by Claire Cook
I lucked out and found a parking place right on the street. I double-checked the address on my BlackBerry. The place looked great, exactly what you would imagine if you did a picture search for BOUTIQUE HOTEL. It looked almost like a large brick town house, with a cute arched front entryway and a brick patio surrounded by a waist-high black wrought iron fence.
Already I could imagine a striped rounded awning over the door, the perfect hip come-hither statement. Awnings have been around since ancient Egypt and Syria, but they hit their stride in the United States when the advent of the steamship forced canvas mills and sailmakers to look for new options. I loved the way they’d been reinventing themselves ever since, calling out shelter and tradition from doorways, windows, and decks. I’d order a classic bubble dome awning in a nice Sunbrella stripe, maybe Hartwell Lagoon or even Gaston Seaglass.
Then I’d hit some flea markets for mismatched bistro tables and chairs. We’d have a nightly wine reception with a local musician playing loudly enough to create some buzz.
I’d done my research, so I knew that boutique hotels had made their splashy entrance in the late 1980s, complete with ultramodern decor, dance music playing in the lobby, and hip people greeting guests as they arrived. Almost by definition, they’d been small and unique and funky.
More recently, boutique hotels had begun to flounder as major chains jumped into the act, spending lots of money to give their hotels a faux boutique vibe. Apparently, if it looked like a boutique hotel and quacked like a boutique hotel, most people were happy to pretend that a five-hundred-room generic hotel with leopard skin chairs in the lobby was a boutique hotel.
I hid the GPS in the glove compartment and fished for the key Josh had FedExed me. I checked the number again, since the hotel didn’t appear to have a sign. Maybe the bank had let the old owners take it with them.
Dead flowers crumbled in huge terra-cotta pots on either side of a horizontally striped glass-and-teak door. I slid the key into the lock and turned. I pushed the door. It didn’t budge. I wiggled the key around and gave the door a little kick.
It opened suddenly, and I hopped forward with one leg up.
“Hey,” Josh said. “Watch the merchandise.”
I stood there for a moment like an aging chorus dancer before I remembered to put my leg down.
“Did I know you were going to be here?” I asked.
Josh grinned a boyish grin and opened the door wide. “If you did, that would have been one of us.”
I walked past him and into the hotel, because it seemed like the only available option.
The place was a mess. Three barrels of trash were lined up on the bamboo floor just inside the door, and wires dangled from a hole in the ceiling where a chandelier should have been. The reception counter was covered with more trash, and an ancient fax machine teetered dangerously close to the edge. To the left was a bar area with a stool-less cement bar, a few bottles, and not much else.
Josh followed my gaze. “At least they left us some booze.”
A bottle of Kahlúa sat on the bar next to a glass with a chocolate puddle’s worth of liquor in it. A stack of papers was piled beside the glass.
“Kahlúa?” I said.
He ran his fingers through his carefully gelled hair. “It was that or peach schnapps.”
“They took the barstools with them?” I said.
He nodded. “The stools, some of the tables and chairs, the sheets, the towels, even some of the sinks.”
“The sinks,” I said. “Are they allowed to do that?”
Josh shook his head. “I’ve got a guy looking into it, but I’m pretty sure I bought this place as is.” He picked up his Kahlúa glass. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“No thanks,” I said.
His face fell, like someone had just told him there wasn’t a Santa Claus.
“Okay, just a tiny one,” I said. “But what I really need is a restroom.”
Josh shook his head. “Good luck.”
I found one just beyond the little lobby. I had to open the door to be sure, since the previous owners had taken the MEN and WOMEN signs with them, leaving ugly screw holes in the dark wood doors. Once inside, I was pleasantly surprised to find it had toilet paper. And soap in the dispenser. There were even two rippled glass sinks sitting up on the counter, making them vessel sinks in design lingo. One was a little bit lopsided, so maybe they’d tried to hijack the sinks, too, but had run out of time. I couldn’t even imagine how awful it would be to have put your heart and soul into a business, only to lose it to the bank. I’d probably have taken the toilet paper, too.
