* * *
Two hours later, with no sightings of the Darkálfar following us, we pull in front of the hotel.
“Welcome to Porter Hotel Central Park,” the doorman says. He’s wearing a dark gray suit, matching hat, and gold buttons at the collar, attire I’d usually see on a doorman in the movies. “Is there anything I can do for you right now?” He closes the car door with his white glove-covered hands.
“No thanks.” I’m so exhausted physically and emotionally that I can barely manage to get my words to sound like English.
The doorman grabs our bags from the trunk. “Follow me, please.” He orders a young-looking valet to park our SUV. We enter into the large foyer through the gold-framed glass doors and the concierge smiles warmly when we approach the marble counter.
“Good evening. What’s your last name, sir?” the concierge asks.
“Jensen,” Anthony says.
“Mr. Jensen, welcome to Porter Hotel Central Park.” She types a few things into her computer. “I show two—two bedrooms with park views reserved for you. Is that correct?” Her smile is calm and sweet.
“Yes,” Anthony says.
I wander off toward the sitting area. The tan marble floor is so glossy that I see my reflection in it. Brown leather couches sit on either end of diamond-shaped wooden tables. Rows of fluted wood pillars line the walls and crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings.
“Ready?” Anthony asks. He offers his arm to me in a very gentlemanly manner.
I manage a miniature smile and gladly take his arm. It helps calm my frazzled nerves. “Yes. Have the others arrived yet?”
“No, but I called them and they’ll be here in an hour or so,” he says. We enter the elevator.
My stomach flutters when the elevator ascends upward and again when it stops. The hallways are much roomier than at other hotels I’ve stayed at with my mom. If I wasn’t so traumatized, I might have enjoyed staying here.
“Ah, here we are,” the doorman says, stopping at our entrance. “So are you two honeymooning?”
“No,” I say and feel my cheeks flush hot. “We’re just on a graduation trip. We’ll be meeting up with some other friends as well.”
“That sounds like fun. I remember when I was your age, oh that must have been forty years ago, but I took a trip to France with my old pa’. I’ll never forget how long it took to climb the stairs to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower! My legs were sore for weeks after, I tell ya. Nice view, though. If you ever get a chance, France is the place to visit.” He opens the door.
“I’m sure it is,” I say, stepping into the room. The room looks like an apartment for a king or queen with floor to ceiling windows. I can see most of New York and possibly even all of Central Park. I follow the doorman around.
“Here is the master bedroom with a full bath.” The ivory duvet and amethyst pillows scream for me to come and lay in them. “Here’s the attached bath.” Granite countertops with two vanities stand to my left when I enter, and a huge whirlpool tub is situated at the end by the window. I can’t wait to soak in a bath.
The doorman continues over to the other side of the living area. “Here is the other room with a queen-sized bed, and it also has a full bath. Here is the living room as you can see, and the dining area.”
I nod.
He walks over to the foyer again.
Anthony flips on the flat screen to a soccer game and sinks into the bronzed leather couch. He seems to be in a completely different universe.
“Anything else I can get for you while I’m here?” the doorman says with a smile.
“No, that will be all, thank you.” I just want to unwind and go to bed. I feel like I’ve been blown up by an atomic bomb, and I’m trying to hold all the particles in my body together.
Anthony comes into the hallway with a hundred-dollar bill. “Here, thanks for your help, sir.”
“Thank you,” the doorman says. “I’ll be here all night, so if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
After the doorman leaves, I immediately start unpacking, stacking my clothes into the espresso colored eight-drawer dresser in the master bedroom. “I’m going to take a bath,” I say. “I need to unwind from everything.”
“Okay,” Anthony says, not in his usual energetic voice.
He sounds like he needs some encouragement, so I sit down next to him on the couch.
“Are you all right?” I touch him on the shoulder.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he says without looking at me. When I don’t get up, he looks at me. “What’s up?”
I breathe. I don’t want to force him to open up, but it might help him if we talk about what just happened. “Well, your mom did just try to kill you, and I can’t imagine what that must feel like.”
“I’d rather not talk about it right now. I just need to relax for a bit.” He smiles at me, but his smile is strained and his eyes are still worried.
“Okay, but just know that if you need to talk, I’m here,” I say. I’m so grateful that he’s here with me, and that he has so willingly risked his life so I could get my mom back. I can’t imagine what he must be going through, how he could possibly process and make sense of what his own mom tried to do—and actually did. I rest my hand on top of his for a moment, offering the measly support I can. When he doesn’t respond, I leave to go take a bath.
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