Rachel pulled on her puffy coat and knit hat, slipped into the hiking shoes she’d picked up in Denver, and stepped out the front door of the Villa Cortina’s condo complex into the chilly winter morning. A dry, fluffy snow covered the sidewalks and street. Even the fire station next door had taken on a silent sort of meditation with no movement beyond the glass bay doors. She filled her chest with the cold, sharp air and set off down the street in search of coffee. The condo rental had been too expensive for there not to be coffee somewhere nearby.
Which turned out not quite to be true. Fifteen minutes later, she’d given up searching and wandered into one of the fancy hotels in the area, The Grand Hyatt. She rolled into a small market just off the lobby and approached the counter.
“Hi there,” she said when the clerk, a short, middle-aged Hispanic woman, noticed her.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the woman said in a tone that had clearly been trained into her, “How may I serve you?”
“I feel like I might fall right over if I don’t get some coffee in me,” Rachel said.
The woman smiled. “You’ve come to the right place,” she said, gesturing to two large industrial coffee makers behind her. “What size would you like?”
Rachel pretended to consider the question. “Medium,” she said after a moment, invoking her tendency not to go for too much too fast, then added, “Two of them.” Sam would be up by the time she got back. It would be worth carrying two cups the half mile back to see his smile.
“Yes, ma’am, coming right up.”
Rachel waited while the woman poured the coffees, considering whether to grab one of the pastries in the glass case to her left. She decided against it, remembering the boxes of Lemonheads and Milkduds she and Sam had polished off while stoned to the gills the night before. A girl had to watch her figure if she wanted to use it.
“That will be twelve-fifty,” the clerk said as she set the cups in front of Rachel. “Unless I can get you something else?”
“No, thank you, this will do it.” She gave her biggest, most innocent smile, then feigned a look of panic that the clerk picked up on right away.
“Everything okay, ma’am?” the clerk asked.
Rachel didn’t respond for a moment, letting the woman marinate in the faux panic so that the discomfort would make her want to seek a resolution. Finally, she made a show of drooping her body posture and sighing, not too big, just enough to sell what she was about to say.
“I left my purse in the room,” Rachel said in a tone that mixed disappointment and frustration. “I swear I cannot function in the mornings without caffeine.”
“I’m the same way,” the clerk said in a reassuring tone. “It happens a lot, don’t worry. What is your room number? If you’d like I can charge it to your room.”
Rachel let her posture brighten and smiled as if the woman had just complimented her eyes. “Oh my gosh, could you? That would be wonderful,” she said, thinking about how many floors she’d observed the hotel to have. She couldn’t remember if it was three or four, so she stuck with a lower floor to be safe. “We’re in 220, The Eppersons,” she said, already moving away from the counter, making a big show of handling the coffees as if they might set her on fire if she spilled one.
“Ma’am wait, you need to sign…” she heard the clerk say behind her as she continued to walk away.
“Oh, okay, I’ll be right back. I just want to drop these off in the room with my husband before I spill them,” she said over her shoulder. “He drank too much again last night and he’s a real jerk when hung over. I swear this altitude turns alcohol into jet fuel. I’ll be back in two minutes, promise.”
The clerk didn’t reply, and Rachel didn’t look back to give her the opportunity to resist. She just walked right out of the shop toward the elevators, circled the room, and headed for the front door.
She was almost outside when a voice with a thick Texas accent said, “Is that extra coffee for me, pretty lady?” A man in a heather suit coat with a pressed white button up shirt under it and starched jeans over obnoxiously shiny loafers stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop.
She made eye contact with him and, having no other choice, smiled her biggest, most beautiful smile. “Well, aren’t you the charmer,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder toward the coffee shop, where she noted the clerk was already busy serving a tall woman with wavy blonde hair and white pants so tight that nothing jiggled when she moved. .
“I like to think so, yes,” the man said. “And I’m just yankin’ your cord about the coffee, sweetie. See that big, voluptuous woman there in the shop? That’s my wife, Darla. She’s already getting me a coffee…but I’d sure like to try yours sometime.” He winked with a self-confidence that seemed to imply he thought the gesture made him charming rather than creepy. Rachel started to tell him to get bent, but something made her pause. He had the look of a potential mark, the kind of guy who fancies himself a prolific businessman, with the affect of a self-proclaimed “puss hound.” He projected wealth and ego, both of which could be used to separate him from his finances.
“Well thank you, that’s sweet,” she said, “My name is Colette Richards. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’m Dan Croft, but you can call me DC,” the man said. “We just come in on my King Air for the weekend, ready for some fun. Where are you from, Miss Colette?”
“Mrs., actually,” Rachel said, “My husband Dell and I are up from Denver for the weekend. Speaking of fun, you folks ever try edibles?”
Click here to learn more about Rocky Mountain Lie by Michael Pool.
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