Destiny Lingers

by Rolonda Watts

  Hope suddenly jabs me with her skinny elbow and together, we swiftly follow our Oscar-worthy girlfriend across the red carpet, up the marble stairs, and through the revolving door. From the scowl on her face, I can tell Hope is annoyed with Kat’s bellhop theatrics.

  “I do not believe you actually flirted with that big fat man!” Hope snaps at Kat as we tumble out of the revolving door and into the marble lobby. “You looked ridiculous out there, winking and rubbing on him like that.”

  “Hey, look.” Kat spins around to face Hope. “That big fat man might be able to help us later. You never know. Now, let’s move. We’ve got business to handle.” Kat turns and struts away toward the front desk.

  Hope and I, growing even more nervous, follow Kat.

  The hotel lobby is simply breathtaking, with thick, ornate, gilded molding wrapping around the tops of the high marble walls. Angels in white flowing gowns and chubby blushing cherubs in baby-blue sashes gracefully fly around overhead in the oil-painted fresco on the ceiling. Posh Elizabethan furniture, selectively situated on Persian rugs scattered throughout the area, create conversation pits where well-dressed, well-mannered, and surely well-invested guests comfortably lounge, enjoying polite exchanges.

  This is amazing. I am shocked that ABC would send my rookie-producer husband to the glitzy Ritz-Carlton Hotel just “so the people shall know.” I wonder why he didn’t invite me to come along, especially over the weekend, particularly since we’re going through this difficult time.

  “Good evening, ladies.”

  I snap out of my awe-induced stupor as an olive-colored man with a thick French accent greets us from behind the mahogany front desk. “May I help you with your reservations?” He grabs a leather ledger, flips through the pages, and then looks up at us with elegant anticipation.

  “No,” Kat replies sweetly. You could squeeze sugar out of her tone. “We don’t have any.” She bats her big brown eyes as she leans in closer over the desk, as if she’s letting the man in on something, like a peek at her bosom. “You see, we are actually here to surprise Mrs. Nelson’s dear husband, who is staying here at your fine hotel.” Kat smiles as she wraps her arm around my shoulder as if to prove that I am really Mrs. Nelson. For some odd reason, I instinctively flash my wedding ring.

  “Ah, I see,” replies the man, though he is still looking at us with a hint of reservation as we don’t have one. I pray he doesn’t take us for call girls.

  “What is your husband’s name?” the man asks.

  Kat squeezes my shoulder, jolting me to answer the question.

  “Oh, Garrett. Garrett Nelson,” I quickly insert. My heart is pounding wildly. Why do I suddenly feel as if I’m lying?

  “Mr. Nelson?” the man asks with a raised brow as he shuffles through the pages of his ledger. “Mr. Garrett Nelson?”

  I nod as the three of us rise up to peer over the tall desk at the big book, as if it holds a treasure chest of secrets.

  “Ah, yes!” the man suddenly exclaims, his eyes lighting up with swift recognition. “Of course, of course, Mr. Nelson. Such a nice gentleman,” he says. “But madame, I do not believe you have surprised your tres intelligente husband this time.” He waves his long index finger at me and smiles. “Non, in fact, Mr. Nelson was holding a very special table for the two of you in our main dining room. He told me specifically to make everything this weekend ‘very special for Mrs. Nelson.’”

  Hope, Kat, and I are shocked. We look at each other, blinking through blank stares, our minds and thoughts racing, while trying not to show our mass discomfort. My throat has turned to sandpaper. This is one surprising twist that even our brave Sherlocking strategist Kat had not figured out.

  “He just left a message, however.” The man snaps back into his elegant, professional tone. He squints at his ledger, reading some small print. “Ah, yes.” He turns around to the dark wooden chest of mail cubbyholes behind him and pulls out a shiny room key dangling on a gold tassel. “Mr. Nelson asked us to inform you that he is held up at work and will, unfortunately, not be back in time for the special dinner he had planned for the two of you. However, Mr. Nelson asked that we give you the key to your suite, where you can go inside and make yourself comfortable until he arrives. I think you will be very happy with the accommodations, Mrs. Nelson. Your husband left no detail untouched.” The man beams brightly.

