CHAPTER TWO
On Thursday morning, Skyler called her troops together in the small basement conference room and announced her departure. She’d booked a flight for the next morning and left the return open-ended; she promised to be back in Washington by “…the twelfth day of Christmas.”
Her confused assistant asked, “What’s that? It’s a song, right?”
“It’s a song, yes,” Skyler explained, “but it’s also the fifth evening of January, on the eve of the Feast of the Epiphany which takes place on January 6th.”
“Why couldn’t you just say that you’re going to be back on January 5th?”
“Because I’m trying not to be boring. I’ll be back on or before January 5th. Okay? Happy with that?” Skyler consulted her calendar. “Except that day just so happens to be a Friday, so I might not be back until January 7th or 8th. We’ll see.”
That was met with blank stares.
“Listen guys, I don’t expect you to work the whole time I’m gone. The office will be closed from December 22nd through January 5th. So, you’ll have two whole glorious weeks off. Deal?”
They all nodded in agreement.
“But next week I’ll need you here to attend to a half a dozen things that we still have in the pipeline. I’ll be working remotely from Santa Fe, and you’ll need to remember that I’ll be two hours behind you. New Mexico is on Mountain Time.”
The team was capable enough and Skyler knew that most of her clients wouldn’t need hand holding during the holidays anyway. She sent the staff back to their respective desks and snuck upstairs to her bedroom to pack her luggage. Brenda had explained that Santa Fe was upscale, yet casual, so she skipped the fancy stuff and instead focused on jeans, corduroy slacks, cashmere sweaters, a puffy down jacket, hiking boots, and one long, semi-fancy dress, just in case. All the sexy and skimpy undergarments stayed in her closet drawers; without Leonard there, she decided she might as well be as comfortable as possible.
For the first time in decades, Skyler and her best friend hadn’t put a Christmas plan into place months in advance—it had been a frenetic year and everything was out of whack—so she was happy Brenda had finally come to the rescue. With her parents long gone, and her brother and his wife and kids planning to spend Christmas on the beaches of Hawaii, Skyler didn’t feel at all guilty about decamping to the southwestern desert for the holidays. She almost always celebrated the holidays with Brenda and it usually involved improvised decorations, a lot of wine, and some pretty spectacular meals, the benefit of having a world-class chef on hand. Brenda would whip up her buttery Christmas cookies and prepare a roast turkey dinner with all the trimmings on Christmas Day; they’d typically invite a combination of both new and old friends to join them, too. The previous year, they were in Manhattan for the festivities and when Skyler found out that Brenda didn’t have a tree or ornaments stored in her large loft, Skyler went out and bought a dozen boxes of colorful glass bulbs, spending close to $1,000 at an upscale second-hand store in Chelsea in order to create the most perfect, vintage Christmas tree. And when they were in Rome a few years before that, Skyler decorated their hotel suite with construction paper snowflakes and they wandered down to St. Peter’s Square to listen to the Pope address the crowds and to marvel at a full nativity scene complete with live actors, a few donkeys, and a camel. It was quite magical.
Skyler didn’t know what to expect in Santa Fe, but she was up for the adventure. She made it a point to pack a half-dozen red velvet stockings to hang by the fireplace—she held out hope that there would be a fireplace on Christmas Eve—and she even stuffed a Santa hat into her suitcase for good measure. Her late, Christmas-loving mother would be so proud that she took the time to root around in the attic to find the decades-old inherited items. Even when the saint of a woman had given up on her battle with breast cancer, she climbed up the attic stairs that last winter to fetch and hang her most beloved decorations throughout her house; Skyler’s mother let absolutely nothing stop Christmas from being the most special time of the year and her daughter intended to make it as enchanted as she could, too, even if the circumstances weren’t ideal.
