Heart Song Anthology

by Carolyn Faulkner

  John let out a breath fueled by longing. “Sweet Greta,” he murmured, “why am I not married to you?”

  “Because you never asked me,” she answered, closing her eyes and enjoying the moment.

  John kissed her gently and stroked her cheek, her neck, the outline of her shoulder, her breasts. The paddle fan high above them made her chin-length hair dance in its breeze. He kissed her again, this time more passionately. “Uh oh.”

  His cock moved against her stomach, making her giggle. Greta made a show of acting annoyed. “Good grief. Again?”

  On their way downstairs for his evening mini-concert, the hotel’s resident pianist and his wife passed by Room 207, stopping for a second as a shriek of laughter came from behind the door. The pianist raised his eyebrows and smiled at his wife.

  She pulled his sleeve, whispering, “It’s probably the television, dear.”

  But as he followed her down the hall, instead of reviewing his list of songs in his mind, he watched her plump derriere sashay dramatically side to side. Her full skirt was a wonder to behold, and he felt stirrings in his groin. Catching up to walk beside her, he said, “How long has it been since we’ve–”

  His wife stopped in her tracks, a question in her eyes. He nodded as he fondled that enticing bottom. “Well then,” she said, demurely lowering her eyes, “I suggest you get through your music in record time.”

  5

  Too Many Mrs. Farmers

  Carla’s shift was nearing its end. She’d spoken with dozens of guests throughout the afternoon and evening, wishing them a pleasant dinner. “Enjoy yourselves, now!” she’d called. The Farmers had gone out about seven, but judging from the time they were gone, they had stepped across the street for the world’s best hamburger before going back upstairs for the night. As always, they had looked happy to be together, as if that was the goal of their very existence.

  It shouldn’t bother me, but it does, damn it. Unless she was mistaken, Mrs. Farmer was roughly her age, maybe a little younger. Or older, it was hard to tell. Her hair had more gray, but her face was smoother. Bigger breasts, definitely. But can she play golf? She knew it was ridiculous to make comparisons. This separate bedroom thing was getting to her though.

  Mr. Farmer might be a bit older than Doug. His beard and busy eyebrows were salt-and-pepper, a neat, closely trimmed style. Briefly, she wondered what a beard would feel like between her legs. Doug had always insisted on being clean-shaven, even when she’d asked him to grow a beard years before. He still had a full head of hair, which he kept fairly short.

  Mr. Farmer, in contrast, was obviously balding, but the way he kept his remaining hair clipped so close, it was quite an attractive look in Carla’s opinion. I shouldn’t be lusting after another woman’s husband, she thought. But honestly, what good was it to lust after her own? He was prepared to just call it quits in the lust department, apparently.

  The lobby was dark and quiet. The small but elegant dining rooms had not been rented out for a party or wedding. Students were in their rooms studying, or sleeping, or getting into various kinds of mischief. Carla sighed. Katie would have been one of them by this time, if she had lived.

  Carla leaned back in her swivel chair. As far as she could tell, all of the guests were present and accounted for. If any guests were still out, they had keys to open the back door once she was all locked up.

  The pianist and his wife had already headed upstairs, no doubt already asleep. For an hour in the evenings he filled the lobby with beautiful music (even when there were no guests) in exchange for a greatly reduced rate for year-round lodging. Sometimes guests would break into song as they walked past. Mrs. Farmer, for one. Tonight, he didn’t play as long as was his custom. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well. Carla reminded herself to inquire the next day.

  Her eyes instinctively traveled to the little mail cubby on the wall that bore the number 207 which reminded her of Mr. Farmer’s quip earlier in the evening. She chuckled softly as she wrote a note for housekeeping.

  Always smiling, those two were, she thought, as if being together at the Royal Poinciana Hotel was the pinnacle of their year. For all her speculation, she hadn’t figured out what either one of them did for a living, or why their jobs required them to arrive in separate vehicles. His credit card information placed them on the Atlantic coast. Not an outrageous drive, but why this place? Hospitality workers were expected to be somewhat aloof. The Farmers treated her more like a friend.

