The Roche Hotel (Short & Sweet Romantic Comedy): Season Three

by Mysti Parker

  Mrs. Roche’s shrewd eyes linger on him, then shift to me. I give her an encouraging smile and a nod.

  “So you’ll move that hideous statue?” she asked.

  “Yes, we’ll go ahead and put him in storage today until the renovations are complete.”

  She purses her lips and sucks on her dentures. “I don’t know…”

  “I’ll give you ten percent of the profits, straight into your retirement account. You’ll be on your way to visit your sister in Hawaii before you know it.”

  Seconds drag by while she stares into her teacup, methodically stirring it. “Give me twenty percent, and it’s a deal.”

  Richard flinches a bit at that one, but then sticks out his hand. They shake on it. “Deal.”

  Two weeks later, Mrs. Roche is back in the hotel, renovations to the speakeasy are well underway, and David is in temporary solitary confinement in storage until the bar is finished. I can’t help but wonder if any of this would have come about without me. During a particularly egotistical mood, I decide to print out a quote from Margaret Thatcher and tape it on the inside of the front desk as a reminder: If you want something said, ask a man; if you want something done, ask a woman.

  Episode #30

  Ring Pops are a Girl's Best Friend

  Spring passed, summer came, and tonight is the grand opening of The J&H Taproom. It’s incredibly flattering to have a bar named after you and the man you love. A magnanimous spirit must have descended upon the place, because Nick and Henry are even getting along during our optional masquerade party. Soft classical music is playing from in-wall speakers, while Susan flits around the room excitedly, handing out one round of hors d’oeuvres after another. Richard offered to man the front desk for part of my shift so I could enjoy the evening with everyone. Parties aren’t really his thing. I wouldn’t have thought they were Jerry’s thing either, but he’s here with Carol, dressed in a gray t-shirt and sports jacket, hair and beard trimmed so neatly, he actually looks more businessman than sasquatch. Even better, my Tudor-style maid of honor dress I wore for Mom’s wedding still fits. The gray silk reflects some of the pretty chandelier light. Henry is dressed as a young Henry VIII, with a slim-fitting costume that makes him look absolutely delicious.

  He kisses me softly. “Lady Jane, I daresay you are a vision tonight, but I’m not sure about the dress.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask around a cheek full of spinach roll hors d’oeuvre. “I’m not even wearing Spanx.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s awesome on you, but it’ll look so much better on the floor.”

  “You’re insufferable. Here, have a pig-in-a-blanket.” I stuff one in his mouth. He answers with a muffled laugh.

  David, in his original nude glory, now stands proudly at the bottom of the stairwell that leads to the bar. But, I did fit him with a black masquerade mask so he wouldn’t feel left out.

  Nick is in his element as bartender tonight, dressed in a white shirt with black vest and tie and his hair slicked back. He’s definitely more convincing as a mafia goon than a Tudor courtier. Much to Richard’s relief, Nick gladly stepped in and oversaw all the renovations, ensuring that the place was safe while maintaining the history of the place. The door opens every few minutes, admitting one curious guest after another. In keeping with its speakeasy heritage, they have to know the pass code on the old rotary phone to enter. If tonight’s patronage is any indication, business will never be slow.

  A very pregnant Brandy is also here. She’s sitting on one of the overstuffed chairs by the fake fire in the hearth with a bottle of water, fanning herself with a drink menu. Mid-July must be a terrible time to be pregnant. Beyond a bit of small talk, Brandy and I haven’t really spoken. But the few times I’ve been around her, she seems rather lonely.

  “She looks like she’s about to burst,” Henry whispers. “You sure it’s not twins?”

  “No, she’s pretty close to the due date. Nick swears there’s only one in there, but they still don’t know the gender. I guess they want it to be a surprise.”

  “I think I’d like to know.”

  “Me too.”

  He flashes a smile that warms my cheeks. What’s gotten into me? One minute I’m terrified of even imagining a future with Henry, but the next I’m picturing us as parents and planning our retirement. I’m even feeling sorry for the woman who stole my ex-husband, and I’m stone cold sober.

