Figuratively, that is. Living with Rob isn’t that bad. Yet.
I’m talking confession. Laying it all out. Purging my conscience.
While I know being snotty and pretentious is as normal to a born vamp as having fangs and a severe allergy to the sun, I’ve never really considered myself one of those—the elitist, self-involved, I-wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-driving-the-same-Ferrari-two-days-in-a-row-or-shopping-at-Wal-Mart types like my ma and all her friends.
Come on. I live in the city. I don’t even have a driver’s license. As for Wal-Mart… All right, so I’ve never set foot in the big W (city, remember?), but I have thought about it (I’m a sap for anything retail).
Back to the point—I didn’t really think of myself as the normal BV and so flying coach wasn’t something that had ever bothered me.
Until I sat down next to Angela Darlene Connolly.
She was a thirty-four-year-old mother of three from Vermont who’d been married half her life. She was president of the Gramercy Elementary PTA, treasurer for the local Little League and she’d won an iPod by selling the most Snickers bars in last year’s Tumbling Tots fund-raiser. She didn’t drink, smoke or swear.
But man, could she talk.
“… so I told him, he isn’t the only one who needs time for himself. He goes to Colorado twice a year to ski with his fantasy football buddies. He spends every Fourth of July ice fishing in Alaska with his old fraternity brothers. He’s been kayaking through the Grand Canyon and hiking in the Appalachians with his softball team. And did I mention Friday night Poker?”
Not yet. But I had a feeling …
“Sure, it’s fun for him. All he does is deal the cards. I’m the one who spends all day making crab puffs and meatballs and these bite-sized pepperoni pizzas,” she rushed on. “And for what? So a bunch of overweight, spoiled men can sit around smoking cigars and stuffing their faces. I don’t even like cigars. Why, it takes days just to get the smell out. So I tell him, it’s my turn. I deserve a break from the world and a chance to kick up my heels. That’s why I’m here. I’m grabbing my fun while I’m still young enough to enjoy it. My mother-in-law has the kids and Paul’s in charge of the house for the next two weeks while I head to Austin to see my sister.”
“That’s great.”
The comment popped out before I could stop it. Dread swam through me as she took the encouragement and launched into a detailed explanation of just how great it was going to be.
“We’ve got the whole thing planned. We’re going to do a little spring cleaning and have a yard sale and hit every flea market we can find. That is, once she’s up and around. She had a bladder lift last week and the doctor says she’ll have to stay off her feet for another seven days. Until then, I’ll be making her meals and cleaning the surgical site and doing bed pan duty.”
Party on.
“Do you know there are over fourteen different kinds of bed pans?”
Did I mention that she watches a lot of Discovery Health?
“I didn’t know that.” Correction, I didn’t want to know that.
“Neither did I, but it’s true.” She proceeded to give a very vivid description (color, size and model number) of the various bed pans—who knew they weren’t all round?—that lasted a full thirty minutes.
Yep, you heard me.
Thirty as in three-oh, as in half a freakin’ hour.
Meanwhile, I contemplated my options. I could a) do the vicious vamp thing and start slicing and dicing or b) stab myself with a fountain pen or c) get the hell outta there.
Forget a. I was wearing a totally cute Iro jacket (dry clean only) and a pair of Twenty8Twelve skinny leg pants in creamy vanilla. As for b, I’d never been much for violence, particularly if it was self-inflicted. I latched onto c and bolted to my feet.
“It was really great talking to you.” What? I’m nice. Get over it. “But I have to hit the john ASAP.” I crawled over the woman to my left and headed toward the back of the plane before Angela could tell me exactly how much the largest bed pan in existence could hold.
I so didn’t need that tidbit of info.
I spent ten minutes barricaded in the bathroom, primping and stalling and praying that Angela wasn’t a premonition that this trip was going to be one big disaster. Finally, the stewardess pounded on the door to tell me that I would have to return to my seat because we were having some turbulence.