  Mrs. Farmer had led the way downstairs this evening wearing a colorful print dress that showed a bit more leg than Carla would dream of attempting. Not flashy but flattering, and, from the expression on Mr. Farmer’s face as he watched her walk in front of him, admired.

  “What a nice outfit!” Carla had called to her from behind the desk.

  “Thank you for noticing,” Mr. Farmer had answered, grinning. “The shirt is new.”

  “Oh, Mr. Farmer!” she’d retorted. “You are a silly one.” She had watched wistfully as they walked through the lobby hand in hand and later, when they returned.

  All of her duties presumably done for the shift, Carla let her mind wander. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Doug had held hands in public. The separate bedroom thing was an issue, but not the hand holding so much. That, she didn’t really mind. Public displays of affection had never been their way. Or was it an age thing, for the most part?

  For all she knew, all couples on the east coast laughed as easily as the Farmers, holding hands as if they were madly in love, she thought wryly. As if rural Florida was some kind of Shangri-La. No, Carla got the distinct impression that it didn’t matter where the Farmers were, as long as they were together. Even though it made her jealous for what they had and she did not, it warmed her heart to know that she knew at least one couple that was truly happy.

  Carla frowned at the neat row of keys. All the rooms were taken. Sebring was hosting that big downtown event tonight and Saturday. A bigger, more prosperous city, they would have music, vendors, bounce houses, even fireworks tonight, weather permitting. So far, so good in that regard, anyway.

  She’d get home about one, and sleep, hopefully. In the morning, Doug would have breakfast waiting for her. Breakfast was the one thing she still had that reflected a modicum of affection. She’d never asked him to do that, but after all these years, she knew it would be there when she woke up.

  What was it about the fireworks? Oh yes, the Farmers again. They had stopped at one of the tables in the lobby to flip through a brochure after dinner. “You’re not heading to Sebring for the fireworks?” she’d asked.

  The couple had held each other’s eyes for a millisecond before Mrs. Farmer giggled. “Nope. Have a nice evening!”

  As they climbed the stairs Carla had caught Mr. Farmer’s whispered remark: “I’m planning on fireworks, though.” Mrs. Farmer had shushed him and looked over her shoulder at Carla. who’d made a show of shifting paperwork on the reception counter.

  Carla rocked in the swivel chair. Eleven p.m. The Farmer’s fireworks were likely over. Or not. Carla was not given to imagination, certainly not about her hotel guests, but the Farmers were different. Or maybe it was Doug’s new plan that had her dwelling on the couple. Time to batten down the hatches.

  Carla turned the chandelier in the lobby to the lowest setting on its dimmer switch and walked toward the heavy front doors to lock them. Before she reached them, though, the little bell on one of doors tinkled as a woman entered, bringing with her a rush of fresh night air.

  The woman was on her cellphone and seemed quite upset. “Well I’m here, anyway. It’s not much to look at and I’m extremely tired, but I’ll call you tomorrow.” The woman didn’t seem to notice Carla as she passed with an aggrieved sigh. Approaching the counter, she rang the little desk bell repeatedly.

  Carla cleared her throat. “I’m right here, ma’am.” She walked around the reception desk and took her place behind it. “How may I help you?” She glanced over at the comp
uter. There had been, she saw now, a last-minute cancellation. One room available then. “Would you like a room?”

  The woman grimaced. “I do not need a room,” she said crisply. “My husband is here on business. Our son suggested that I surprise him.” She glanced around the dimly lit lobby with disdain. “Perhaps I can convince him to find something a little more... modern... though.”

  When Carla’s eyebrows shot up involuntarily, the woman tried to cover her rudeness. “Not that this isn’t very nice, I’m sure.” She glanced up at the chandelier overhead with a sour expression and a little sniff that indicated the need for better dusting. “You have to admit, this place has seen better days.”