* * *
Georgia Reece sat by herself at a table set for three, in a back corner of The Compound restaurant, an upscale hot-spot just off of the storied Canyon Road, a few blocks from downtown Santa Fe. It was the first time she’d left her house since the place had been broken into and she was more than just a little bit nervous about being out in public. At home, she was surrounded by the newly installed, high-tech security perimeter that she’d spared no expense on, opting for every possible devise they offered: motion detectors, glass break sensors, door and window contacts, night vision security cameras inside and out, and panic buttons strategically placed throughout the large house. She had pressure sensors installed at the end of the long driveway, too, so she’d know the moment someone entered the property in a vehicle. A motorized driveway gate had been ordered, but it would be some days before it could be installed. She had a landscape lighting designer scheduled to come the next day; she planned to tastefully light every inch of the yard, with the added emergency option of blazing it up like the inside of a sports arena at a moment’s notice, if necessary. She was certain that she’d royally piss off the neighbors with that, but she didn’t care…and she hadn’t met them yet anyway.
The opera singer wasn’t taking any chances and never again wanted to be caught off guard. She considered a handgun, but ultimately decided against it; she certainly believed in the right to bear arms, but she also knew that experienced criminals could easily turn the tables and use the weapon against her. Georgia settled on placing her father’s Little League baseball bat next to her bed. And as a backup plan, there was a spray tube of mace tucked into the bedside table. She was considering adopting a dog or two, for added peace of mind, but she didn’t want to rush into such an important, life-changing decision. She had enough trouble keeping herself watered and fed.
Georgia felt as if all eyes were on her as she waited for her dinner companions.
Do they recognize me? Did they read about the break-in in the local paper yesterday? Could the person who ransacked my house be in this very restaurant right now!?
Deciding that she was probably overreacting, she tried to calm herself. She took a deep breath and gulped down some wine. Then she saw them approaching the table, the two most perfect specimens of twindom.
Carter and Sullivan Lowery were in the their late-thirties, each tall, dark, and wickedly handsome. They were a spitting image of each other, although Carter—who was seven minutes older than his brother—was the conservative, buttoned-up one and Sullivan (many close to him simply called him ‘Sully’) was more laidback and casual. It set them apart when nothing else did. She’d known the Lowery twins for about a decade—they first met at the East Hampton wedding of a mutual acquaintance, becoming fast friends—and she absolutely beamed when they arrived at the table.
“Georgia,” Carter said, embracing the diva, “you are the prettiest woman in this restaurant.” His brother hugged Georgia, too, echoing Carter’s sentiment.
“You’re both very good liars. Sit.” She waved over a waiter who took drink orders. “Tell me what you’re doing in Santa Fe? I couldn’t believe my eyes when you texted that you were in town.”
Sullivan grabbed one of Georgia’s hands and gave it a squeeze. “We’re here to support you, my dear. We heard about the break-in and flew out immediately.”
“Hogwash,” she said pulling her hand away. “I’m the one that told you about the break-in just this afternoon. So, what gives?”
“We’re in the final stages of construction on the newest Franklin-Lowery hotel. It’s a block off the historic Plaza right downtown,” Carter said. “Santa Fe has got some amazing hotels, of course, but they’ve never seen anything like this.”
“I am sure you told me about this and it obviously slipped my ever-aging mind. But this is very exciting news. I can’t wait to se
e it. You know that I adore the one you created in New York; it’s so welcoming and warm and funky. That was the first one, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” Carter and Sullivan said in unison. She was used to them doing that; everyone who knew them was used to it. Carter continued on his own, “And this will be the sixth, can you believe it? After New York, we did Boston, then Charleston, Miami, and then Palo Alto just last year.”
“Palo Alto? That seems random,” she said.
“Tech money, honey,” Sullivan said. “That place has been oversold since we opened the doors in January. We did 208 rooms there; we could have easily done hundreds more.”
Georgia smiled. “Well, you guys certainly have the Midas touch. I’m so proud of you both. And I’m sure the Santa Fe location will be just as successful as the rest. What’s the theme?”
Carter spoke up, “It’s decidedly Southwestern, which is required here, with a lot of curved adobe walls, reclaimed wood beams, kiva fireplaces in every room, lighted niches galore with some really amazing local Native art, but at the same time, it’s got that modern flair that we’re known for, if you can picture that crazy combination. It’s kind of a cross between the Southwest and Greenwich Village. Wooden roadrunner statutes sitting next to 1950’s record players in every room. There will be a vinyl record lending library off the lobby. We’re doing radiant-heated concrete floors, guests can control everything from their smartphones, and all of the rooms have a private patio or balcony so people can get outside. I insisted on that.” Carter was quite passionate and proud of their creation.