I took one last look in the mirror and forced myself to get a grip. I couldn’t hide forever. Even more, maybe I was hiding needlessly. Maybe she’d decided to nap and was now snoring away. Or maybe the rest of the passengers had decided to lynch her and save me the trouble.
Either way, problem solved.
Hopeful, I slid open the door, apologized to the stewardess for taking so long and marched back down the aisle.
“You’re back!” Angela slapped the magazine closed that she’d been looking at and turned her full attention to me. “I was starting to worry.”
“I’m fine.” I barely ignored the urge to turn and run. Instead, I climbed over the woman on the aisle, sank down in the middle, hands in my lap so that I didn’t knock elbows, and braced myself.
Angela shoved her Good House keeping mag into the front seat pocket and opened her mouth. Before she could get out another word, I whipped my head toward the woman on my left and blurted, “So where are you headed?”
“Back home,” the woman replied. She glanced up and her dark brown eyes collided with mine.
Her name was Wanda Wilder and she was a sixty-two-year-old retired nurse. She’d been in New York for her oldest granddaughter’s birthday. She’d been married for twenty-two years. Divorced for fourteen. And she’d recently signed herself up on an Internet dating site for seniors.
That’s what I’m talking about.
“I’m Lil.” I smiled. “I own Dead End Dating. It’s a matchmaking service in Manhattan.”
“I’m Wanda Wilder. I’m retired now, but I used to work in the ER at St. Mary’s Hospital in Austin. I live in Georgetown now. So what brings you to Texas?”
“Business retreat.”
“In Austin?”
“Actually, it’s a small town about an hour outside of Austin. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Lonely Fork?”
“Are you kidding?” She waved a hand at me. “My cousin lives there. You staying at The Grande?”
I smiled at the familiar name. “I made a reservation there just yesterday. Is it nice?”
“Nicest place in town. Got a five star rating the last I heard.”
Okay, maybe Angela hadn’t been a premonition, after all. The trip couldn’t be all that bad, not with a fully stocked mini-bar and turn-down service.
“Stayed there myself once when I went to my cousin Ronnie’s wedding. He owns the pharmacy in town. Knows everybody who’s anybody. If you stop in, be sure to tell him Wanda says hi.”
“I’ll do that.”
She turned and eyeballed the back of the plane. “If you’ll excuse me, I think it’s my turn to hit the little girls’ room. I think I had too much coffee.”
“I love coffee,” Angela declared as Wanda pushed to her feet and scooted into the aisle. “I grind my own beans. You wouldn’t believe what they use to fertilize some of those coffee beans.” She started talking again, barely pausing to take a breath. I seriously debated popping the nearest exit hatch and vamping it down to Texas.
Unfortunately, I’d checked my luggage and so I was stuck for the next two hours.
“Beverage service,” the stewardess announced several long minutes later. “Coffee? Tea?”
“… even heard they use mouse feces to lend flavor to some of the different cocoa beans …”
“I think I’m going to need something stronger,” I told the woman.
“How about an energy drink?”
“Only if it’s got a vodka chaser.”
“This can’t be right,” I told the cabdriver. I blinked my blurry eyes just in case I was having a liquor-induced hal
lucination. It had been over two hours since I’d crawled off the plane, but I was still feeling the aftereffects of coping with coach via cocktail.
Note: I am never, ever drinking another Red Bull and vodka. I mean it this time. Cross my heart.
“You said The Grande. This is The Grande.”
I eyed the two-story structure. A gravel parking lot butted up to the walkway that ran the length of the building. A bevy of cars and pickup trucks crammed the area, obliterating my view of the bottom floor. But I could see the doors lining the upper walkway. Small air-conditioning units perched in each window. My gaze shifted to the right and a single glass door. The word Lobby had been spelled out in vinyl letters on the glass. “But it’s supposed to be a five star hotel.”
“It is.” He pointed to the sign blazing near the side of the road. Underneath The Grande, spelled out in pink neon, a caption read “Rated 5 Stars by the Lonely Fork Gazette.”
“How many hotels are actually in this town?”
“Counting this one?”
“Yes.”
“That would be one.”
Which meant zero competition when it came to ratings.