  I feel a strange sense of doom.

  He hands over the key, holding the gold tassel between the long slender fingers of his well-manicured hand. I stare at the dancing metal before me and want to throw up. Nervous, speechless, and paralyzed by the shock of it all, my eyes won’t stop blinking. It’s as though they are trying to wipe away the harsh and brutal reality hanging right here in front of my face, dangling right before my eyes, dangling its promise to Eve.

  “Thank you very much.” Kat abruptly snaps the gold tassel from the man’s hold. “Mr. Nelson is such a thoughtful man, isn’t he?” She fakes a charming grin through rising venom. “Which way to the Nelson suite?”

  “Just through the archway there.” The man behind the desk directs with his graceful hand. “Emilio will gladly show you the way.”

  “Thank you,” we three respond in unison.

  “Just go with the flow,” Kat assures us in a tight whisper, with a dogged determination under her brow. I am literally shaking, my nerves are so shot. This little sojourn of ours has just gone from really bad to even worse.

  “Right this way, beautiful ladies.” An energetic Emilio sweeps us across the gilded lobby toward the bank of polished brass elevators. “Floor twelve,” he jovially announces as he pushes the up button with his gloved hand.

  We stand here together, not daring to speak a word in front of this short, jolly stranger. I stare at our reflections shining in the polish of the brass elevator doors. We are each in our own deep abyss of heavy thought and grave contemplation, all except for the cheery little man standing here dutifully at our service. The heavy doors of the elevator clank open. We step in. The stocky bellman pushes the button for the twelfth floor, and we begin our slow, smooth ascent to anywhere but heaven. I think of all the frescoed angels soaring above the guests in the lobby below, and I pray that at least one of them is following us up to the twelfth floor.

  The elevator bell rings, signaling our arrival. We walk out in silence and into the long, winding carpeted hallway that leads to my husband’s love den. “Ah, suite 1207!” Emilio hastens to the door. “This is one of our best.” His pride shines from underneath his little round hat and bushy brows. “Your husband is one of our best too. Mr. Nelson has climbed mountains to make sure you are comfortable in his absence, Mrs. Nelson.”

  Emilio sticks the key in the door and turns the lock. It opens with a hushed click.

  “Here you are, ladies. Suite 1207,” Emilio announces as he politely escorts us inside the cozy yet opulent suite. “I think you will enjoy the many amenities Mr. Nelson has ordered for your comfort.” Emilio smiles without looking at me. “Please do not hesitate to ring us if you require anything else during your stay. We only aim to please.” Emilio’s smile lingers. So does he.

  Kat is on it in a snap. With a crisp twenty-dollar bill neatly folded in the palm of her hand, she takes Emilio by the arm and escorts him out the door.

  “Thanks, Emilio,” she gushes as she seductively presses the bill into his waiting glove. “I see why the Nelsons always insist on staying at the Ritz. Ta-ta,” she coos, playfully tickling her fingers at him as she pushes the poor soul back out into the posh hallway.

  “Phew!” Kat exhales with her back to the door. “That little man is a little too happy.”

  “Now what do we do?” Hope looks as if she’s about to cry. We both turn to Kat for direction and strength.

  “Well, let’s think,” We follow Kat deeper into the suite.

  It is one of the most lavish rooms I have ever seen. The large
luxurious living room is decorated in deep shades of forest green, with inviting lounge chairs upholstered in rich, luxurious fabrics. I can’t help but run my fingers along their textured backs and arms. Coffee tables with intricate inlaid wooden patterns hold porcelain lamps, painted with scenes of geisha girls dressed in brightly colored silk kimonos.

  “Whoa, look at these.” Hope is gawking at a ginormous bouquet of red roses in the center of the dining table. Carefully positioned in a sparkling crystal vase, the bouquet sits there like a pretty lady-in-waiting.

  “There’s got to be more than a dozen roses in there,” says Hope.