  So have you, lady, Carla thought. Having developed a quick sense for people, able to size up potential guests up in an instant, she surmised that this singularly unpleasant woman was perhaps on the far side of 60. Not unattractive, but growing jowly around the face and wide at the hips. An air of privilege and indolence hung around her like an Hermès scarf. Hair definitely a bottle job, several shades too dark. As much as she disliked this woman to her very core, Carla recognized that everything the woman wore or carried was top shelf, top dollar. As if price is all that matters.

  Carla’s smile was stiff. “The Royal has been here since the 1920s, ma’am, so yes, she’s seen better days. But we are very proud of the hotel and its history. Your husband has excellent taste.” In hotels, she thought. Mentally she took inventory of the guests. The husband must have checked in during the day shift. “Name, please?”

  “Martha Farmer. Oh, you mean his: John. John Farmer.”

  6

  Surprise Visits

  The color drained from Carla’s cheeks as the woman continued. “He’s out of town on business again,” she said with more than a hint of disapproval. “I just happened to find your brochure this morning where he’d written today’s date. When I mentioned it to our son, he thought it would make a grand Valentine’s Day gesture.” She rolled her eyes. “Jeff has no idea what the roads here are like. He lives in Orlando, of all places.” Another pause, followed by another glare. “Well? The room number?”

  Carla’s mouth had opened a little at the name of her husband and she closed it now, thinking frantically. Her eyes darted to the screen. Maybe there was another Farmer on the register. Please, God, let there be another Farmer.

  Nothing.

  The woman frowned, losing what patience she’d arrived with. “I’ve just driven for hours. Two-lanes are a nightmare, even at this hour. I don’t know what my son was thinking,” she muttered as if to herself. Narrowing her eyes, she addressed Carla. “I would like to take a shower. You do have hot water, don’t you?”

  Carla cleared her throat. “Yes, ma’am. Quite hot. We even have indoor plumbing to go with it,” she said in a low voice as she made a show of sifting through room receipts. Oh, dear. What should I do?

  The telephone on the wall rang and Carla walked to answer it, grateful for the temporary reprieve. “This is the Royal Poinciana Hotel, Carla speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Hey, Carla, John Farmer here,” a cheerful voice said.

  “What can I do for you?” Carla turned and looked at the woman at the counter, willing herself not to change expressions.

  “We may have left a cellphone downstairs,” he said. “I’m calling from the room phone. If we call the number from our other cell, could you let me know if you hear it?”

  A wave of memories washed through Carla’s mind. The Farmers arriving separately. Late check-outs. Laughter. Holding hands. The sheer joy that beamed off of them in contrast to the gloomy figure standing impatiently in front of her. “Of course,” she said quietly, waiting. She heard a soft ringtone coming from the table where “Mrs. Farmer” had stopped to look at a brochure. “Yes, I hear it.”

  “I’ll be right down,” Mr. Farmer said.

  “No!” Carla cried, so abruptly that Martha Farmer was startled. Looking right at the woman, Carla continued quickly. “I’m, um, I’m on my way upstairs on another matter. I can bring it up in a few minutes if you don’t mind waiting. Yes, of course. See you soon.”

  Carla hung up the phone and slowly walked around the counter to the table, where she picked up the missing device, holding it up with a little shake as she looked over at the woman. “Sorry about that – always something.” The woman frowned, then turned back around dismissively, resting her elbows with a thud on the reservation desk as if she couldn’t stand up straight another second.

  As Carla stood there, unsure how to handle what was the most delicate situation she’d ever faced at the Royal, the antique elevator doors opened by the stairs. Wasn’t the car down already? No one could operate it but staff, and right now, that meant Carla.

  An incredibly handsome man stepped out wearing a tailored black tuxedo. With that head of hair and mustache, he was unmistakable. A professional impersonator? If so, he’s well worth whatever fee he charges. Maybe he appeared tonight in Sebring?

  Before Carla could question his use of the elevator, however, the man held a finger to his lips. Carla stood, open-mouthed, as the spitting image of Clark Gable took a seat in one of the overstuffed brocade chairs and grinned mischievously. He shook his head firmly, then cocked an eyebrow toward the woman at the counter, her back still to both of them.

