Chapter 12 Rose #3
“The bride and groom are in the honeymoon suite on the fourth floor, but I believe Mr. Vega is actually in the billiard room at the moment.” He’s already reaching under the counter for a small paper map, uncapping a pen.
“Down this hall, past the greenhouse and the garden vista, past the indoor pool—then right at the elevators, and it’ll be on your left.
” He marks the route as he speaks and slides the map across to me.
“Okay, great, thank you so much.”
“Of course, miss.”
Damn, their customer service is good. The map initially seems a little over the top, but the resort turns out to be enormous—a sprawling maze of corridors that keep opening into new spaces.
Every hallway is lined with plants, and I keep getting distracted, pausing to marvel at a wall of succulents before remembering to check the map again.
Curious, I stop at the poolroom and push the door open an inch.
A warm, surprisingly earthy scent rolls out.
It’s like an indoor garden oasis, with an Olympic-length pool stretching along the back wall, framed by floor-to-ceiling glass, the ocean sitting just beyond it, a rolling, foggy storm whipping the waves, while we’re tucked safe inside amidst all this luxury.
There’s a cedar sauna, a hot tub, an ice plunge.
More plants. Dad’s assistant, Marnie, is in the hot tub with her head tipped back and a champagne flute balanced precariously in one hand, eyes closed.
I let the door fall shut and keep walking.
I find the billiard room next. A little on the nose, it’s the darkest room on the property so far—forest green wallpaper, dark coffered ceilings, the smell of bourbon and cigar smoke already assaulting me at the door.
The pool tables are gorgeous, royal blue felt stretched smooth.
Every person in the room is a man. They stand in small clusters, bourbon glasses sweating in their hands, talking low, the occasional crack of a cue ball punctuating conversations.
I find Dad in the back corner, gesturing, deep in conversation with one of his old colleagues from Springfield General.
I wave hellos as I make my way toward him, and Dad’s face lights up when he sees me. He crosses past his friend Bill without a word, arms already open.
“Rosie, sweetheart, you made it!” He pulls me in, and he smells the same—cedar and citrus cologne.
He releases me and holds me by my shoulders at arm’s length.
It’s only been a couple of weeks since we last saw each other—at Johanna’s insistence—and we only spoke a few short days ago, but it still feels as if there’s distance between us.
His salt and pepper hair is more salt these days, and while Dad was always fit, he looks thinner somehow.
I can’t tell if I’m projecting, feeling sad about our distance, or if he really is starting to look his age.
“It was an adventure, for sure,” I say. He’s still smiling, but his hands drop from my shoulders, and we settle into the particular silence that lives between us now. His smile falters, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. Small talk is easier. Should I mention the hurricane again?
Then his eyes find my forehead, and his brows draw together. I should have just worn a sign on my t-shirt with an explanation, with the way everyone reacts when they see it.
“Sorry,” I say, moving my hand to cover my forehead. “I know it’s not going to look great in the pictures.”
“I don’t care about the pictures, sweetheart. What happened?”
“Oh, uh…” I hesitate, because I already told Pearl, and Pearl has a big mouth. “Did Logan mention there were plane troubles?”
“He did…” Dad’s thick gray brows draw together, deepening the lines on his face. He’s tan—really leaning into this vacation—at least, for the few days they were here before the storm started.
“Well—the plane went down. While we were on it. It was fine, really, more of a forced landing—“
“You were in a plane crash?” His voice booms, matching the crack of the pool cues. “And you didn’t tell me? Logan didn’t tell me? Are you alright?” His hands are already at my temples, tilting my face toward the light.
I catch his wrists and ease them down. “I’m fine, I promise. Logan’s been monitoring me for a concussion. And this,” I say, gesturing at my forehead, “I just stumbled and hit my head.”
He exhales hard through his nose. “Thank god. Oh, Rosie.” He shakes his head. “That must have been terrifying.”
I nod, feeling a girlish comfort at having my dad worry over me. “It was. But it was over fast. That’s why we drove the rest of the way. Logan wanted to fly out of West Virginia. I wouldn’t get back on a plane.”
I almost mention the headache, but that reminds me of the whole conversation I just had with Pearl, his text messages, and his abhorrence of having to drive with me, so I just leave it at that.
“I can’t believe it. Rosie, I’m so glad you’re okay.” Dad shakes his head slowly. “I guess when your flight got canceled, maybe that was the universe telling you something, huh?” He’s smiling, trying to make it a joke. It doesn’t quite land, given I’d thought the same thing.
The silence stretches. “I’ve been putting balm on it,” I offer. “One of Mom’s recipes. It’s been helping. Plus, I packed some anti-inflammatory tea, so the headache was mostly gone by day two.”
His frown is immediate. “It’s really best to see a doctor for these kinds of things, sweetheart.”
“A doctor would have told me to put arnica, or some other topical on it.” I keep my voice even. “Which is what I did.”
“That’s not the point. What if the cut had gotten infected? What if you needed stitches? If Logan hadn’t been there—”
“I would have handled it. I didn’t have a concussion. Dad, I may not be a doctor, but I studied herbal medicine for six years.”
He gives me a patronizing smile and a pat on my shoulder. “I’m just saying, in these cases, it’s best left to the professionals.”
The back of my neck feels hot. I have every reason to let the comment go—it’s what I usually do.
And with his wedding, the fragile state of our relationship, the long day sitting heavy on my shoulders, I should—but I hear myself say, “I am qualified, Dad. This is literally what I do. Treating a bruise or a cut is well within my scope of practice.”
“Of course it is, honey. I’m just saying, if there’s a doctor nearby—” he waves about the room, “best to consult one. There’s seven in here alone.” He chuckles.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to break open an old argument.
To remind him that surgical patients who meditate have reduced post-op pain and shorter recovery times.
That acupuncture can treat allergies just as well, if not more effectively than over-the-counter drugs.
That eighty percent of the world’s population relies on herbal medicine for healthcare—not as a hobby, not as a lifestyle aesthetic, but as medicine.
But he’ll call it woo-woo. He’ll smile condescendingly. And if I push, he’ll say what he always says—that I should have just gone to medical school or become a pharmacist if I wanted to be taken seriously.
So I say nothing.
“Anyway. I just wanted to come say hi before dinner.” I touch his arm briefly. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Of course. Oh—Pearl’s put together a little speech. She’ll come find you beforehand, so you can stand with her before she announces me and Jo to the room. My girls together.”
“Sure, Dad.”
“Alright,” he kisses my cheek. He knows something is off between us. But for such a smart man, miraculously, he doesn’t understand what.
Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.
I blink hard and turn away before he can see the disappointment on my face.
I wave goodbye and make my way out of the billiards room, waving my hand through someone’s cigar smoke.
Dinner tonight. Wedding tomorrow. After that, I could just catch a bus. I don’t have to stay for the rest of the week. Nobody would care either way.