  The bloodred buds sit in silent preparation of their blossoming. These beautiful roses, however many, are sure to be a divine joy for the one so beloved as to receive them. Sadly, we all know, they are not for me.

  “Yeah, looks like about two dozen.” Kat circles the table, scrutinizing the bouquet with a frown on her face. “Is there a card anywhere?”

  “One, two, three …” Hope counts. “Yeah, at least two dozen. They only come by the dozen, right?”

  “Or half dozen,” I interject, remembering the six little pink roses Garrett slipped from behind his back as my first-date surprise. Six roses on the first date to me implied there would one day be more to come. Those six droopy baby-pink roses, sitting atop their short stems, meant the world to me. They made my Garrett a rich man in my young eyes. He told me that a half a dozen roses were worth more than a dozen.

  “They’re cheaper by the dozen,” he explained.

  And I actually believed him.

  In one fleeting moment, this bunch of blooming red flowers has told the entire story. Garrett has made me feel cheaper by the dozens of sweet-smelling roses sitting right up here under my nose, sitting right up here in my face, standing here in all their blazing red glory.

  Just like that red hair in our bed.

  Seething and becoming overwhelmed with nausea, I make a fast move for the door, but Kat jumps in my path before I can reach the knob, blocking my exit.

  “You can’t chicken out on us now, girl.” The words sear deep into my soul. “We’ve come too far to turn back now.”

  “But Kat, what if we get caught?” I spurt, fighting back tears. “What if he walks in here right now and catches us?”

  “So what if he does?” Kat demands in a stern, urgent tone. “We just walked in here and caught him, didn’t we?”

  My stomach is in knots. I can’t breathe. My eyes are stinging. A lump grows in my throat. I feel a heaviness overcome my chest. My heart remains shattered.

  “Oh, my God,” Hope whispers from across the room. She is looking through the double French doors leading to the suite’s master bedroom. She stands there, staring, mouth open, eyes wide, hands still gripping the brass French doorknobs. “Y’all better come see this,” she says, leaving the double doors to slowly swing open on their own, revealing a dream, a truth, and a nightmare, all at the same time.

  Kat and I slowly and cautiously walk over to join Hope at the threshold of my husband’s reserved bedroom. There, strewn gently across the king-sized bed, already turned back for the night, are at least another two dozen worth of ruby red rose petals. Each one thoughtfully, carefully, artistically, and most lovingly sprinkled across the stark white Egyptian sheets. I do not know the count, but I do know that this is the second time I have seen red in my husband’s bed.

  “Here’s the card.” Kat walks over to the bedside table, where a bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne sits chilling in a silver ice bucket. Next to it stands two long-stemmed fluted crystal champagne glasses. They each have fancy little doilies tied to their bottoms.

  Oh, how the Ritz thinks of everything.

  Kat snaps up the card, nestled between two bedtime Godiva chocolates wrapped in gold tinsel, and reads the note.

  “Welcome to my world, my love.” Kat rolls her eyes in disgust and looks up at me. Shaking her head, she takes a long, deep breath and continues reading. “Have this on when I get home, and in my rose bed we shall roam. Oh, give me a fuckin’ break,” Kat spits. “That’s disgusting!”

  I snatch the note from Kat and stare down at its loopy little letters.

  “That’s not even his handwriting,” I sneer.

  “He must be talking about this.” Hope points at something on the opposite side of Garrett’s rose-petaled bed. It lies there amid the scattered flowers, appearing silky and shiny in the soft, warm light of the Oriental bedside lamps.

  It is a lovely piece of lingerie—a sexy little teddy of a very fine silk—part of Garrett’s special party planning. This spicy little number is a distinct periwinkle blue, a color Garrett and I share—one color we, together, know all too well.

  It was the color we chose for our wedding.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What the hell is periwinkle blue?”

  I remember the incredulous look on Garrett’s face when I first suggested the color three years ago as a possibility for our wedding.

  “And why do we need a color anyway?” He scrunched his face into a scowl and turned back to his televised football game.

  Garrett seemed so agitated with the whole idea of a big wedding.