  “Hey,” he whispers, “want to blow this joint?”

  “I’d love to, but I have to go back to work in a bit. Richard’s going to be swamped up there.”

  “Well, since only registered guests are supposed to have access to this place, I rented a room for the night. We’ll only need a few minutes.”

  That’s my Henry. Always thinking ahead. But I still beat him to the stairs.

  ****

  I arrive early for the next day’s shift at 2:45 PM, only to find Brandy and Nick in the lobby arguing. She’s wearing a bright red, short jumper with a white t-shirt and white ball cap. With her round belly, it makes her look like a summertime Mrs. Claus. I chuckle and head toward the front desk, trying not to eavesdrop. Not my circus, not my monkeys. What Nick does to piss off his girlfriend is their business.

  Of course, as soon as I deposit my purse in one of the new mini lockers in the office, they both walk in behind me.

  “Nicky, you promised! I have to be there in a half hour. The lactation consultant will be there, and we’re practicing diapering. I need to know all that. I’d go myself, but Dr. Wilson told me not to drive,” Brandy wails. She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears.

  “I told you, I can’t. There’s a bad leak down in the bar, and if I don’t watch those plumbers, they’ll walk off with a case of liquor. What’s it hurt to miss one birthing class, anyway? I can call you a cab if you want to go that badly.”

  “A cab? All the cabbies around here smoke. Do you want our baby breathing smoke?”

  Resisting the urge to put my fingers in my ears, I slip out to the front desk area and close the door between me and the office. Carol’s closing down her computer. She walks right up to me and whispers, “Can you believe he’s not going with her?”

  I inadvertently smell the spaghetti and garlic bread she must have eaten for lunch. “Uh, yeah, I can believe it. He doesn’t have the best track record.”

  “I’d take her if I had my car,” Carol says. “It’s in the shop. Jerry’s coming to pick me up at 4:00. He offered to fix it for me, but he already does so much for me, I’m starting to feel spoiled.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, I guess. But I guess I need to get used to it.” She steps out of my comfort zone long enough to hold out her hand and show me the big rock on her ring finger. It sparkles in the energy efficient LED lighting from overhead.

  “Wow! That’s not cubic zirconium, is it?”

  Her hoop earrings swing emphatically as she shakes her head. “No!”

  “Stolen?”

  “Jane!”

  “Sorry. I’m really happy for you, but that’s one serious rock…”

  “I know what you’re thinking. How can he afford it on a maintenance man’s salary?”

  “No, well, okay yeah. How can he?”

  She holds her hand in front of her, admiring the bling. “Stock market, bonds, savings from his days in the special ops.”

  “Oh, well I can’t say I’m surprised. Jerry’s a special kind of guy.”

  Carol titters. “He is, isn’t he?”

  Just then, the door from the office to the lobby bursts open, and Brandy comes storming out in a flurry of tears. Nick follows, trying to catch her, but she bats him away and slumps down onto the sofa by the door, burying her face in a wad of tissues. Yikes – not a good look for her. Luckily, we don’t have any guests in the lobby at the moment. But a tour bus just pulled up in front of the entrance.

  Nick comes over to the front desk, props his elbows on it, forehead in his hands. “I’ve g
one to all those birthing classes. They’re all the same thing. Relax, breath, visualize your happy place. Why can’t she miss this one? She knows how much this bar means to me. To us.”

  “I would think she and your baby are more important than a bar,” I say, trying not to sound too interested, but Brandy’s sobbing is making my shoulders tense up.

  “Of course they are. That’s why I have to do the best I can with this place. If Jerry was here, I’d have him keep watch. He’s intimidating enough. But I can’t leave you or Carol down there alone with those plumbers. They’re good at what they do, but they’re real douchebags.”

  “Well, you would know.”

  He raises his head, looking tired and truly conflicted. Very unlike the Nick I once knew. I think he’s finally grown up. “I brought her with me today so I could check in on things and then go with her, but there’s no one else to watch these guys. I want to make this work, you know. I don’t want to screw it up like everything else.”

