Chapter 2
Falling asleep while wearing Spanx was not one of my better decisions.
As I sit in the hotel spa waiting room this morning, I’m thankful for my upcoming eighty-minute hot stone massage. With a considerable amount of pampering, my body should forgive me for dozing off in the spandex vise.
I’m hoping my masseuse can also work out the giddy memories of last night dancing through my head.
The purpose of my trip to Colorado Springs is to find a charming investment property, not fall for a charming actor with a killer smile and dangerous dancing skills.
But my reality taps me on the shoulder, and I release a weighty breath.
Not even Hercules can carry the baggage I travel with, despite his disarming smile.
Clamorous laughter across the room disrupts my sobering thoughts.
The plump woman on the chaise lounge next to me rests her elbow on the arm of her chair and leans in my direction. “Who thinks cackling in the quiet room is okay?” She nods toward the loud talkers.
I offer a smile of solidarity and shrug.
When I go to the dentist and the assistant tells me to go to my happy place, my mind takes me to the Broadmoor Spa. Panic attack in a packed elevator? Broadmoor Spa. Talking to my sister about her latest bra-purchasing adventures? Broadmoor Spa.
The irony is not lost on me that I’m having to make great effort to be happy in my happy place because of some insensitive clients in my happy place.
My partner-in-annoyance glances around the room. “I hope my appointment’s soon.”
I want to say “Me too,” but I’m holding the line on the whole quiet room thing.
The woman next to me doesn’t take the hint.
“I’m getting a body wrap, and afterwards going downstairs for a pedicure.
Do you know, when I checked in, this nice girl told me about a cancellation and asked if I also wanted a Tuscan fig sugar scrub?
Can you imagine the self-control required not to eat the treatment?
” She shudders. “No one needs that kind of stress while trying to relax.”
Covering my mouth, I stifle a giggle.
“Are you getting your hair done?” She nods her head in the direction of my makeshift bun.
The messy pile of hair gives the appearance that I fought a fierce battle with a beehive. Remnants of last night’s makeup only confirm my loss in the war.
“No.” My hand reaches in vain to smooth down some of the destruction. “I went to the salon yesterday.”
“Okay, honey.” She pats my hand twice and turns back to her book. “Whatever you say.”
As the slight patronizing tone in her response lingers, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to tell her I don’t believe people should dress up to visit the spa. But a staff member arrives and whisks her away before I can dive into my diatribe on proper relaxation practices.
I snuggle deep into my chair and curl my arms around my body.
The Broadmoor Spa is well known for its impeccable services, but for me, the decor buries me into a relaxing state.
The varying striped chairs, pillows, and fresh flower arrangements all coordinate different hues of blue, yellow, and brown throughout the Mountain View Room.
Even the provided cornflower-blue robes add an element of harmony.
When I’m here, I can only think of peace. The room won’t allow for anything else.
Except when the group of women behind me lets out another roar of laughter. Then my peace flies right out the grand windows.
Who do these people think they are? Don’t they understand the rules? I’m all for fun on vacation, but pick a room without a polite sign directing everyone to honor the quiet atmosphere.
The remnants of my water-with-cucumber drink need to be thrown away, and on the way to the trash can, I notice a few of the ladies are looking at me and whispering. I’m having a paranoid moment, I’m sure. I flash them what I hope looks like a genuine smile.
I’ve tried in vain to block out the chatter. Should I say something?
Deciding I don’t want to be that person, I exit the room and head down the carpeted hall to find my second-string happy place.
An unfortunate pop sounds with each step of my resort-administered flip-flops. Never one to criticize the serene ambiance, I worry I’m betraying Spencer and Julie Penrose, creators of this oasis, as I question the choice of these shoes.
But then a woman approaches, and I’m dumbfounded to find her identical spa shoes don’t make any noise. It must be me. I offer a silent apology to the Penroses and continue down the hall, this time making great efforts to mute my flip-flops.
My mind wanders to last night’s dinner at the Penrose Room, and a feeling of unease hits me. I stop.
Oh no. I recognize two of the women in the quiet room.
I think they were talking about me. They watched me dance with Harlan Holcombe.
I should go back and tell them dancing with movie stars never happens to a person like me.
Moreover, I’m not even sure it occurred.
Altitude sickness does weird things to people.