“There’s still some folks comparing Franklin to other trendy boutique chains,” Sullivan said, “but it’s so not that. I think we have a hell of a lot more warmth and charm and uniqueness. We also think bathrooms shouldn’t be in the middle of the damned bedroom; people like their privacy when they’re taking a shit.”
“Excuse that man’s foul language,” Carter said. “But he’s right. We’re warm. And private.”
“Sounds lovely,” Georgia said with a sweet smile. “I can’t wait for opening day. I will be there with bells on, since I live here now and I’m not planning to travel quite as much as I used to.”
“Hold on. No more operas Down Under? No more summers in Vienna?” Carter asked. “We enjoyed traveling to Austria to see you in…oh my goodness, what was that show?”
“That show was Tosca,” she sighed. “At the Wiener Staatsoper, the best opera house in the entire world. But, guys, I’m just so tired of all of that. I know that I’m not old, and I’m certainly not retiring, but I just don’t have it in me anymore to do three major productions a year. My voice can’t take it. My feet can’t take it. And I don’t want to live out of a suitcase 90% of the time. I just want to stay closer to home.”
“And home is Santa Fe, New Mexico now?” Sullivan asked. “What about New York? You’re a New Yorker, for God’s sake.”
“I still have 1020 5th Avenue and I’ll never, ever sell it, no matter how many Peter Thiele suck-ups make offers. I grew up there. And despite what happened to me here on Tuesday, I absolutely love Santa Fe, too. I can’t wait to show you the view from my new backyard. It’s to die for.”
“Well, as someone who lives out of a suitcase 90% of the year, I feel ya,” Carter said. “It would be nice to dislike my neighbors for an actual reason.”
“Bite your tongue,” Sullivan said, as he dug into the appetizers that Georgia had ordered before they sat down. “We have three more hotels in the pipeline after Santa Fe.”
“Kill me now,” his brother said.
“You’ll live. This business is making us very comfortable and you love it.” Sullivan turned back to the singer. “We could stop and retire young, but why? I’m having so much fun. I love building things. Creating experiences.”
Georgia added some tuna tartare to her plate. “As long as you’re having fun, that’s all that matters. You should keep going, if you have the energy and drive. Absolutely.” After she swallowed some of the appetizer, she put a hand on top of Sullivan’s hand. “How’s that little brother of yours?”
The twins sighed in unison.
“Do we need to talk about him?” Carter asked. “He’s a mess.”
Sullivan shook his head. “He’s not a mess. He’s pulling his shit together. He’s been up, he’s been down, and he has his demons, but he’s in school right now and he’s doing fairly well, by all accounts, and he leaves us alone most of the time. And the best part: he’s not bunking with me anymore. He’s got his own apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. He seems to like it over there.”
Georgia smiled politely. “Well, Darby is certainly a character. I only met him once or twice, but he left…um…an impression. I’m glad your younger brother is doing well.”
The twins nodded in agreement but were eager to change the subject.
“So, when are you performing again? Is anything on the calendar at all?” Carter asked.
“For the first time since college,” Georgia said, “I have absolutely nothing planned until next summer, when I’ll be playing Mimì in La bohème here at the Santa Fe Opera. We start rehearsals for that in late-May, so I have six months off. Six glorious months off, boys.”
Carter held his glass of wine up for a toast. “To Georgia and her six glorious months off.”
Georgia and took a sip of her wine and smiled at the gorgeous, single brothers. She was perpetually curious about why neither were ever attached to a lady and never quite believed them when they swore they were married to their work. But whatever their real story was—maybe she’d never know—she was happy to have their familiar, beautiful faces with her in Santa Fe. The combination of the brothers’ presence, along with the great wine, finally allowed her to relax and enjoy the evening.
Outside in the cold night, two figures stood in the shadows between cars in the parking lot. They had a perfect view through a side window of the opera singer as she dined with the twins.
* * *
Read the rest of "The New Mexico Scoundrel," out May 31, 2019.
The Maine Nemesis Page 32