Josh was holding his phone when I walked back into the bar. When he saw me, he pushed a button and put the phone away. He was young, but he did have manners. Maybe Denise had picked a winner this time.
He drizzled some Kahlúa into an oversize brandy snifter and handed it to me. He poured himself a refill.
He tapped his snifter to mine. “To one of the stupider moves I’ve made in a while.”
“You mean Denise?” I said.
His eyebrows went up.
“Sorry,” I said. “I forgot she wasn’t here. That’s just kind of the way we talk to each other. You know, sort of juvenile and immature. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with being young,” I added quickly.
His eyebrows were still up.
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t even know why I said that. Was that Denise you were just calling when I walked in?”
He nodded.
“Call her. I don’t mind.”
Josh took a sip of his Kahlúa. “She didn’t pick up. She must have been in a meeting or something.”
“She’ll call back,” I said.
“Thanks for the reassurance.”
“Oh, God,” I said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
Josh took another sip of Kahlúa.
“So,” I said. “Did you hear about the zebra on the highway?”
“No, but I have a great one about three llamas who walk into a bar. You go first.”
I shook my head. “Never mind.”
“Wait. You were serious?”
I swirled the Kahlúa around in my snifter. “This isn’t going too well, is it?”
Josh laughed. “Okay, let’s start again. A zebra, you say?”
I smiled. “Yes, a zebra. An actual zebra. I think it escaped on the way to the circus.”
When Josh smiled, he looked a little bit like Johnny Depp around the mouth. Just for a second, and then he went right back to being noncelebrity Josh. But it was there: that glimmer of bad boy daring.
“Now that’s something you don’t hear about every day,” he said.
I gave my Kahlúa another swirl and put it down on the bar. “They caught the zebra safe and sound, so that’s good. Anyway, everybody started tailgating on the highway during the chase.”
I reached into my shoulder bag and put a page of notes and three business cards on the bar between us. “And I got some great referrals—carpenters, electricians, plumbers.”
Josh picked up one of the cards and turned it over. “We’re gonna need ’em.”
I reached for my Kahlúa and took a tiny sip. Coffee, alcohol, and sugar mainlined their way to my stomach and fought to take over my brain. The undertones of vanilla and caramel were soothing, like adult Easter candy.
“Chocolate,” I said.
Josh picked up his glass. “Nah. It’s just so sweet it makes you think so.”
“No, No. The hotel. We could call it Chocolate. Ooh, or how about Hot Chocolate?”
“I don’t know. In this climate wouldn’t something like Iced Tea make more sense?”
“They call it Hotlanta, don’t they? Oh, wait, my daughter told me Hotlanta is out. She said there’s even a local radio campaign to make people stop saying it. But that doesn’t mean we can’t still use Hot Chocolate.”
Josh took another sip of his Kahlúa. “Okay, what else?”
“We target solo women business trav
elers.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Josh said. “Just don’t tell Denise.”
We looked at each other.
“That was stupid,” Josh said.
“I did it first,” I said. “So now we’re even. Anyway, high-speed Internet, overstuffed chairs with cute little portable laptop stations on casters, great security, chocolate soap, chocolate candles.”
“Chocolate candles? Are they edible?”
“No, they just smell like it. The smell of chocolate creates a warm fuzzy feeling for most people and puts them into a relaxed state.”
Josh nodded. “Will we have chocolate that you eat, too? Or is that a guy thing?”
“Of course we will. I was thinking an all-chocolate menu, or almost all-chocolate. Every kind imaginable, from totally decadent to low-cal spa twists. Chocolate chip pancakes—”
“Whoa, you’re killing me.” He checked his cell phone. “Hey, do you want to go grab something for dinner?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but my daughter’s expecting me. I should take off now anyway. I’ll see you here tomorrow?”
