Depths of Desire
The Substitute Wife
Princess Slave
Against Her Will
Body and Soul
Two True Loves
Captured by Time (w/ Alta Hensley)
A New Forever (w/ Alta Hensley)
Under the Cover of Love
Her Guardian Don
Her Knight in Faded Denim
The Rod of Correction: Taken and Tamed
Taken by Force
Skye’s Submission
Sheik’s Desire
Reject Ranch
Nola
Generation Stables
The MacNaughton Bride
More Than a Man
Man of Her Dreams
Love Will Find a Way
Fools Rush In
Everything Gained
Blood From a Stone
Angel of Sudden Hill
All of Her
A Piece of Heaven
Grace’s Demon
Sold!
The Centurion
Cherished
The Little Miss
The Gentleman Dom
The Supplicant
Belonging
Hidden Desires
Her Bad Boy
All is Right with the World
The Error of Her Ways
Holiday Stories
A Holiday to Remember
Griff’s Christmas Angel
All Hallow’s Eve
A Season to Submit
Mr. Imperfect (Dominating His Valentine)
Anthologies
Blushing Cheeks Vol. 1
Love of a Cowboy, Vol. 1
The Dark Forest
Thornton Brothers: 3-Book Collection
Bound by Love: A Carolyn Faulkner Trilogy
* * *
Audiobooks
Rod of Correction: Taken and Tamed
Sky’s Submission
Generation Stables
Spoils of War
www.carolynfaulkner.com
The Valentine’s Visitor
Emily Sharpe
1
Carla
Carla Danvers was ready for work. Her pale gray hotel uniform was spotless and pressed as usual, but today she’d added a red porcelain heart pin in honor of Valentine’s weekend. She checked herself one more time in the standing mirror. Hands on her hips, she looked with a critical eye. Tanned skin paid homage to the hours she spent on the golf course. Her dirty blonde hair was cropped short in a pixie cut, as easy to care for as when she’d been a little girl. Now, however, her mop was streaked with gray.
As was her custom, Carla wore no makeup, what she laughingly called “oh naturale.” The only jewelry she tolerated was her watch, her wedding ring, and the little gold hoops her mother had given her when she married Doug. She was low-maintenance, her husband Doug said. Maybe things would be different between us if I was not quite so easy to live with. She sighed and spun on her heel, smoothly the fabric of her skirt over her bottom. Not bad for an old broad.
Carla had worked at the Royal Poinciana Hotel for years, working her way from housekeeping just out of high school, to desk clerk, and now to one of the managers. She loved the old hotel and took pride in the fact that she could play a role in preserving local history while she provided superior service to hundreds of hotel guests each year.
As she tidied up the bed she shared with her husband Doug, she considered the importance of discretion in the hotel business. Housekeepers can tell quite a bit about a couple’s relationship when they “do” a room during their stay, or after they leave. There are subtle clues, like where the pillows end up, the neatness of the sheets, the condom wrappers in the trash can. Hotel employees are trained to keep opinions and observations to themselves, of course, but housekeepers tend to develop keen detective skills along the way, if they’ve a mind to.
Carla smiled, remembering memorable discoveries over the years. There had been plenty of scandals, but her favorite guests were the ones who oozed a sense of “happily ever after.” She frowned as she pulled up the comforter on her own bed. She and Doug wouldn’t get a high rating on the sexy scale of any savvy housekeeper, that was for sure.
For years, they had gravitated to opposite sides of their queen-sized bed. What had started as a tolerable sex life had gradually become sporadic, infrequent, and now, no sex life at all. Doug slept hugging a pillow instead of his wife. Their intimacy would hardly raise a maid’s eyebrows. Not that we’ll be spending a night at the Royal any time soon.
The Royal must have some tales to tell, Carla mused as she refolded her mother’s knitted afghan and carefully laid it at the foot of the bed. From a statistical point of view alone, at least some of the couples who checked in must be having affairs. Occasionally two men or two women would check in together, and it wasn’t always apparent if they were relatives or something more. It was too bad that people couldn’t just find their true love, get married, and live happily ever after as in the stories and books Carla had enjoyed since childhood.
And then there were the Farmers. John and Greta seemed to be the exception. Carla smiled as she worked, mentally ticking off the weeks since she’d seen them. Valentine’s weekend seemed like a logical time for them to show up, but then again, anything was possible. They could be sick, or traveling the world for all she knew. One thing she was certain of, was that they hadn’t split up. That was inconceivable. Even standing at the front desk in front of me and God and everybody, they can hardly keep their hands off one another!
The Farmers had been coming to the Royal, as locals called the hotel, for seven or eight years now. Once a month, once every three months, but fairly steady. Not once had Carla observed the slightest conflict between them. They fairly bubbled with mutual happiness. Of course, now that she thought about it, that first visit had been a little odd. Well, not the first visit. The second, when the names changed.
Mrs. Farmer had made the reservation the first time, only the name she gave, and the name on her license and credit card, was Greta Fallon. Carla had liked her right away. About her age, maybe a little older. Trim, fit. Colorful, but not trying too hard, confident enough to let her hair begin to gray without feeling the need, evidently, for dying it. Too many women, in Carla’s opinion, refused to take pride in their age, desperately trying to hang on to their youth and doing exactly the opposite.