The chances are quite high I dreamed about Hollywood last night.
But why does it feel like giddy butterflies have landed in my stomach? This must be another symptom of altitude sickness. I make a mental note to ask the concierge for pamphlets on the topic.
As I plod forward and take a left into the women’s-only section, I locate the entrance to the Fireplace Room and come to a complete halt. The reality of meeting Harlan Holcombe is in full view. But instead of it being a dream, it has become a nightmare.
Sitting in a chair next to the glowing fireplace, stiff, upright, and looking like she needs a massage more than the rest of us, is Penelope. Last night’s gatekeeper to the Penrose Room, also known as Harlan Holcombe’s assistant.
Every cell in my body wants to stride right back out the door. But the space is so small, leaving is impossible to do without looking impolite.
I decide to put on my big-girl panties and stay in the room with the tiger.
In a ridiculous turn of events, this makes me want to go to my happy place.
Penelope glances up. At the sight of me, her blank expression remains unchanged, but her hands clutch the newspaper she’s reading, causing a soft crinkling sound.
My guess is her facial expression hasn’t changed since 1998. Or her makeup. A closer look reveals her jet-black hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and her face sports a fresh coat of battle paint, brightening her already piercing green eyes.
I fight the urge to ask if she came here to unwind or to hold a board meeting.
“Would you like to sit here?” She nods to the chair across from her in the room’s only other seating option.
My hesitation is part shock and part fear that she will throw me into the blaze of the fireplace. Unable to help myself, I peer at her for a beat. She holds my gaze, but we’re not in a stare-down.
Almost as if she wants me to see her vulnerability, I remember what I know to be true.
Everyone has a story.
I exhale some of my tension before I risk sitting three feet from her and scoot into the offered seat. I’ll try to get her to share her story before she rakes me over the coals. “Thank you.”
As I sit down, I pick up a blanket from a basket on the hearth to drape over my legs. The tan piece of fabulousness is fluffy and divine.
Penelope interrupts my thoughts of developing a new wardrobe line with the blankets and shocks me for the second time today. “I’m sorry about last night. I’m not proficient at being flexible.”
I pick up my robe’s belt and wrap it around my left palm. “No need to apologize. The hotel made the mistake.”
“I know.”
My guess is Penelope uses the words “I know” on a regular basis. My next guess is that it’s hard to be Penelope.
She drops the paper to her lap and smooths the creases flat with her palms. “It wasn’t going to bother anyone for you to enjoy your meal. I should have let it go.”
“Do people tell you to let it go often?”
Her eyes flash, but she doesn’t answer.
“Harlan Holcombe sang your praises last night.” I unravel the belt off my mummified hand, creating a long spiral. “But I also get the impression you consider it your duty to protect those around you.”
“My job is critical. If someone from the outside compromises his reputation because they want their fifteen minutes of fame, it falls on me. The work is unremitting.”
My head jerks back in response. What a life she must live, guarding Harlan Holcombe’s private matters in the middle of the boundaryless realm of social media.
Penelope chooses to take responsibility for both the overexuberant fans and mindless haters in Harlan’s world. For someone as competent and capable as her, the burden would be consuming.
No wonder she looks rigid while sitting in a spa. She’s like Superman, ready to pull her hair down, tear off the spa robe, and reveal a full suit so she can go save the day.
“You’re excellent at your job,” I say. “I hope you let yourself off the hook sometimes.”
She releases a sigh. “Well, I think last night I could have handled the situation better.”
I quiet my voice. “Are you saying that because the ma?tre d’ told you my story?”
“Maybe,” she tells the fire. “Or maybe you’re a reminder that not everyone wants to take something from me.”
Interesting. I cock my head to the side. “Harlan Holcombe is special, isn’t he?”
Her eye twitches. “Yes. But not in the way you might think.” She reaches to the small mahogany table next to her chair and picks up her hot tea. “He hired me when no one else would. He saved me.”
I nod. “And now you protect him.”
After returning her cup to the table, she leans in, clasps her hands, and pierces me with her eyes. “My concern is, Meredith, will you?”
The question is so shocking, my entire body pulls back, and I gape.
It was just a dance is what I want to say to her. But her intensity steals the words before they can escape my mouth.
A masseuse appears and interrupts our moment. “Penelope?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Patty. If you’re ready, I’ll take you to your room.”