  He glances behind him toward the entrance. Just outside the door, the tour bus has started expelling its contents of passengers and luggage, and if the first thing they see and hear is a pregnant woman crying her eyes out, they may not stay at all, much less visit the bar.

  The words come out before I have time to fully weigh the consequences. “Fine. I’ll take her.”

  Nick and Brandy both look at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. It would explain a lot of things.

  I head back to the office, get my purse from the locker, and hurry to the lobby. “Carol, if you can stay a little late, I’ll come in extra early for you tomorrow.”

  “That works for me. I don’t even have a car. Plus, these tourists have been generous with tips lately.”

  Brandy’s drying her eyes when I walk over. “You don’t have to take me, Jane.”

  I hold my hand out to help her up. “No, but…um…getting upset is probably bad for the baby. Come on. You don’t want to be late, do you?”

  She stares at my hand for a moment, but then takes it and pulls her round self to her feet. “Okay. Thanks.”

  ****

  We manage to get out before the tourists file in. They’re all here for the Aerosmith concert tonight. I’ve never seen Steven Tyler’s face on so many shirts, hats, and tote bags before. They’ll no doubt want to spend post-concert time in the bar, so no wonder Nick is desperate to get things fixed before then.

  The fifteen minute drive to the Presbyterian Church basement where the birthing class takes place is so quiet and awkward, it feels like a million years. Brandy doesn’t say much apart from giving me directions.

  She stares at the map on the phone the whole time. “Left at Main, then two lights, then right on Hoover.”

  While we sit at a red light, I rack my brain trying to think of something to say. I no longer wish eternal diarrhea and sudden baldness on her, but I don’t know much about her apart from what little Nick has told me.

  I think of something finally. “So this lactation consultant, is she like a lactose intolerance expert or something?”

  She looks up briefly, a smile flitting on her red-tinted lips. “No, she’s a breastfeeding consultant.”

  “Oh…okay. I should have known that.”

  “Why would you?”

  I’m not sure if that’s an insult or an innocent question, but I step on the gas a little more than necessary when the light turns green.

  We arrive at the class a little late, but ahead of a woman that surely must be pregnant with a litter. Her hair is wild. No makeup, and she calls her husband a few unsavory things when he’s slow about getting her out of the car. Her belly is like its own entity, leading the rest of her along with it. Brandy looks like she’s swallowed a small pumpkin in comparison. She’s also wearing makeup and her hair is neatly pulled back into a ponytail under her cap. Figures she’d be one of those women who didn’t get wrecked by pregnancy.

  I help Brandy out of the car and escort her to a small basement room with beige concrete block walls that are decorated with kids’ finger-painted pictures and Popsicle stick crosses. Folding chairs are set up in a circle on the linoleum floor. They hold at least a dozen women in various stages of pregnancy. Their husbands or significant others sit beside them, glancing around in that awkward, helpless way men do when they’re in a decidedly feminine environment.

  I whisper to Brandy, “I’ll see you later. What time do you want me to pick you up?”

  Brandy turns to me with big, pleading eyes and grabs my arm. “Can you stay?”

  “Um, I’m not…I don’t think…”

  She leans close to my ear. “I don’t know any of these women very well. They’re all kind of snooty and won’t talk to me much because Nick and I aren’t married.”

  I want to remind her that she doesn’t know me very well either, never mind the fact that I’m her boyfriend’s ex-wife. But her chin is quivering, and quite frankly, she’s an ugly crier, and I really don’t want to see that again.

  “Okay, hang on. I’ll text Carol and see if she can stay a little later.”

  “Thank you, Jane. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  She heads to an empty chair while I text Carol, thinking the whole time that I need to make an appointment to get a CAT scan, because I’ve obviously lost my mind: Brandy is begging me to stay until the class is over at 4:30. Do you mind staying until I get back?

  Two seconds later, she texts back: Are you serious? I can stay, no problem. But that’s a little weird.

  More than a little. It’s like epically weird. How many women would stay at a birthing class with the woman her husband ran off with? There’s really no good way of explaining that. But I just respond with: Yeah, I know. But thanks. See ya later.