Greta’s companion had arrived shortly after – a man about her age, maybe a few years older, who gave off none of the vibes you might expect with an illicit rendezvous. His face was youthful. It was always hard to tell a man’s age without considering his hair, and his was kept so short as to be virtually non-existent, but his eyebrows were salt-and-pepper, as was his mustache. Whatever else Carla had noticed that first day, she was convinced this was not a typical married couple. That they were, indeed, a married couple was obvious to Carla, but they also seemed unusually well-matched, still in love at their age. At our age!
Carla had called Greta’s love “Mr. Fallon” for the entire weekend, and he always responded. No one had said anything to suggest she was wrong. The next time, however, when he made the reservation it was in the name of John Farmer. Greta instantly became Mrs. Farmer and had been Mrs. Farmer ever since. Again, no hesitation or correction, only grinning responses.
What I wouldn’t give to be that happy with Doug!
Many women, Carla knew, kept their maiden names. Perhaps she was Greta Fallon-Farmer. It had occurred to Carla over the years that perhaps they were having an affair, but any suspicions in that regard were short-lived. Had they been the least little bit nervous or awkward, or only come to the hotel once or twice, perhaps. The Farmers had been together too long for an affair and their behavior was, at least in public, the opposite of, well, sordid.
Carla sighed as she pulled the car keys from her purse. The idea of having a romantic affair, or a one-night stand, was completely foreign to her. She lacked the imagination to picture Doug having one. He was so dis
interested in his own wife these past years, so disinterested in most everything, she couldn’t picture him having the energy for a romance, much less the desire.
Like Carla, Doug had a few more years of working before he would consider retirement. Oh, how Carla dreaded the thought of the two of them, shadows inhabiting the same house day in and day out, saying nothing but the minimum. It was a chilling prospect. Today, however, he was off and she would be at work. When Carla came into the den to tell him she was leaving, she found him in his favorite recliner reading the local newspaper. She peered over the top of the page. “Bye. Have a good day.”
Doug’s eyes met hers briefly before returning to the sports listings. “You too. Bring me some pie if you can.”
Carla nodded before heading for the door. “Don’t wait up,” she called over her shoulder. Of course, he won’t wait up. He never does. This morning, however, it bothered her. All that dwelling on the Farmers had likely done it. She thought about it all the way to the hotel, for once lost in thought, rather than enjoying the rural landscape that separated their property from the town proper. Maybe because tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. Maybe because she dreaded the thought of turning into her parents.
Doug had brought it up again recently, using her parents as an example for his suggestion. They’d had separate bedrooms for decades before they passed, hadn’t they? And they’d been just fine. “Maybe we’re at that point too.” He had a list of supportive arguments. She came in so late the nights she worked, she woke him up sometimes. It’s not like he could sleep in the next day, most of the time. And sometimes he was up late watching television on the weekends, and then he might wake her. They had two empty rooms, a guest room and a junk room. Didn’t it make sense to put one of those to better use?
As their relationship had grown more and more distant, Carla had tried to convince herself that it was normal. This was the way all marriages ended up. You say your vows in the excitement of hormones and hope on your wedding day and then, by this time, you’re roommates. From what her friends said, it was a common situation.
But Carla wanted more than that. Much more. She wanted to reach over for Doug in the night whenever she felt like it. She wanted him to pull her arms tighter around him so that her breasts pressed into his back, and maybe roll over to kiss her in the darkness. She wanted him to reach out for her. It had been so long since he had. Come to think of it, had he ever woken her in the middle of the night to make love? Maybe I’ve been reading too many romance novels. Or thinking about the Farmers too much. I’ll bet he makes love to her any time he wants to. Any time she wants to!
Carla barely noticed the clusters of houses or businesses leading to the hotel in downtown Crosby. Population roughly 7500, Crosby was not exactly a bustling metropolis, but its proximity to larger cities had kept it alive. She liked to think that the hotel had helped. Crosby could definitely use an economic boost, she thought as she pulled into the parking lot behind the Royal Poinciana Hotel. For a moment she sat in the car looking up at the beautiful old building, pondering, as she often did, the many love stories it represented.
2
The Royal
The Royal Poinciana Hotel sits on Crosby’s Main Street in central Florida, the only gem of a once-hopeful but mostly under-developed historic downtown. A few other grand buildings from the same era, circa 1920, are now vacant shells. While they may boast colorful pasts, on this day in February, they have little future to look forward to, unless others embrace the same vision that the owners of the Royal have maintained.
The buildings on Main that still show promise include the home of the best hamburger in the world (if one believes the restaurant’s claim), a small town hall, a smaller corner convenience store, a more-or-less popular thrift shop, and a few offices. Up on the six-lane, there are the chain stores, the familiar signs, the money-makers that have put smaller shops out of business.
