Chapter 1 #2
The server approaches and sets a crystal goblet of water on the table.
I don’t even try to disguise my bewilderment.
Heat drains from my face, and I imagine my color turning from teenager crimson red to hotel-sheet white because in about twenty minutes, I need to remember how to waltz. With a bona fide celebrity.
“Ma’am?” The server points to my clutch. “I think your phone is ringing.”
The tone breaks through the calm dinner atmosphere. It feels almost as embarrassing as if my phone was going off in a movie theater.
“Oh, sorry.” I scoot out of the booth. No way am I answering a call in a fancy restaurant. Digging through my purse, I reach past my small, worn accordion folder for my cell. As I pull it out, my big sister’s name flashes on the screen.
Of course.
I scurry down the hall to the bathroom to take her fifth call of the day in privacy.
With floor-to-ceiling dark wood doors, lush padded fabric walls, and a full stock of velvety toilet paper, the decor insists I forget I’m in a room with a commode. The ceilings are high enough that, with a few changes, they could add lavender-scented rock climbing to the restroom amenities.
“Hello?” I tromp to the last stall.
“How’s your trip?” The voice at the other end is too chirpy for this annoying call.
“Molly. This is my night at the Penrose Room.”
“That’s why I’m checking on you. How’s it going?”
“Something’s not right.” Using my free hand, I scrunch my hair on top of my head. “The restaurant was booked for a private event, but the ma?tre d’ made an exception for me to dine here tonight. Someone mentioned a memo and I—”
Details of the day shutter through my head like I’m watching an old movie reel. An eerie understanding clicks into place. This isn’t the only abnormal exception the Broadmoor made for me today.
“Molly, I don’t understand what’s going on, and you’re the only one who knows I’m at the Penrose Room tonight.” I drop my hair and press my palm flat against the door. “What did you do?”
Silence causes me to pull the cell down and confirm the timer is ticking off the live call.
When I put the phone back to my ear, my sister’s demanding voice says, “Promise me you’ll be open-minded about this.”
“Spill it.”
“I called the Broadmoor last week and talked to a manager. Since you wouldn’t let me go on this trip to be your buffer, I asked them to take care of you and to be your advocate.”
In the dictionary, under the word “vigilant,” it says “See Molly.”
Frustration surges through me for not anticipating this move. Trying to keep my voice level, I ask, “What did you tell them?”
“When you check in with their dining rooms, the spa, or your realtor, anyone who assists you views a memo requesting sensitivity to your situation.” Her words spew out in rapid succession.
The conversation comes to a standstill while tears prick the back of my eyes. “I just want to be normal, Molly.” My voice sounds garbled, and I lean my weight into my forehead, now pressed to the fabric wall. I’m hoping my waterproof mascara serves me well.
To others I will always be That Woman. The Widow. The One Who Lost Everything. I can’t blame them. Horrible things happened. And I am That Person.
However, four years later I’m starting to breathe again. And for the first time since the accident, I wonder if I could become another person.
“I think this will help.” Molly forges forward. “Didn’t you once say telling new people is always difficult because you end up emotionally managing their reaction? Now they’ll already know, and you can skip the hard part and talk about the weather.”
Tears stream down my cheeks.
Molly’s loud sigh breaks the silence. “Are you there, Meredith?”
“Yes.” I grab some of the impossibly soft toilet paper to use as a tissue.
“I could still come to Colorado. A flight from Dallas will only take a few hours. I don’t think you should be by yourself.”
“Please don’t. I need to do this.” I close the lid of the toilet to create a place to sit.
One hand holds the cell to my ear while the other presses the wrinkled toilet tissue to my cheek.
“If I fall apart, I’ll come home in a week, and you can say you told me so.
But I need to try to do something different with my life.
” A stray tear falls to the marble tile.
“There has to be more for me in this life than being alone, doing volunteer work, and living out a sad story.”
“Okay.” The voice coming through the phone is thick. “But call me every day.”
“I love you. I’ll call you when I can.”
Stepping out of my stall, I glance at the mirror and recognize a familiar reflection. Not tonight, I vow as I pull my makeup bag from my purse. I won’t wear the face of grief. Tonight is about the comfort of an old place that might kindle a new beginning.
Tears are allowed, but they don’t get to rule the evening.
While I blend concealer under my eyes, two beautiful women walk into the room. No, beautiful isn’t accurate. Exquisite? Glamorous? Otherworldly? Or, just wow.