  I take a deep breath and head over to Brandy. She takes her purse from the chair she’s saved for me and pats the seat. I lower myself to it, feeling rather heavy under all the curious stares. A petite lady with short hair and cute Harry Potter glasses comes in carrying a pack of diapers. She wears a green gauzy blouse with flowy culottes, colorful beaded necklace, and sandals with crocheted straps. Very Bohemian.

  “That’s Lisa, the instructor,” Brandy whispers.

  Another lady follows, dressed in daisy patterned scrubs. She’s taller and stout, hair pulled back into a severe bun, and has the no-nonsense air of a veteran nurse.

  “Good afternoon, soon-to-be parents,” Lisa says. “This is Nurse Jeannie, our lactation consultant. She’s going to show us some breastfeeding basics, because we all know…”

  Brandy and the other ladies chant in unison,” …that mother milk’s the best!”

  Is this what a birthing class involves? It reminds me of the one Catholic wedding I attended. I never knew when we were supposed to stand and recite passages along with the priest, so I ended up looking like a mumbling whack-a-mole.

  “Right,” Lisa says. “And it looks like we have a new visitor with us today. Brandy, would you care to introduce your guest?”

  I fully expect Brandy to give me the inconspicuous title of ‘friend’ or ‘cousin’, but she smiles brightly and exclaims, “This is Jane. She’s my boyfriend’s ex-wife. Nick couldn’t be here, so she offered to bring me tonight. Isn’t that sweet?”

  The women all react differently. Some gasp, while others whisper to each other. Some smile awkwardly, while others just stare slack-jawed or cross their arms and glare at their partners. The men all give me a sucks-to-be-you look and seem a little relieved to not be the most uncomfortable members of today’s class for a change. I’m pretty sure you could roast marshmallows on my cheeks right about now. Would it be bad if I bolted, drove back to the hotel and told Nick to get his sorry tail over here because I’m totally weirded out?

  “That is very sweet,” says Lisa. “Welcome, Jane. It’s so nice to see real forgiveness for a change.”

  This time, some of the men smirk at their women. Words have left the building, so I just nod. Lisa picks up a big canvas tote and carries
it around the room. Inside are naked, realistic baby dolls. They’re kind of creepy. I’ve never been fond of dolls. Too many late-night horror movies on cable. She offers Brandy and me one. Brandy snatches hers up and cradles it like the real thing. Maybe she’ll be a good mother if she’s this excited over a freaky plastic baby.

  “Take one,” Lisa says to me.

  “Oh, no thanks.”

  “It’s couples’ diaper challenge. Everyone needs a partner.” She shakes the bag. Squinty plastic eyes are looking up at me from inside. I stare at the floor, grab one out by the leg and lay it on my lap, shiny butt cheeks up. I swear if this thing moves, I’m so out of here.

  Nurse Jeannie follows along behind Lisa, handing out diapers.

  “Today, we’re going to see which partner in each pair can diaper the baby quickest. Each winner gets a piece of Ghirardelli chocolate.” Lisa pulls a metallic blue bag from her tote and shakes it. Hungry groans of desperation echo around the room. My mouth waters, too. Old Ghirardelli and I go way back to the time that Brandy’s baby daddy left me.

  “Now help your partners down to our cross legged positions on the floor,” Nurse Jeannie orders.

  “That candy is so mine,” Brandy says.

  “Not on your life.” I stand and hold her hands while she scoots off the chair and onto the floor. Then I join her. Everyone places their diapers and babies on the floor.

  “Have you ever changed a real diaper?” Brandy asks.

  “No, at least none that I can remember.”

  “Me either, but I think I’ll get used to it.” Her earlier nervousness has turned to confidence while she leans over the baby, hands poised to change the diaper in record time.

  Lisa holds her hand up then drops it. “Okay. Three…two…one…go!”

  Brandy grabs her diaper, unfolds it, and whips it under the baby. I try to copy that, but it’s upside down. Okay, so I flip it over. She pulls the front of the diaper up between its legs, unfastens the tabs and sticks them….where? Not on the kid’s stomach. Got it. I think.