Josh was still looking at his phone. “Actually, I’m booked for the weekend. So why don’t you hang out with your daughter, and we can meet back here bright and early on Monday.”
CHAPTER 19
I DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER to offer to pick up dinner before I jumped back on the highway. I was too exhausted. Not mom-with-a-new-baby-sleep-deprived exhausted, just it-had-been-a-long-day tired.
By this point in my life I’d collected a whole set of touchstones like this. Sure, my sprained ankle hurt, but compared to twenty-six hours of unmedicated labor, how bad was it really? And yes, it was an unfortunate haircut, but not nearly as awful as that asymmetrical cut with the perm on the long side only back in the 1980s.
I was hungry, too. Not fasting-before-a-colonoscopy hungry, but still. By the time I finally got off the highway again, I could have eaten a horse. Or at least a chocolate zebra. I would have even settled for a bowl of cereal.
Even the blossoms of the cherry trees made me think of food. Spring was in full bloom in Atlanta. It was like fast-forwarding a couple of months from New England.
“Continue point eight miles,” the GPS said.
“Thank you,” I said.
“In five hundred feet, your destination will be on your right.”
The GPS was turning out to be everything a BFF should be—calm and supportive, someone who had your back 100 percent of the time. I had to admit Denise was more fun, but she was also way too busy to plug into my lighter and drive around with me.
“Thank you again,” I said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The GPS let out a little burst of static that sounded almost like I’d embarrassed it. “You have reached your final destination.”
“I wish,” I said. “But it’ll be a nice break while I’m recalculating.”
Chance opened the side door as soon as he heard the car.
“Mom,” he yelled.
“Here we go,” I whispered to the GPS as I unplugged it.
I walked by a pot of lush pansies and into the arms of my son-in-law.
Shannon came out and linked her arm through Chance’s as I was backing out of his bear hug. “Just in time for dinner,” she said.
“Sorry,” I said. “I meant to call to see if I could pick up something.”
Chance held out his other elbow in my direction. I pretended I didn’t see it. He was tall and blond and handsome, and really, really nice, but I still didn’t get it.
A Crock-Pot was simmering on the counter. The table in the little dining area was set for three. With cloth napkins, no less.
When Shannon took the top off the Crock-Pot, my stomach growled in appreciation.
“Is that beef stew?” I asked.
“It is,” Shannon said. “Just the way you used to make it when I was a kid.”
“You still remember that?” I’d thrown out my harvest gold Crock-Pot years ago.
“Of course I do. Remember, you gave me the recipe over the phone that time?” Shannon grabbed an actual apron off a hook on the kitchen wall and looped it over her neck.
“Is that an apron?” I asked.
Shannon picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the stew. “Chance likes the way it looks on me.”
I turned to Chance. “Who is this woman and what have you done with my daughter?”
He let out a big chuckle. “Can I get you a glass of wine, Mom?”
“Sure, son,” I said. Nobody laughed.
Shannon scooped up a spoonful of stew and held it out for Chance to taste. The apron made my daughter look like she’d just stepped off the set of Ozzie & Harriet or Leave It to Beaver. Or even Desperate Housewives.
Just in case Shannon had any plans to put that spoon back into the stew, I found a fresh one and started stirring. I wasn’t sure if it was Chance’s germs or his cooties I was worried about.
“Perfection,” Chance proclaimed.
“Me or the stew?” my darling daughter said.
By way of answer, he dipped her like a ballroom dancer and gave her a kiss. I focused on the stew.
“Why don’t you two go chat, and I’ll call you when dinner’s ready,” Shannon said when she came up for air.
I reached for the baguette on the counter. “We wouldn’t think of it, would we, Chance?”
He poured two glasses of red wine and popped open a beer for himself.
“I’ll leave you little ladies to it then,” he said as he headed for the living room. A minute later we heard what sounded like a fishing show blasting from the TV.