He leaned over the back of the seat. “If you want, I could head back up the interstate. I think we passed a Motel 6 about forty-five minutes outside of town. They’re not the fanciest place, but they’re new. I think they even got those beds that you feed a quarter into so’s they’ll vibrate.”
I shook my head. If I intended to find Mordred, I needed to be right in the thick of things. He was here, which meant I was staying here. Besides, I’d maxed out my Visa to buy the plane ticket and book four nights at the masterpiece sitting in front of me. As queasy as I felt, I could barely stand the cab idling, much less a vibrating bed.
“Suit yourself.” He opened the door and climbed out to retrieve my luggage from the trunk.
I handed him two fifties and a DED card.
“What’s this?”
“In case you’re ever in New York and you get bored doing crossword puzzles every night.”
His gaze widened. “How’d you know I like crossword puzzles?”
Because I’m an ultra-sensitive born vampire who can read your mind. I shrugged. “Lucky guess.”
Lose the crosswords, join the local VFW hall and find a girlfriend. I added the silent command as I stared deep into his eyes for a quick second. And do not mention that you live with your mother.
Grabbing my suitcase, I gathered my courage, made my way around several pickups and a Kia and headed for the lobby entrance.
The inside wasn’t much better than the outside. There was a small sitting area in front of the desk. A scarred coffee table sat center stage surrounded by a worn green sofa, a paisley print chair and a brass floor lamp with a dingy shade.
I fought down a big uh-oh and tapped the bell on the desk. Three dinggggs and an exasperated sigh, and an old man finally hobbled from the back room.
“Don’t get your girdle in a twist. I’m acoming.” He had snow white hair and watery blue eyes. His name was Elmer Jackson and he’d been running The Grande for nearly forty years. “What can I do you for?”
“I have a reservation. Lil Marchette? Double bed. No smoking. Premium sheets and four goose-down pillows.”
“Let me have a look here.” He pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and flipped several pages on a large scheduling book that took up half the counter. “Sure thing. I got you right here, little lady. Only it’s for a double bed, regular sheets and two cotton pillows.”
“But that’s not what my reservation says.” I pulled out the confirmation I’d printed off the Internet. “It offered me a choice of sheets and I distinctly checked premium.”
“Ain’t got no premium. Ain’t got no goose down either.”
“Then why does it say so online?”
“Ain’t sure. My nephew takes care of the website and I s’pose he thought it sounded good.” He grinned. “The boy likes to exaggerate sometimes.”
I had half a mind to complain, but I’d sort of fudged myself on some of the fabulous amenities offered by DED. Free gourmet dessert? Krispy Kreme. All you can drink imported beverages? Starbucks House Blend.
“Two pillows will be fine,” I murmured.
He smiled, pulled out a form and handed it to me. “Just print your name and address and sign here.”
I scribbled my info and handed the slip back to him, along with my Visa for any extra charges.
“You’ll like it here,” he told me. He took the card, placed it on an ancient-looking credit card machine and rolled the top back and forth. “We ain’t as big as some, but the rooms are clean and the plumbing works as good as the day my daddy installed it.”
He’d inherited the place from his father and he fully intended to pass it on to his only son when the time came. The only problem was that his son, Elmer the Third, fully intended to bulldoze the place and turn the spot into a parking lot for a new Piggly Wiggly.
Elmer the Second had never been too fond of chain stores (he bought his vegetables at the farmer’s market) and so he wasn’t too keen on the idea. I saw that as plain as day in his deep brown eyes. Along with the fact that he’d worried himself into a complete hair loss and an addiction to Tums. The Grande was his baby. His life. Everything.
“Is there a Mrs. Elmer?” I asked, not because I didn’t already know the answer—a big, fat no—but because I wasn’t in a hurry for another slip like the one with the cabdriver.
Low profile, remember?
“Why, no.” Sadness touched his eyes and I saw a young-looking woman wearing a flower print dress. She stood at the stove dishing up cabbage soufflé and humming an old Frank Sinatra song. He’d hated cabbage soufflé, but he’d never told her that. He’d just slipped it under the table to old Sammy the dog.
