and it was not, she had to admit, a very pleasant sight. It was horrible, in fact. It was worse than horrible. The place was pure suburban blight.
The little guest cabins she’d been so thrilled about painting looked more like outhouses from this vantage point, and the glass globes of the lights along the driveway were so dusty and bug-splattered they barely seemed to shine at all. Squinting, she even decided that she could detect some rather significant damage to the shingles of a few cabin roofs, which was something she hadn’t even thought to consider in her careful renovation budget.
It all struck her as utterly depressing, every feature, every shingle, every single square inch of the entire bedraggled place. Once again, she feared that her fifty thousand dollars wasn’t nearly enough to bring the poor old motel up to speed. Not even a turtle’s speed. She must’ve sighed just then or muttered something under her breath, because David, who was standing close behind her, touched her shoulder ever so gently and asked her what was wrong.
Everything, she thought, before she managed to put her game face back on as best she could, then turned to her host. “Well, the good news, I guess, is that the poor old Haven View will be hidden by leaves for eight or nine months every year from the guests of the Marquis. The bad news is worse than I imagined.”
She waved a hand in front of her hoping to rid herself of these brand-new, unbidden feelings of despair. “I really don’t even want to talk about it.”
There was a small flicker of something close to sympathy or sadness in his expression for just an instant before he said, “Come on. Let’s forget about the southern view for now.” He clasped her hand in his once again. “Let me show you the really incredible views to the east and the west.”
The east view was from a wide, slate-floored terrace with gorgeous wrought-iron furniture where Libby could easily imagine wearing an ivory satin robe with matching slippers while lingering over a late breakfast of croissants, sweet butter and strong Jamaican coffee. Right at that moment she could almost taste it.
“On a fine, clear day,” he told her, “you can see the Arch.” He pointed. “Right there. You’ll have to come back sometime with your camera.”
“I’d love to,” she said. Oh, boy, would she love to. “I could get some really interesting shots.”
A minute or so later, having gone from one gorgeous room to another even more gorgeous room, the promised view to the west was revealed when David pushed a button on a bedside console and a whole wall of drapery silently slithered back. Outside the exposed window, on the highway below, eastbound headlights shone like diamonds while westbound taillights sparkled like a river of rubies, and she could actually see a bevy of stars twinkling in the dark sky above them all. It momentarily took her breath away.
Oh, how Libby wished she had her camera and a few specific lenses and filters just then to record it all. She wished she had a tripod in order to take a terrific time-lapse exposure of the traffic. Despite David’s polite invitation a few minutes earlier, she doubted she’d ever be up here in the penthouse again.
“Does Mr. Halstrom have a place like this in all of his hotels?” she asked.
“More or less,” he answered in a tone that struck her as rather brusque. “But when he’s not in residence, his suites are all available to guests for the right price.”
“Don’t even tell me the price,” Libby said. “I couldn’t stand to hear it considering we try so hard to rent our dinky cabins for sixty-five dollars a day.” Sadly, she thought, that economical price was probably far more than the accommodations were worth. Jeez. How long would it be before they might actually be forced to pay people to stay there, just for appearances sake?
“Maybe the new paint job will help,” David offered, sounding vaguely unconvinced if not downright disbelieving.
“Yeah. Maybe.” She sighed. And maybe, she thought, maybe there were far more worthy recipients of her unexpected little fortune than the over-the-hill Haven View. Maybe she should reconsider the whole ridiculous endeavor. Like Scarlett O’Hara, she decided to think about that tomorrow.
Libby found herself forcing another smile then as she turned to her oh-so-handsome host. “Didn’t you promise me a glass of red wine, David?”
The garnet-colored wine, French and positively ancient by her standards, was far and away the best that Libby had ever drunk. She sipped it cautiously, dreading a repeat performance of the night before, while David showed her the other rooms in this incredible place. The bathrooms alone were worth a hefty admission price.
Dinner arrived almost magically, wheeled into the suite on two shiny silver carts before being placed on the dining room table by two smartly outfitted waiters who gave the impression they were auditioning for a play, or perhaps a silent movie as neither one of them made so much as a sound above the clink of a water glass or the soft thud of a piece of heavy silver on the tabletop.
There were four different entrées to choose from, including a buttery salmon, a gorgeous filet mignon, lamb in an exotic mint sauce and roasted chicken with truffles that Libby ultimately couldn’t resist. She was almost tempted to ask for a doggie bag in which to carry home the rejected dishes that the waiters promptly and silently wheeled away.
“Oh, what a terrible waste,” she said with a sigh as she watched them turn a corner on their way to the elevator.
“Don’t worry,” David told her as he prepared to cut into his steak. “When that food gets back to the kitchen, it’ll be devoured within a matter of seconds. The chef is working with a small staff prior to the opening while he refines the menu. I had him send up four choices because I didn’t know what you might like. Feel perfectly free to be a critic. How’s the chicken?”
“To die for,” she said, reveling in her very first bite. “And the vegetables actually look edible which doesn’t often happen where I come from.”
She tried a petite, buttery carrot dusted with parsley and some other herb she couldn’t identify, then rolled her eyes in delight. “Who knew a lowly carrot could taste so good? You know, David, your boss must weigh a ton if he eats like this every single day.”
“Well, he works out a lot, I’m told,” he said before taking another sip of wine and another bite of his filet. “I’d like to hear more about your photography, if you don’t mind discussing it.”
She didn’t mind at all. It was probably her favorite subject and she was quite capable of going on endlessly about it, which she proceeded to do. But every time she politely—and curiously—attempted to change the subject and to inquire about him, David smoothly and affably turned the conversation back to cameras and lenses.
After dinner, they returned to the living room with its glorious window wall, where Libby avoided another painful glance at the shabby motel below. It was nearly midnight when she finally said, “I really should be getting back to Haven View. The man I left in charge, my uncle Doug, is almost eighty years old and really needs his rest.”
David’s left eyebrow quirked. “And you assume, I suppose, that your uncle has been overrun with demanding guests all the while you’ve been here?”
Libby had to hand it to him. The guy really did try to suppress his laughter even though he didn’t quite succeed. She appreciated his sense of humor despite this particular, rather hurtful and annoying subject matter.
“You never know,” she said with a little shrug of her shoulders before she
