by Melody Mayer
As he departed for the bathroom—which also held a marble tub, bidet, shower with four jets, and Jacuzzi tub—she admired the rear view, then propped herself up on three of the fluffy pillows and regarded this magnificent hotel penthouse suite with utter contentment.
The Beverly-Florence was Beverly Hills's newest boutique hotel. Located north of Sunset Boulevard just off Benedict Canyon, it held only twenty-five rooms and suites, each of them decorated by a different interior designer except for the renowned Harry Schnaper. He got to do two.
One of the remarkable features was that everything in every room was for sale. By the bedside, there was a price list along with the room service menu, like one would find in a New York City art gallery. Check off the appropriate items, let the charges be approved by American Express, and any and all of what you wanted for yourself would be delivered to your residence the next day, no matter whether it was Bergenfield, Brussels, or Beijing. This wasn't avarice on the part of the management. Instead, it was a service to their guests, because the furnishings were so exquisite.
Thanks to a friend of a friend of Billy's, they were in a three-room suite for the price of a double room at the Holiday Inn. The living room featured a Kendrake green cowhide circular couch ($42,999) in front of the wood-burning fireplace, plus a Giorgetti love seat ($4,999) and matching chairs ($2,500 each). Entertainment, should they want it, could be found on the sixty-inch Sony plasma television ($5,999).
An archway led to a thousand-square-foot bedroom with Spanish hand-carved mesquite furniture, plus a matching four-poster bed with a sheer red silk canopy ($87,000). There was a small fridge by the far wall that had been stocked with fresh fruit, various exotic cheeses, a one-pound tin of Russian beluga 000 caviar Malossol ($2,120) and a bottle of Cristal champagne ($300).
Lydia called down to room service for more caviar and champagne; the authoritative voice at the other end said it would be up in thirty or forty minutes; they'd just had to ice the Cristal. Would that be satisfactory? They didn't want to be indiscreet with their delivery.
Nice. Discretion. What a concept. Such a far cry from what she'd seen on the golf course with Tarshea. Lydia still hadn't told her aunt, but knew she had to, and soon. Tonight the moms had given her the evening off. They were taking the children to visit some friends who lived in Huntington Beach. Family time for Kat with a cheating spouse. All Lydia had to do was be home by sunup.
Billy stepped back into the bedroom wearing a plush white terry cloth robe. “There's a rose-scented bubble bath in that bronze tub with our names on it. I'll answer the door for room service. Don't even think about getting out.”
She padded into the bathroom and stepped into the bubble-filled tub, twice as deep and half again as long as a standard bathtub. The rose scent that wafted from the oiled water was heavenly. She laid her head back against the lip and closed her eyes.
She heard Billy phone down to the restaurant and ask to add a pint of the Beverly-Florence's own homemade vodka-cherry ice cream and one spoon. Lydia smiled. She wanted to ask him about whether he would be willing to spend some time with Jimmy—she couldn't think of a better role model. This, however, didn't seem the time or place for that particular query. It could wait.
She slid down to where bubbles tickled her chin. If the Amas found out about this, they'd all move to Los Angeles.
***
The suite door had a discreet chime instead of a knocker; they were both dozing in the tub when they heard it sound, and the shouted announcement that followed. “Room service!”
“I'll get it,” Billy told her.
Lydia sat up. “I'm getting out too. Or else I'll turn into a prune.”
“Coming!” Billy called as he helped her out of the tub and into another of the hotel's luxurious robes. They walked hand in hand to the door.
“Can you handle more?” Lydia asked coquettishly.
“Champagne? Or you?”
“Both.”
“For a girl who was a virgin a few days ago, I appreciate your appetite,” he quipped.
“Good to know I'm a quick study.” Lydia didn't have the slightest pang of guilt about Billy's virgin remark. The experience with Luis had been entirely rationalized. She didn't remember what happened. If she didn't remember, she couldn't tell Billy.
He smiled into her eyes and smoothed some hair from her cheek. “Admit it. This was worth waiting for.”
They opened the door.