  “Because it’s tradition, honey. It’s what people do.” I looked for the scowl to melt. It only tightened.

  “I don’t care,” he barked, his cold eyes never leaving the football game.

  “How could you say that?” I was crushed.

  “Say what?” Garrett shook some peanuts in the palm of his hand, popped a few into his mouth, and then reached for his beer.

  “That you don’t care.” Hurt and angry, I started to well up. “It’s our wedding, Garrett! Everything’s important! And you don’t care?”

  “Geez, can’t I watch the game?” Garrett whined.

  Furious, I ran into our bedroom, slammed the door, flung myself across the bed, and bawled like a baby. Garrett finally came in and apologized. We made love all night—mad, passionate make-up love—and by dawn had agreed on periwinkle blue.

  It was the first big fight we’d ever had. I knew he didn’t know any better. He was probably more upset over Mother’s sudden intrusion into our wedding plans than anything else. Just a year earlier, my parents had stopped speaking to us. They had vowed that they’d have nothing to do with our union or our wedding. They hated Garrett for no apparent reason, hated the fact they had no control over either of us, hated the fact that we were living together “in sin” for a year without being married, and now they hated the fact that we were getting married. We couldn’t win.

  It was way too much drama and mostly from Mother, who was finally forced against the wall by a call from my aunt Edna, her best friend from college. From her poolside mansion in Baldwin Hills, California, an area known as the black Beverly Hills, Aunt Edna shot from the hip and somehow managed to speak some sense into my stubborn mother. I truly appreciated her for that and for every other time she had done something similar to help Mother and me soothe our difficult relationship.

  Free-spirited and blessed with a hilarious sense of humor, Aunt Edna was very much unlike Mother. She was a spunky woman of small dimensions, who laughed a lot, cursed a lot, and dressed in cool, hip, bell-bottomed jeans and big brass hip-hugging belts. She didn’t care what people thought about her or her social status in life, although she happened to be married to a prominent and wealthy Los Angeles surgeon. She swore she hated socializing with phony people. She must have made a huge exception, befriending my mother.

  One day, after talking with me for an hour on the phone, Aunt Edna called Mother and calmly yet firmly informed her that she’d better get with the program and quick. She went on to explain that whether she and Daddy liked it or not, Garrett and I were getting married. She even tipped her off that we had already started making wedding plans without her. And that was true. We had scraped up enough money to rese
rve Columbia University’s Little Chapel for our big day. Aunt Edna told my folks that they had every right to like or dislike whomever they wanted, but the fact still remained that their only daughter was about to marry Garrett, whether they liked that or not. She warned them that they could keep their heels stuck in the ground and their noses stuck in the air if they wanted to, or they could swallow their pride and support us like a real family should. But whatever they decided to do, she further warned, they’d have to live with that decision for the rest of their lives.

  That advice apparently worked, as it always did when Aunt Edna got going. She knew just how to push Mother’s buttons, and she knew my father would obediently follow suit in hopes of avoiding any kind of conflict with his temperamental and demanding wife. I am sure that Aunt Edna’s call got Mother thinking about the ramifications of her noncompliance; mainly, that everyone in our small southern community would be whispering behind her back, wondering why in the world Garrett and I eloped up North. It just wouldn’t look right. It would appear as if something was gravely wrong with her. Plus, knowing Mother, she realized that by not giving a proper southern wedding to her only daughter, she’d be missing out on one of the most important social and political occasions of a lifetime. And everyone knows Mother loves a good social and political occasion.

  So just as we were about to put the down payment on Columbia’s Little Chapel for our intimate candlelight wedding, with only a handful of very close friends and professors, my folks came through—and with a vengeance, as I found out when I flew home for a weekend of wedding planning with Mother.

  By the end of it, there were eight bridesmaids, eight groomsmen, and an invitation list of more than a thousand guests and dignitaries. The long list included presidents of prestigious colleges; politicians; the great people’s poet, Dr. Maya Angelou; and the town’s mayor and the governor of North Carolina. It was quite the affair. I barely knew a soul on that list.