I picked up a knife. Since filleting my son-in-law didn’t seem like a real option, I started slicing the baguette.
Shannon put her wineglass down on the counter. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “I just have to go iron Chance’s shirt for tomorrow. He likes a nice crisp shirt. Extra starch.”
I tightened my grip on the knife and gave the cutting board a quick stab. “Shannon Elizabeth,” I said. “Didn’t I teach you anything?”
My beautiful daughter looked at me with wide eyes. “What do you mean?”
I probably should have stopped to think before I opened my mouth, but in my defense, it had been a long day and I was tired. “There’s no excuse for you,” I said. “Women have fought and sacrificed and even died to give you the equality you’re so casually throwing away. It’s your life, but if you were going to turn into some twisted version of an apron-wearing 1950s housewife, you might have at least given us a heads-up before your father and I threw away a fortune on your education.”
From the living room, Chance let out a startlingly loud burp.
Shannon didn’t seem to notice. She put her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with aprons? It seems to me that women have earned the right to choose.”
“Choose aprons?” I asked. Clearly her father and I had taken a wrong turn somewhere. I wondered if it was too late to reconsider an occasional spanking. Maybe our parenting had been too perfect. Maybe we hadn’t given her enough to rebel against.
“Choose aprons?” I repeated. I could literally feel the blood pounding in my ears. Mother Has Massive Stroke while Confronting Aproned Daughter, the headlines would read.
Chance and his beer bottle strolled back into the kitchen. He was actually whistling “Whistle while You Work.”
I glared at him. “You,” I said.
Shannon reached over and gave him a high five. Chance put his arm around her.
They both grinned at me.
“What?” I said.
Shannon yanked off her apron and threw it on the counter.
“Gotcha,” she said.
“LAUGH IF YOU WILL,” I said, “but you are sooooo written out of the will. Dad and I are leaving everything to Luke.”
It felt strange to mention Greg. I couldn’t remember when I’d last gone almost a full day without talking to him, and I kind of missed him. I wondered if I’d start loo
king for ways to casually sneak his name into the conversation, like a high school girl with a crush or a woman having a secret affair, just so I could feel connected to him.
“Oh, well. It was totally worth it,” my darling daughter said. “See,” she said to Chance. “I told you how easy it was to push her buttons.”
I tried to ignore her by picturing Greg and Luke covered in sweat and thrashing away at all the work that needed to be done before we could put the house on the market, taking a break only to check the list I’d put on the refrigerator three months ago. It was a stretch.
I reached for my wine. “Oh, puh-lease,” I said. “What buttons? So where did you get that awful apron anyway?”
Shannon smiled sweetly. “Chance’s mother.”
“Oops,” I said. “Hey, did you hear about the zebra on the highway?”
They both nodded. “Welcome to Georgia,” Chance said. I wondered if he was talking about zebras or aprons.
I decided to recalculate, just like the GPS would have done. I was simply going to ignore my daughter until she started behaving again, forget all about the house, and focus on the hotel. After dinner I’d go through the business cards I’d collected on the highway during the zebra incident and start making phone calls. I’d also gotten the name and number of a guy who had a crew that did odd jobs. I couldn’t imagine one odder than the hotel Denise’s boyfriend had just bought.
“Great stew, babe,” Chance said.
“Thanks, babe,” Shannon said.
The way they called each other babe made me think of the old Sonny and Cher song. I pictured them singing “I Got You Babe,” Chance with a mustache and bell-bottoms and matching vest, and Shannon a head taller with her bobbed hair grown down to her waist. Great, now I wouldn’t be able to get the song out of my head.
I really didn’t have anything against Chance, per se, and I had to admit Shannon had never looked happier. Even a mother could see how much they loved each other. Chance would probably grow on me. I just needed time to adjust, and if he’d back off with the Mom thing, it might happen a lot sooner.