It wasn't room service. It was Luis.
“Hi, Lydia,” he said to her, offering her a white garment on a platter. “You forgot this at my house. I thought you might need it.”
“What the hell are you doing here, man?” Billy was furious. “I'm calling hotel security!”
“No need, no need.” Luis backed away from the door. “I just thought your lady might need her shirt. She never came back for it. I'm out of here.” He took two steps toward the elevator, and then stopped. When he turned around, his eyes bored in on Lydia's. “You need better manners. When a gentleman sends you a special invitation to dine with him, manners require the courtesy of a response. Have a pleasant evening. I know from experience that you will, Billy. Very pleasant.”
One time in the Amazon—she hadn't been there very long—Lydia had been walking down to the river to fish. She'd stepped over a fallen log without checking to see what was on the other side and came down on a young bushmaster snake, which promptly clamped its jaws against her bare ankle. As the deadly venom coursed into her, with the real possibility of death if she didn't get back to her father's medical attention immediately, she couldn't believe that she had been that stupid.
The same thing was happening now, only there was no Daddy-the-bush-doctor to run to for help. In fact, she wished there was a full-grown bushmaster—all thirteen or fourteen deadly feet of one—in the suite that would be willing to send her to the Great Beyond with its fangs right now.
Anything, even death, was better than the pain and betrayal on Billy Martin's face.
Everyone always talked about beautiful California sunsets, with the ocean as a backdrop and the ball of fire awash in pink clouds as it slid into the night. This was the first sunrise that Kiley had seen since she'd come to California, and she had to say that it rivaled any sunset. The sky blazed bright red in the east toward Palm Springs as she and Tom drove in his pickup on I-10, toward Pomona and San Bernardino. Los Angeles was still asleep; the calm quiet before the insanity that was each and every day in this town made her think of possibilities, fresh starts, renewed hope.
“Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight,” Kiley recited, remembering some snippet that she'd learned as a child. “It seems like it should be the other way around.”
Tom put his right hand on her jeans-clad left leg. “Plus there's no sailors out here, unless they like sandstorms. As for the red sky, I'd say it's because of the brush fires in the mountains.”
“And that doesn't matter?”
He glanced at her curiously.
“For wherever we're going?”
“Nope.”
“Can I have a hint?”
He grinned. “Nope.”
“I can't believe I let a farm boy from Iowa get me out of bed at five in the morning to take me on some magical mystery tour.”
Kiley shook her head in mock indignation. Since she'd had no idea where they were going and hadn't known how to dress, she'd just thrown on old jeans, a high school sweatshirt, and her Doc Martens. Fortunately, Tom was similarly dressed.
“How much further, O man of mystery?”
“Five minutes.”
They continued east for one more exit, then Tom got off the freeway. On both sides of the service road were the usual chain businesses catering to interstate travelers—gas stations, Denny's, McDonald's, and the like. Suddenly, Tom turned left onto a gravel road between an Applebee's and a tire outlet. The only unusual thing was a pair of high-flying purple helium balloon clusters on either side of
the lane, anchored to the ground by a stack of dirty white sandbags.
Then they were behind the stores, pulling into a huge open field that hadn't been visible from the freeway.
She whooped with delight as she saw why Tom had brought her to this place. “Hot-air ballooning! I've always wanted to do this!”
Tom stopped the truck in a parking area that had been cordoned off with orange traffic cones. There were two dozen multicolored hot-air balloons in various states of inflation, plus hundreds of people standing around in awe as the buoyant behemoths grew to full size under the watchful eye of their handlers.
“The annual Pomona hot-air balloon race,” Tom announced. “We're in it.”
She threw her arms around his neck. “This is a fantastic surprise, man of mystery.”
“We aim to please.” He kissed her lightly. “Keep your eyes open for the Kool Threads balloon. It's red and white checked, like a tablecloth, with a KT logo on the side in black. That's our ride.”
Kiley spotted the KT balloon even before she was out of the truck. “It's over to the left.”
“Your airborne chariot awaits, madam. Let's go.”