Main Street is split. A little park separates East Main and West Main, providing a home for decorations trotted out, plugged in, and erected during appropriate seasons. The gazebo needs repair, but the gentleman who usually takes care of such things for the city had gall bladder surgery last week and isn’t back to work. A long-forgotten civic group placed benches here and there during the last revitalization push, offering a comfortable spot for someone walking home from school to sit and rest for a few minutes, or where a couple might share a bench to discuss deep issues before they settle in for the night at the Royal.
Because it is February, Main Street is no longer ablaze with bright Christmas lights. The plastic Santas, candles, menorah, reindeer and the Holy Family, ensuring that no one forget the reasons for the season, have been stored away until next Thanksgiving, when they will be pulled out of storage again in the attic of city hall. A dedicated, forward-thinking group is hoping that next year, an appropriate symbol for Kwanzaa will be added, but no one is holding his or her breath. Time moves at a slower pace in Crosby, although there is a plan for the city to have a Cinco de Mayo parade, if funds become available.
Crosby makes a big deal of Christmas, though, with local veterans putting up a dozen Christmas trees for schoolchildren and women’s groups to decorate. Soon, Easter decorations will begin showing up in shop windows. But it is the Royal that acts as the decorating barometer for the rest of the town. When its bunnies and pastels make an appearance in a few more weeks, the season will have truly changed.
Not that decorating is what the Royal is best known for. Its historical value is paramount. If its elegance is a little frayed around the edges, this only adds to its charm and, to be perfectly honest, tends to keep the room rates very reasonable.
The staff is the Royal’s next greatest asset, serving its clientele with an air of gentility that few shinier, more modern hotels care to muster. At any hour of the day or night, someone is at the ready to meet a need or answer a question, and there are always questions. What used to be across the street? Has anyone ever died here? Are the big doors at the end of each hall really fireproof? Has anyone ever been stuck on the elevator? Is the Royal haunted? And these days: What’s that WIFI password again?
The Royal was built a century ago of tan brick with decorative additions and picturesque windows. Three stories tall, it features a balcony on the second floor with metal chairs and tables. One can imagine lavish parties on the terrace in the hotel’s heyday, surreptitious kisses behind enormous potted palms leading perhaps to shared accommodations for the night.
At one time, the champagne flowed as frequently as jazz filled the air. Whenever there was a big party at the Royal, it is said, people living for miles around would drive into town to walk up and down Main listening to the music, hoping to get a glance at one of the honest-to-gosh Hollywood stars or sports celebrities who often visited.
Many of the furnishings in the great lobby of the hotel are original, lovingly dusted and polished by the dedicated staff. Their attitude appears to be that they have been entrusted with the care and protection of history itself. It is a mission they embrace enthusiastically – or, if they do not, Mrs. Danvers, the manager who handles such things, asks for their notice. She is the Royal’s chief advocate, as everyone in town is well aware.
Overstuffed chairs and sofas sit beneath glistening chandeliers. A dozen colorful Highwaymen paintings adorn one special wall that is thirty feet high. The paintings, of course, were not there originally. The hotel predates the Highwaymen, that band of traveling black artists who left their mark on the art world, by a good three decades. In the 1950s, however, they sold paintings of Jacaranda trees, sunsets, and landscapes – some of them still wet – from the trunks of their cars all over south Florida for a fraction of what they are worth now. More than once, someone has suggested selling the paintings to raise money for this Good Cause or that, but the Royal steadfastly holds on to all the dignity she can.
Black-and-white signed photographs of some of the hotel’s more famous guests line the walls of the carpeted hallway to the ho
tel’s business office and (if you keep going) the swimming pool. Babe Ruth, Clark Gable, Ernest Borgnine, Will Rogers. Citrus and cattle were more profitable back in those days. Celebrities enjoyed the newness of the area mixed with the privacy they couldn’t get in New York City or Los Angeles. They also relished the warmth of Florida’s winters. According to the stories, each star had teams of underlings who traveled with him (or her) – agents and hairdressers, hangers-on and wannabes. Oh, and women for the men, lots of beautiful women. Female celebrities generally confined their attention to one man at a time, a limitation their male counterparts neither understood or adhered to.
From the front porch today, guests can look down the street to one of the area’s numerous lakes or up the street to more modern, less attractive establishments. What they cannot see, in any direction, is a Royal Poinciana tree. The hotel takes its name from the huge flowering specimen that was too damaged in a storm long ago to survive. There are, instead, palm trees growing to unbelievable heights. Numerous oaks lend shade and sport thousands of tiny white lights throughout the year, giving the street a more prosperous and festive air at night. A massive kapok tree also thrives, shedding its fluff at various times during the year and is said to attract small bats.
Amazingly enough, the Royal has been in constant use since it was built. A modest but well-endowed private college currently owns the hotel. Two of its three stories on the west wing serve as a dormitory for students. The east wing boasts tastefully decorated rooms and suites for the smattering of visitors on many days, and the influx of racing fans who descend whenever there is a race or other event at nearby Sebring’s Race Track. There are periodic car shows. Music festivals now and then. College graduation is well-attended each year. The occasional wedding with scores of out-of-towners needing a place to lay their weary heads is yet another boon to the Royal.
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