Mrs. Roche’s wrinkled hand reaches out and slides a folded dollar bill into Mr. Stripper’s briefs. She giggles like a teenage girl and takes a swig from a red Solo cup.
I take a picture with my phone. We have to commemorate this occasion, since the Orchid Club probably won’t be invited back next year.
The Roche Hotel #14
Turkey Trouble
We pull up to Shady Serenity at 7:45 a.m. The small lot’s full, so Henry parks his car on the street. Bleary-eyed from another double shift, I rummage through the ashtray for some change to feed the meter.
“I’ve got it,” Henry says. “You’re worth a couple quarters.”
“Gee, thanks. At least I’m a cheap date.”
He laughs, which wakes me up a bit. His smile is almost as energizing as a large cup of coffee. I’m so happy to have a couple days off with Henry—which also translates to two glorious days without having to see Nick.
Henry and I plan to have breakfast with Mom and his grandpa before I go home and crash for a few hours. He has a box of fresh donuts, minus one chocolate iced. Before we get out of the car, he leans across the seat and kisses my bottom lip.
“You had a little icing there,” he says.
“I think you missed some.” I pull him in for a stop-for-a-breath kiss.
“If we don’t get out of this car now, I cannot be held responsible for any public displays of affection that may transpire.”
“How about I make it up to you later?”
“Deal. How’s Mrs. Roche holding up after last night?”
“She came out this morning wearing sunglasses and wanting black coffee. Then she called a cab and went to church.”
“Church?”
“Yeah, for confession. She muttered something about the sin of drink.”
“She didn’t mention the sin of strippers?”
“Maybe she doesn’t remember that part.” I hold up my phone. “Lucky I got a picture.”
One more kiss and out we go before the windows get any steamier. It’s the day before Thanksgiving, so the retirement home doors are covered in fall leaves, turkeys, and cornucopias made of cardstock. We walk into the lobby hand in hand.
Sandy waves. “Hey Jane!”
Her cheery smile reminds me that I’m behind on Mom’s bill—the part her pension doesn’t cover. I rummage through my purse for my checkbook. Finding it, I walk to the information desk, pen in hand.
I set the checkbook on the counter and start writing. “Sorry I’m late with this, Sandy. Today’s payday, so…”
“Oh no, don’t worry about it,” she says. I keep writing, then tear the check out and hand it to her.
She looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “No, I mean you don’t have to pay again. You’re all paid up through the next year.”
“Huh?”
Mom calls out from down the hall. “Jane!”
There she is, smiling and bright-eyed, on Nick’s arm.
“Hey, babe,” he says. “Mom’s doing fine this morning.”
Henry’s hand squeezes mine. He looks like he might launch donut grenades at any moment.
I rub his arm in hopes of saving the pastries and glare at Nick. “Don’t you have a hotel to run?”
“It can wait,” he says with such a noble air, he could pass as a monk.
Mom hugs him to her side. “Nicky came to visit! He’s back from vacation. Who’s that?” She looks quizzically at Henry.
“This is my, um, friend.” Henry flinches, and I feel terrible, but if I remind her about the divorce now, she’ll get upset.
“Oh, Julius’s grandson, right?”
“That’s right, Mom.”
“When are you and Nicky going to make me a grandmother?”
I rub my temples, feeling an ex-husband-induced headache coming on.
Gobble, gobble, gobble!
“What the…?” Henry puts his arm around my shoulders and looks around the lobby.
“Ah yes, my surprise!” Nick exclaims. He walks behind the reception desk and pulls out a cage. Inside is a large white turkey, red wattles flopping as he or she checks us out. “I saved him from being slaughtered. Just for you, Nina—a gift for Thanksgiving!”
If only my eye laser wish would come true. I’d burn a hole in him right now if I could. He knows Mom’s a vegetarian. Growing up, holiday dinners for us consisted of tofurkey and broccoli casserole. I had my first home-cooked turkey when Nick prepared one for our first Thanksgiving together.
I’m trying to decide if this stunt makes him a hypocrite when Mom claps her hands and laughs. “Oh, how sweet. Jane, isn’t he sweet?”
Nick’s smiling right at me, Henry’s shaking all over, and I’m about to come unglued. “Sweet, my a—”
Sandy interrupts my not-so-tasteful remark with, “I think we need to take Tom Turkey outside now. Sorry—we’re really not supposed to have animals here unless they’re service dogs.”
“Sure,” Nick says. He takes a twenty from his wallet and hands it to Sandy. “For your trouble.”
“Aw, thank you, Mr. Seymour. And thanks for paying Mrs. Stevens’s bill too.”
“You?” I point at Nick. “You paid Mom’s bill?”
“Of course. Nina’s like a second mom to me.”
“You know what?” Henry says. “I’m going to say hi to Grandpa and let you…discuss this.” He pecks my cheek and throws his own invisible laser glare at Nick, who responds with a wink.
Gobble, gobble, gobble!
“I’ll go with you,” Mom says to Henry. “Julius and I are going to play rummy after breakfast.”
They head down the hall together.
Gobble, gobble, gobble! The air around me has turned foul, literally, so I turn and hightail it to the door.
Nick yells, “Hey, wait up!” He follows me out. “Jane, come on, what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong!?” I’ve retreated to the sidewalk, trying to cool down enough to go back in for a visit with Mom. “You dump me for Brandy Whatserface, and now you’re back here, playing Saint Nick for Mom while simultaneously trying to ruin my life. What’s the deal?”
“Jane, babe, calm down.”
“Don’t babe me!”
That’s it—I’ve had all I can take of Nick for a lifetime. I’ll get in the car and run him over. Maybe I could claim self-defense or insanity. By the time I reach the car where we parked it on the street, I de
cide flattening Nick isn’t worth a prison sentence. Instead, I’ll get in, lock the doors, and turn the music up until he buzzes off with his pet turkey.
He’s right beside me, with the poor turkey swinging wildly in the cage, wings flapping and feathers flying. “I just wanted to help out,” Nick says. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was sincere. “I’ve missed Nina…and you.”
Once I start digging through my purse, I realize this is Henry’s car, not mine. I try the door handle. Crap! The doors are locked, and I don’t have the keys.
Back pressed against the driver’s side window, I’m tempted to knock that see-how-sincere-I-am look from his face. I decide on a verbal slap instead. “If you think I’ll take you back because you paid Mom’s bills, you’re wrong. I’m not falling for this…this…whatever it is.”
He sets the turkey cage on the pavement behind him. “Oh yeah? Maybe this will help.”
He swoops in and kisses me. I freeze, horrified and bewildered all at once. I come to my senses, shove him off me and notice the turkey has gotten out of his cage. He’s strutting his stuff down the street about three cars down. The door must have not been latched well or came loose while Nick chased me to the car. Good—now he can go turkey hunting instead of chasing me. I open my mouth to tell him about the escapee when I look up and see Henry emerging from the retirement home.
A white box truck drives by, blocking the view for a moment. I pray silently that Henry didn’t see anything as the vehicle passes between us. No such luck. Soon as the truck is gone, Henry glares at us, fists balled up like boxing gloves.
Great, just great.
Nick chuckles. “Oh, poor Donut Guy. Maybe I should-”
Gobble, gobble, gob—BOOM! White feathers rain down, the truck screeches to a stop, and Tom Turkey is toast. It’s only then that I notice the logo on the back of the truck: Butterball. We stand there for a few seconds, in awe of the irony.
“Poor turkey,” Henry says. He comes to my side and wraps his arm around me.
“Yeah.” I shake my head. “What a shame.”
“He’d have been better off on a platter.”