As they crossed the sandy field toward their balloon, Tom explained what he knew about the race. Not actually a race, it was more like a competition. One balloon would take off first, as a sort of marker for the others to follow. Then, after an hour or so of flight, the lead balloon would descend. When it was down, its crew would unfold a ten-foot-square bull's-eye. The other balloonists in the race would try to drop a fifty-pound reinforced sack of grass seed into the middle of the bull's-eye as their balloons passed high overhead. Closest to the bull's-eye won a thousand dollars.
The competing balloons came in all different shapes and sizes—golf balls and footballs, diamonds and plums. Almost all bore the logos of corporate sponsorship, which made perfect sense. Who wouldn't pay attention to a hot-air balloon soaring high overhead?
“How'd you arrange this?” Kiley asked.
“KT wants to sign me to a print-ad contract for sales in Malaysia and the Philippines, so they invited me to come for a ride. I asked them if it would be okay if I invited my girlfriend.”
Tom said this last piece with special emphasis, which made Kiley feel better than she'd felt since scuba class. She realized that in his own way, he was apologizing for how he hadn't been sufficiently up-front about their relationship in the past.
“Yeah?” she asked, glancing at him.
“Definitely yeah.”
A tall and cadaverously thin fellow old enough to be Kiley's grandfather, if not her great-grandfather, was standing near a wicker-basket gondola below the three-quarters-inflated KT balloon. He wore a World War II flight jacket with his black trousers, which made Kiley wonder whether he was a veteran of that conflict. He was that old.
“Howdy, howdy, welcome to Grandpa Willie's balloon.” He shook Tom's hand, and then Kiley's. “I might be twice the age of them children out here, but that just means I ain't crashed yet! Been balloonin’ since the fifties. Don't you worry, you're in good hands with me.”
“You good?” Tom asked Kiley quietly so that Grandpa Willie wouldn't overhear.
She knew he was referring to her fear factor. “I'm good,” she assured him, and prayed with all her might that she was telling the truth.
Grandpa Willie helped them both into the wicker passenger compartment. “Know why the basket's wicker? 'Cause it won't shatter if we land too hard! We just leave that part to your bones!” Grandpa Willie chortled, like it was the first time he'd ever made this lame joke.
Once they were inside the compartment, though, Grandpa Willie was all business, expertly checking the propane tanks, the burner, the bleed valve on top of the balloon, the altimeter that would tell him how high they were in the sky, and a cooler filled with ice. “And champagne,” the pilot explained. “For the end of the trip. First time up for both of you?”
“Yep,” Tom said, taking Kiley's hand again.
“Well then, the crew's gonna come shove us off any minute. May as well repeat after me:
“The winds will welcome me with softness
The sun will hold me in her warm hands
I will fly high and well
And God will join me in my laughter
And set me gently back down
Into the loving arms of Mother Earth.”
“That's beautiful,” Kiley said softly.
“Ballooner's prayer,” the wizened pilot reported. “Newcomers say it at the beginning and again on landing. Unless they come to a bad end, a-course!” He cackled again at his own joke. “I'm just funnin’ ya. We'll be celebrating at the end with champagne.” He got out a walkie-talkie from his bomber jacket, so ancient it was cracked like parched desert land, and held it to his mouth. “Flight control, this is balloon KT, Grandpa Willie at the controls, ready for ascension. This race is ours to win.”
Grandpa Willie shut off the propane gas burner; the wicker passenger compartment instantly went silent. They were floating two thousand feet above Pomona, California, drifting westward at a leisurely fifteen miles an hour. The morning sun should have been baking, but the altitude made both Kiley and Tom grateful for their sweatshirts. As they looked back toward the launch area, an armada of hot-air balloons filled the sky behind them in a plethora of shapes and colors. To the west was the lead balloon, shaped like a baseball. It featured the logo of the Los Angeles Dodgers.
“Don't tell me 'cause I already know. It's better than sex,” Grandpa Willie boomed. “And yes, little missy, that's more than a memory for yours truly. You kids did not invent the hoozy-whatsit-horizontal.”
