by Maddy Hunter
Since our flight from Des Moines had arrived so early, the tour company had bused us the short distance to our hotel rather than make us wait at the airport for the other flights to arrive. We were expecting a contingent of people from the East Coast and a few stragglers from the Continent to add their numbers to the twenty Iowans I was escorting.
“I heard a bunch of people from New York will be joining us,” Bernice continued with a sour look. “They’ll probably be loud. And pushy.”
Which meant Bernice would fit in with them just fine.
“What have you got there?” Bernice asked, snatching the photos from Tilly’s hands. She flipped through them quickly. “Looks like Emily having sex with a dead guy in some pond.”
“He wasn’t dead,” Nana objected. “Emily would never engage in necrophilia, would you, dear?”
I shook my head, remembering those occasions when making love to Jack had been like having sex with a corpse. But we’d been married, so in my case, the necrophilia was legitimate.
“How come you don’t have a digital camera?” Bernice asked Nana, handing the photos back. “Polaroids are old technology.”
“I’m waitin’ for the price to come down,” Nana said in a no-nonsense tone. She might be a millionaire, but her Midwestern frugality still reared its ugly head from time to time.
“Room 410,” the desk clerk said, handing me my key.
“I’m going up to change, so I’ll see you later,” I said to Nana.
Bernice gave us a squinty look. “What? You two aren’t rooming together?”
“Escorts get rooms by themselves,” said Nana, “so I’m roomin’ with Tilly.”
“Tilly?” Bernice sucked in her cheeks. “When I asked you to room with me, you said you already had a roommate, so I assumed it was Emily. You never said you were rooming with Tilly. I’m supposed to be your best friend, Marion. What’s the matter? I’m not good enough for you anymore?”
“Tilly asked me first.”
“Oh, I get it. It’s on account of the mashed peas, isn’t it?”
Back in December, Nana had slipped on some mashed peas on the floor of the senior center and bruised her tail-bone. She’d had to sit on an inflatable doughnut during the entire holiday season, which didn’t work out too well during Midnight Mass, when my nephew punched a hole in it with his Moses action figure with authentic scale-model staff. All Nana could say was that we were lucky David hadn’t brought his GI Joe. Joe carried his own grenade launcher.
“I don’t blame you for that at all, Bernice, but you were the person in charge a cleanin’ the floor after the Christmas luncheon. And you didn’t do it.”
“Couldn’t be helped. I had to leave early to catch the bus to the casino. But you know about the pea situation. Every time we have a luncheon for the Lo-vision people, they leave mashed peas all over the place. How come you don’t serve a vegetable they can see? You’re on the food committee. You ever think about serving broccoli spears?”
Hmm. My guess was, Bernice was going to be the first one voted off the island.
Thinking it might be best if the ladies mediated this themselves, I waved to Nana and slipped away. As I headed to the elevator, I looked toward the lobby, to find a troupe of people muscling their way through the front door behind a willowy blonde who was all legs and teeth. Ashley Overlock. Our tour guide. She’d introduced herself to us at the airport in a voice that dripped Southern charm, then sent us on our way, but the men were still suffering palpitations from the initial meeting.
I shook my head. Men were so blind. Couldn’t they see all her phony reconstruction? I ticked off the list. Bleached blond hair. Collagen-injected lips. Capped teeth. Silicone-enhanced breasts. Acrylic nails, or maybe they were silk wraps. I couldn’t tell from this distance. Her legs started at her neck and were definitely her own, but wearing those spike heels was bound to give her varicose veins. In a few years she’d be forced to wear support hose under that six-inch miniskirt of hers, then we’d see how many heads she turned. Of course, there was one benefit to the support hose. She wouldn’t have to shave her legs so often.
The commotion in the lobby continued as every male with traceable testosterone found an excuse to mill around Ashley. Scarlett O’Hara at the barbecue. Geesch. The scene made me grateful I wasn’t one of the beautiful people. The ogling. The gawking. The fawning. How did she stand it?
“Y’all need to proceed to the front desk to pick up your room keys,” I heard her call out. “No, I don’t need assistance. Y’all just take care of yourselves. Yes, I already have plans for dinner. No, you don’t need to know my room number. The front desk is right through there. Just keep moving.”
I pressed the elevator button again and sidled up to a plant, hoping to camouflage myself as a potted palm while the tour guests swarmed the front desk area. A full five minutes later, the door opened and I scooted inside the car, followed by a woman who announced, “Fourth floor,” as if I were the elevator operator. And she didn’t say please. She obviously wasn’t from the Midwest. My guess was…New Jersey.
The doors glided shut. The elevator hummed to life. “Are you on your way to a costume party?” she asked as she lounged against the handrail. It didn’t help my mood any that she was a gorgeous brunette with the most exquisitely applied makeup I’d ever seen. Razor-thin eyeliner above and below the eyes. Lips perfectly outlined and stained. Foundation and blush that made her complexion appear luminous. I knew only two groups of people with the expertise to apply makeup so precisely: makeup artists and Texans. I revised my first opinion. Okay, she was from New Jersey by way of Dallas.
“I don’t always look like this,” I said. “My mascara ran.”
“It’s a shade too dark for you anyway. Brown would be better. Have you ever had your colors done? My guess is, you’re an autumn.”
This was handy. Take an elevator ride. Get an instant color analysis. I wondered if this was part of the tour package.
She smiled. I smiled. I lowered my gaze to the floor. Whoa! She had the biggest feet I’d ever seen, but great shoes. She must have to order out of the catalog.
“Emily?” she said suddenly.
I checked to see if I was wearing a name tag. Nope. How did she know my name? I exchanged glances with her, thinking she looked vaguely familiar, but unable to identify her. “I’m Emily, but I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”
“Emily!” She rushed at me, smothering my face with kisses and enveloping me in her arms. “It’s me! You don’t recognize me, do you. It’s Jack! Well, Jackie now.”
I tried not to look as confused as I felt.
“Jack Potter!” the woman burbled. “Remember? Your ex-husband.”