He’d trade anything for a bite of that soufflé right now.
“She passed right after our son was born,” he went on. “I’d say she’s been gone about forty years now.”
I let loose a low whistle. “That’s a long time to be alone. But then, I bet a nice-looking fellow like you has a lot of lady friends.”
“Not unless you count Shirlene at the bakery. She gives me free donut holes when I order a half-dozen Boston creme.”
“She doesn’t count.”
“What about Mabel at the diner? She gives me free refills on my coffee.”
“Do you talk to each other about anything other than what you’re going to order?”
“No.”
“Then it doesn’t count. I’m talking about lady friends you laugh with, have fun with.”
He shrugged. “I guess not. I’m real busy with the hotel anyhow. I ain’t got time for socializing.”
“That’s a shame, because socializing is my business. I’m a matchmaker.” He gave me a puzzled look and I added, “I help people find their perfect match.”
“Like a date?”
“It starts with a date.” I handed him a DED card. When he arched an eyebrow, I added, “I’m in town on business and I’d be happy to help you out while I’m here.”
He eyed the card a few more seconds. “Something like this is probably expensive.”
Amen.
That’s what my practical side wanted to say, but the sentimental sap took over and I heard myself murmur, “I’m running an out-of-towner special right now. The first three prospects are free.”
We’re talking cabbage soufflé. The man deserved a little happiness before he headed for the retirement home and his ungrateful son turned his hopes and dreams into asphalt.
“I wouldn’t mind having someone to take to Bingo,” he finally said after a long moment.
“One Bingo player coming up.”
I made a mental note to ask around about available seniors while I was looking for Mordred. Might as well kill two weres with one silver bullet.
I spent the next ten minutes quizzing Elmer on his likes and dislikes. When I had enough information, I took the plas
tic container he handed me and the small silver key.
“Here’s your ice bucket and your mini-bar key,” he told me.
I perked up immediately. “There’s a minibar?”
“Damn straight.” He pointed to my left and I turned to see the small refrigerator wedged between an ancient color TV and a magazine rack. An empty pickle jar stuffed with coins and a few bills sat on top. “Just make sure you pay for anything you take out. Candy and sodas are a buck. Beer is two bucks.”
“Any Red Bull?” I heard myself ask. I had half of a travel-sized bottle of vodka leftover in my purse. I’d meant to flush it ASAP, but I suddenly had a feeling I was going to need it.
He shook his head. “We don’t do any of those fancy drinks, but there’s grapefruit juice.”
I considered it for a moment before shaking my head. “I’ll pass. Which way?”
“Down the hall, out the side door and around toward the left. You’re the door right next to the ice machine.” I started to turn and he added, “You might need these.” He handed me a pair of earplugs. “The machine’s a little old and it gets kind of noisy.”
“Can’t I just have another room?”
“’Fraid not. We’re booked up. There’s a rodeo going on in Pflugerville just a little ways from here. They ain’t got enough hotels to accommodate everybody, so we get the overflow. Speaking of which, I hope you don’t have a car because we got several horses tied up in the parking lot out back. See, the barn area at the rodeo grounds burned down and so all the entrants are responsible for their animals when they’re not showing, at least for the next twenty-four hours. The rodeo people are setting up a temporary holding pen that ought to be ready by tomorrow night. Until then, it ain’t safe for walking back there, if you know what I mean.”
Boy, did I ever. I took another whiff and my nose wrinkled. “Don’t power walk in the back parking lot. Got it.”
“You’re free to use the front sidewalk,” Elmer called after me. “Just be sure to watch out for the calves.” My horror showed on my face because he chuckled and added, “Don’t worry, this place will be back to normal soon enough.”
If only he knew.
After getting lost twice, spooking a few horses (so not a vamp’s best friend) and barely missing what I suspected was a pile of calf poop, I stood in the doorway of Room 6C and tamped down the urge to haul ass back to the big city. Pronto.
Sucker for Love: The Dead-End Dating Novel Page 10