Kiley laughed, and so did Tom. She felt so free, so light and effervescent sailing through the sky that she didn't think she could take offense at anyone or anything.
“Now, take your ballooning.” Grandpa Willie made an expansive gesture toward the sky as if he was personally responsible. “You can do it longer and there's nothing socially unacceptable about doing it by yourself.”
The old man chuckled to himself as Kiley inhaled deeply, reveling in the moment. With the propane burners off and the earth a half mile below them, the feeling of riding the thermals perched in a wicker basket was exhilarating. Grandpa Willie had explained the simple physics: Cold air sank and warm air rose. When the burners were lit, filling the huge balloon with warm air, the balloon rose. When Grandpa Willie wanted to descend, he turned off the burners and bled hot air out the top of the balloon via a mechanical valve.
“I reckon it'll be another half hour before the control balloon sets down,” Grandpa Willie told them. “You kids want some privacy?”
Privacy? He couldn't possibly be giving the green light to have sex up here in the sky, could he? What was he going to do, turn his back and pretend not to watch or listen? Not that Kiley was about to take the old guy up on it. She and Tom hadn't even done the “hoozy-whatsit-horizontal” yet. The first time was definitely not going to be in a hot-air balloon with an old guy four feet away.
Grandpa Willie held up a set of green headphones. “These here puppies—I put 'em on I can't hear a danged thing.” He gave Tom a knowing look. “I'll be slipping 'em on now. Sometimes folks up here want some private conversating.”
He put the headphones in place over his ears, turned his back, and fiddled with his propane burner.
“ ‘Conversating'?” Kiley echoed the old man. “I'm reasonably sure that isn't a word.”
Tom chuckled. “He's quite a character.”
For a long time, they gazed silently out at the world. To the far west were the office towers of downtown Los Angeles, gray apparitions in the yellowish haze of vehicle exhaust. To the east was the Mojave Desert. Up here, it didn't matter that the guy's face was lusted after by millions or that the girl was far from a supermodel. It didn't matter that she came from small-town Wisconsin or that her dreams felt bigger than the endless sky.
Tom kissed her softly. “Can you imagine your mom up here? In a hot-a
ir balloon?”
“Never. Never ever,” she corrected herself adamantly. “Panic city.”
He nodded. “Yet here you are, floating in a wicker basket.”
She felt so light and buoyant, so free. Her smile was luminous. “True.”
“When you think about it, anything could happen,” Tom went on. “The balloon could rupture. A storm could come up. A lunatic in a private plane could come through and knock us all down like a bunch of airborne bowling pins. Or, take Grandpa Willie, who appears to be old enough to have been on a first-name basis with Moses. Gramps could have a heart attack. Even Moses only lived to a hundred and twenty.”
“Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing's gonna happen.” Her hand went to his cheek. “That was the whole point, right?”
He gave her a rueful look. “Am I that transparent? You got me.”
“Thought so.”
They were passing over one of the enormous shopping centers that made people joke that the San Gabriel Valley should be renamed Twenty-nine Malls. Kiley recalled how much her mother detested malls and avoided them like the plague. Too many things could go wrong inside. Fire could break out. There could be a robbery and she'd be caught in the crossfire. There could be a power failure and a customer stampede. No, no, no. It was enough to trigger Jeanne McCann's worst panic. Hot-air ballooning? Her mother never would have made it out of the car.
Yet here I am flying through the sky in a wicker basket with the most wonderful boy on the planet, and I'm pretty sure this is what perfect joy feels like.
“I ever mention I hate crowded elevators?” Tom asked. “I'd rather take the stairs any day of the week, and I will. My brother, Tanner? Who I met at LAX this week? Flying makes him nuts. When he and his wife went on their honeymoon, he had to take two Valium just to get through the security checkpoint, and an Ambien on the plane. Now he has this job where he has to log a hundred thousand miles a year in the air. He got a shrink who helps him get through it. He still doesn't love planes. But he can fly.”
