teased Bubbles, shaking a set of sleigh bells that rested on a small desk in the corner.
“I live in an efficiency apartment,” I explained. “I’m not sure what to do in a place with working thermostats and chairs that don’t fold.”
She chortled, apparently thinking I was joking. “Glad you like it.”
When did I ever say I liked it? I hated this place, hated it. I hated being here, I hated Mom for sending me here, I hated myself for agreeing to come, and no fancy decorations or pretty lights were going to change my mind.
“Here’s Vincent then,” Bubbles said as an older man answered her bell. “He’ll show you to your room, and we’ll get acquainted over dinner, how’s that? Vincent, the Lilac Room for Penny, please.”
Vincent was a pillowy man with a full head of silver hair framing his baby blues. He wore painter’s pants and a down vest, and his belt buckle was a silver and turquoise fish. “Welcome, Miss Penny,” he said, picking up my duffel bag.
I followed him across the lobby, through an arched doorway, and into a parlor. This room was bigger and brighter than the lobby—creamy walls with framed mirrors, a marble floor, plenty of recessed lighting. Cushioned armchairs haphazardly lined the walls, and a horseshoe of sofas filled the center of the room.
A girl around my age was sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs, looking out the bay window. She was pretty—light eyes, light hair, light skin—but I decided not to hold that against her. I was just glad to see there was another guest, someone I might be able to pass some time with on this iceberg. When she looked my way, I nodded and gave a little smile, but instead of smiling back, she jumped out of her chair and ran out of the room. Just my luck—a bizarro. I followed Vincent, wishing the marble tiles beneath my feet would give way to a secret tunnel back to Boston. Regrettably, they only gave way to a curved staircase.
As we climbed to the second floor, Vincent asked, “Do you have plans for your stay?”
Yes, I wanted to say, I’m planning to die of boredom and loneliness. But I answered, “I brought a couple of books along. And I have a writing project to finish for one of my classes.”
“What are you reading?”
“Right now, a thriller.”
“Thriller. Say, did you know Alfred Hitchcock stayed here when he finished Psycho, back when the Black Butterfly was new?” he asked. “And Stephen King’s wife takes a room almost every Labor Day weekend with her daughter.”
“You mean, some mothers actually take their daughters with them when they go away?” I accidentally said this loudly enough for Vincent to hear. He didn’t say anything though, and for that I was grateful. I didn’t want a pity party or a cheering squad. I just wanted to get through this.
We walked down the hallway, under a crystal chandelier and past garden watercolors. There were four guest rooms on each side of the hall. Instead of room numbers, they had porcelain signs with the rooms’ names calligraphed on them. Vincent led us past the Iris, Foxglove, Tiger Lily, Sweet Pea, Indian Pipe, Lady Slipper and Rose rooms, stopping finally at a door half hidden behind a wreath of silk flowers. “Here’s the Lilac Room,” he said, fishing a key out of his vest and jiggling it in the knob until the door popped open. He handed me the key, then stepped into the blackened room and flipped the wall switch.
Several wall sconces flickered on. My eyes bulged when I saw what the light had to show me: a king-size four-post bed with a sheer canopy and ivory bedding, a stone fireplace flanked by two overstuffed loveseats, and rosy valances swirling their way around a triple window. Lavender brush strokes caressed the walls, while pearly threads of carpeting kissed my feet. And it was all mine. The gods had sent a crumb of justice my way.
“Not bad,” I mumbled.
“What’s that?” Vincent asked.
“Nothing—sorry.” I walked over and sat on one of the loveseats, which felt like velvet and looked like aquamarine—the same color the dancers were wearing in the Degas print hanging over the mantel. “It’s just, this room is really pretty.”
“It’s my personal favorite.” He moved past me and set my bag on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Come on,” he motioned me over to where he stood. “Take a whiff and tell me what you think.”
I didn’t know what he was up to, but he must have been trying to cheer me up. Which was a sweet, albeit futile task. Obediently, I walked to the middle of the room and inhaled. The smell was rich, zesty, inviting, like walking into my favorite pizza place. “Wow,” I said, “you’re right. It smells like…like a feast or something.”
“This room sits directly above the kitchen, and that’s why it’s my favorite. Now if you’ll allow me, I’ll tell you what’s for supper. I’ve got this down to a science, since Miss Rita doesn’t let anyone outside the Henion family in her kitchen while she’s cooking.” He tested the air with several short snuffles at different angles. “Cloves, cinnamon—that’s probably the soup. Veal. Some sort of squash—Miss Rita makes a fabulous acorn squash soaked in brandy and mango juice. Let’s see, mushrooms and…something nutty for dessert. Sound all right?”
I looked at him, wondering if he were kidding. At home, it’s gourmet dining if we bother taking the Spaghettios out of the can. Veal, mangos, dessert? If it weren’t for all those hours I spent drooling over the Whole Foods shelves while I waited for Mom to get out of work, I wouldn’t even know what real food looked like. I wished I could forget how dismal I felt so I could enjoy this place, but I knew that would never happen. Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the mind as the wish to forget it. That’s what some Renaissance guy said about five hundred years ago, and I believe him.
“Supper’s at seven,” he said, returning to the doorway. “You’ve got almost an hour. Oh, if you want me to build a fire later, let me know—it’s my specialty.”
“Okay.” I dug into my back pocket, hoping a dollar would show up, but he disappeared before I could tip him.
The first thing I did when I was alone in the room was kick off my clogs and flop belly up on the bed, just looking around, trying to adjust to this alien physical comfort. Satiny sheets, carpeting deep enough to sleep on, a carved table I hadn’t noticed on my way in. Everything felt plush and elegant and almost sparkly, but somehow unsettling too. Everything so pristine, so quiet, so someone else’s. And here I was, alone in it for the next two weeks.
To busy myself, I decided to unpack. There wasn’t much to do, but I managed to make a little project out of hanging up my shirts, stuffing my underwear into the dresser, and unearthing my hair ties. Next, I headed into the bathroom with my toiletry kit.
Wow, the bathroom. Peacock blue tiles from floor to ceiling, black granite countertop, a light-up mirror, Jacuzzi tub, a separate shower stall, and the crowning cherry: a heated floor. I took my time transforming the space into my altar of vanity, laying out all the wares for my skin, hair, teeth and nails. Then I tried to pretend this was my house, that my beauty products weren’t drugstore knock-offs, that I padded barefoot on heated floors every day of my life. Yeah, right.
Never eat more than you can lift.
—Miss Piggy
“Dinner?” said Vincent from a podium outside the dining room,