I’ve missed some movies over the last four years, but not enough not to recognize these women as actors. One is the leading lady of a rom-com, the other a longtime lead for a television drama, now turned movie star.
Oh man. I’m at a real live Hollywood party, and the hotel handed my life tragedy on a silver platter to one of the most famous men in the country.
As I wrap up my eye makeup repair, I know what I must do.
Shoulders squared and chin up, making great effort not to hobble in these silly shoes, I enter the dining area and place my purse at my booth.
Turning on my heel in platforms proves to be more difficult than I anticipated, and I twist and fall into the arms of a wall.
A hard, well-defined wall of muscle. Strong hands grip my biceps to steady me.
I draw my eyes up, and up, and find a second chiseled Greek god staring down at me. Only this one is young. Jailbait young.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” The dimples. His dimples are speaking louder to me than his question.
“Nice catch, Charlie.” Harlan Holcombe’s words pull me out of my drooling stupor as he claps the man-child on the shoulder.
Charlie releases my arms, and his crystal-blue eyes dance from Harlan to me.
“Meredith, this is Charlie Boyd. He’s an up-and-coming prodigy. If he stays focused, you’ll be seeing his work headlined on the big screen one day.”
Charlie slips his hands in his pants pockets and shrugs in an endearing aw-shucks manner. “He mentors a couple of us newbies. We’re all glad he’s back and hope he rubs off on us somehow.”
“Charlie, this is Meredith.” Harlan nods to me, his dark eyes gripping my attention with their intensity. “She’s about to make me grateful my mother forced me to attend cotillion.”
These two are like a testosterone commercial, and I pray my deodorant is holding up to its advertised standards.
“What kind of event is this?” I ask, looking around the room and spotting a few more familiar beautiful faces. “Is this a fundraiser? Or did they move the Golden Globes to Colorado Springs?” I gasp. “Is there a secret famous people convention at the hotel? I won’t be able to handle that.”
Charlie grins. “We’re all on a movie set together close by.”
“It’s been a brutal schedule,” Harlan adds. “And something went wrong behind the scenes that delayed filming. The studio gave us the weekend for some R and R while they work out the details.”
“Harlan set it up for all of us to come here. And he paid!”
Harlan glares at Charlie. “That’s enough. I’ll take it from here.”
“You paid for all of this for them?” I ask, not knowing how to filter that information but not being able to ignore how moved I am at his generosity.
Instead of explaining, he wraps my arm around his elbow.
We walk the plank toward the dance floor.
Everything about him is overwhelming. His solid presence, his masculine scent, his confidence. If I’m unable to form coherent thoughts, how do I pull out of this?
As we reach the edge of the inlaid hardwood, I tug on him to stop our forward movement. I bow my head and study my toes.
Harlan’s body angles toward mine, appearing almost protective. “Meredith?”
I lick my lips, tasting overpriced lip gloss and a hint of insecurity. Staring at the safety of my shoes, I ask my question. “Be honest with me. Did you let me stay and dine with your group because you found out about the memo?”
“No. Yes.” His laugh fractures, and he gentles his voice. “Maybe.”
I nod at the floor.
“But I asked you to dance with me in spite of the memo.”
Any other answer would have driven me straight back to my table. However, this one robs me of the frequent-flier excuses I use to insulate my widowed, risk-averse life.
Harlan leans in. “What do you say? Dance with me?”
The low timbre of his voice coaxes me to respond. I lift my head and stare at him. Can he see the stars swirling in my eyes? He doesn’t need People magazine to affirm his looks. This man would make anyone forget how to speak.
Four years. No doubt I’ve been in the presence of attractive single men over the course of the last four years, but this feels like the first time I’ve noticed one. I just can’t believe the one my body chose to notice. How can anyone converse with someone so beautiful?
“I could be a complete nightmare, you know,” I say.
His broad shoulders, still shielding me from the room, shake with his light laughter. “You aren’t. In my entire life, I’ve only misjudged one person.” His eyes seem to dim a touch, though it’s almost indiscernible. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Famous last words. But if you’re willing to risk it, so am I.”
He doesn’t waste a moment ushering me to the dance floor, allowing me no time to ask the obvious.
I place my right hand in his left, then set my other one on his shoulder. When his palm hits my waist, I shudder. The surprise of his touch clashes with the memory of the last time I danced with a man in this room.
“You okay?”