  A little weak in the knees, Carla walked back behind the counter holding up the cellphone. “I apologize for the delay. I’ll just check for that room now,” she said with a frown, glancing up at the handsome figure in the chair. He shook his head again and emphatically mouthed one word: No.

  I could get fired for this. “Oh dear,” Carla said with what she hoped sounded like professional regret, “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr. Farmer must have checked out earlier.” She blinked a few times as the color rose in her cheeks. “Before I came on shift. Or possibly he just jotted the date down and was never here. But we don’t have a Mr. Farmer. Sorry.”

  The woman frowned, but said nothing.

  Carla took a chance. The woman obviously didn’t want to be here. “May I reserve a room for you anyway? I mean, it’s getting late.” Carla’s heart stopped briefly, and she noticed, with alarm, that Mr. Gable’s eyebrows had shot up. Well, whoever he is. And why does he care, anyway?

  It was a rambling old hotel with many wings and floors, but the chances of Mrs. Farmer running into Mr. Farmer and the (now obvious) love of his life would still be high. Does this guy know? And who the hell was “he” anyway, to tell her her business. Not tell, exactly, but–

  The woman made a strangled noise that might have been a grim chuckle. “Certainly not,” she said, turning on one heel without glancing in the man’s direction. As she walked out the front door, Carla heard her speaking into her phone. “Your idea was horrible, which I should have known. He isn’t even here. Now I have to drive all the way back... No, no... Well, I may stop in Sebring if I see something suitable.”

  Carla let out a long breath and stared across the room. Clark Gable’s double smiled, his eyes flashing. “Good job, Carla,” he said smoothly.

  “How? Who?” Her eyes shifted to the stairs.

  The man stood and walked to the elevator. Good Lord, it just isn’t right for any man to be that handsome, Carla thought as she watched him. Wasn’t it Carole Lombard who’d said he was a lousy lay? Looking at his likeness, Carla found that hard to believe at the moment.

  The man whipped his head around. “They’ll be fine.” He stepped inside the elevator, briefly out of view, but stuck his head out again, that famous grin slightly off-kilter. “You know. The Farmers. And by the way, Carole was making a joke. We enjoyed room 207 every bit as much as they do.”

  The elevator doors closed as Carla rushed over. There was no one on the elevator. But she had watched him go inside! She’d been staring at him the entire time. There was no way he had escaped down the hall to the breakfast area, but Carla jogged off to search anyway.

  There was no one there
. She looked inside the bathrooms at that end of the building, stepped outside to look out into the parking lot. Under a light she saw John Farmer’s convertible. Good thing he didn’t park in front.

  In a daze, Carla walked slowly back to the lobby and retrieved the missing phone from the counter. Her feet felt heavy as lead as she walked up the stairs. Any other time, she would save her knees with the elevator. Not tonight. Friday the thirteenth indeed. There was no way she was getting on the elevator ever again, if she could help it.

  As Carla made her way down the hallway to room 207 she heard a low chuckle. Just an old building noise. I do not believe in ghosts. There is a logical explanation. She passed one of the small sitting areas. Mr. Gable sat on a rattan couch with a smirk on his face. I don’t believe in ghosts, she told herself again.

  The man laughed heartily as if he had heard her. “Oh no? Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” He wiggled his eyebrows and just like that, Carla was alone. Again, she searched frantically behind the heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains, out on the balcony, even under the couches. Nothing, or rather, no one.

  Finally, remembering the phone in her hand, she walked down the hallway and tapped lightly on the door of room 207.

  When it opened, John Farmer’s quick smile changed to concern. “Are you okay? You’re white as a sheet!”

  Carla’s mind was saturated with a jumble of feelings, but whoever this couple was, they were in love. Despite her ethical dilemma, she felt good about protecting their relationship, if only for a night. “I just had a bit of a surprise, that’s all. It kind of shook me. Goodnight.”

  The door closed, and Carla walked down the hallway alone. Her shift relief would be downstairs soon. Somehow, she would drive home and try not to think of the unpleasantness with Martha Farmer, or the astonishing stranger who had insinuated himself into her evening.