be reached by a special key, so you have complete privacy.” Our bellboy waited for us to exit the elevator. We walked down a carpeted hall and stopped in front of gold double doors. “You have a butler at your service twenty-four hours a day. We stocked the fridge as per your instructions, and the Kids’ Club assembled some books and games for Max, but please don’t hesitate to ask for anything.” The bellboy swung open the doors and I stepped into paradise.
I stayed in many fine hotels with my parents when I was young, but since I married Andre our vacations had consisted of overnights to check out French restaurants in Napa Valley. Once he had agreed to join my mother in Hawaii, but insisted it was so Max could play in the warm ocean. I sighed, thinking of all the effort I spent during my marriage so that Andre would not feel like a “kept” man, while he spent all his energy screwing other women. I had forgotten the pleasure of perfectly arranged linens, huge white bath sheets, rows of skin-care products and beauty oils lining a marble vanity.
The Presidential Suite was bigger than our house in Ross. The living room had matching love seats and a baby grand piano. A separate dining room housed a gleaming mahogany table and twelve chairs upholstered in burgundy velvet. A small kitchen held a full-sized fridge and microwave and a pantry stocked with gourmet coffees, tiny tins of caviar, and boxes of crackers, cereal, oatmeal, peanut butter, jams, and jellies. I thought Andre would have been impressed by the gourmet selection of foods. Then I tried, for the hundredth time, to push all thoughts of Andre out of my head.
The bellboy drew back the curtains and we moved onto the balcony. Below us was a grand lawn with a white rotunda and a circle of palm trees. Waiters crisscrossed the grass, carrying frosty pink drinks down to the pool.
“Look, Mom, the pool has a fountain! Can we go swimming?” Max squeezed his face between the railings.
“Tomorrow; now it’s dinnertime,” I said.
“I’m not hungry!” Max protested.
“Jelly Bellies and a strawberry smoothie are not dinner. The pool will be there tomorrow.” I tried to sound firm, but I was so tired I just wanted to climb into the giant canopied bed. Suddenly, I couldn’t see the pool or the ocean. All I could see was Andre in the green Speedo he wore in Hawaii. I told him men in America didn’t wear Speedos. He asked why not, and I remember looking at the distinct outline of his crotch under the spandex and saying it was indecent. He laughed and called me a puritan. Then he kissed me and said, “In France I would be overdressed. Many men walk the beach naked.” I closed my eyes, willing the image away.
“Tell you what; I’ll order room service.” I walked back inside and picked up a leather-bound menu. “How about starfish-shaped chicken nuggets with baby peas and carrots?”
“I’ll take room service.” My mother came into the living room. She looked tiny next to the piano and the large canvases of art on the wall. “Get me a salmon please, with broccoli.”
“How about some bread or mashed potatoes, Mom.”
“I think I’ll mix a martini, would you like one?” She walked over to the bar and scanned the bottles of alcohol.
“No, I overdid the gummi bears. I’ll never fit into a bathing suit. Go easy, Mom. You need fruits, grains, vegetables.”
“Nonsense, I need a drink!” She filled her glass and sipped it carefully.
“Delicious. A toast.” She turned to Max, who was playing with the TV remote. “To my darling grandson and my beautiful daughter: May we have a summer of fun, and may all our dreams come true!”
I closed my eyes, wishing for my mother to be healthy, my son happy, and for the slide show of my pathetic husband to stop playing in my head.
While we waited for our dinner, I started making the suite feel like home. I insisted my mother take the “presidential” bedroom and its en suite bathroom. The bathroom was
I stayed in many fine hotels with my parents when I was young, but since I married Andre our vacations had consisted of overnights to check out French restaurants in Napa Valley. Once he had agreed to join my mother in Hawaii, but insisted it was so Max could play in the warm ocean. I sighed, thinking of all the effort I spent during my marriage so that Andre would not feel like a “kept” man, while he spent all his energy screwing other women. I had forgotten the pleasure of perfectly arranged linens, huge white bath sheets, rows of skin-care products and beauty oils lining a marble vanity.
The Presidential Suite was bigger than our house in Ross. The living room had matching love seats and a baby grand piano. A separate dining room housed a gleaming mahogany table and twelve chairs upholstered in burgundy velvet. A small kitchen held a full-sized fridge and microwave and a pantry stocked with gourmet coffees, tiny tins of caviar, and boxes of crackers, cereal, oatmeal, peanut butter, jams, and jellies. I thought Andre would have been impressed by the gourmet selection of foods. Then I tried, for the hundredth time, to push all thoughts of Andre out of my head.
The bellboy drew back the curtains and we moved onto the balcony. Below us was a grand lawn with a white rotunda and a circle of palm trees. Waiters crisscrossed the grass, carrying frosty pink drinks down to the pool.
“Look, Mom, the pool has a fountain! Can we go swimming?” Max squeezed his face between the railings.
“Tomorrow; now it’s dinnertime,” I said.
“I’m not hungry!” Max protested.
“Jelly Bellies and a strawberry smoothie are not dinner. The pool will be there tomorrow.” I tried to sound firm, but I was so tired I just wanted to climb into the giant canopied bed. Suddenly, I couldn’t see the pool or the ocean. All I could see was Andre in the green Speedo he wore in Hawaii. I told him men in America didn’t wear Speedos. He asked why not, and I remember looking at the distinct outline of his crotch under the spandex and saying it was indecent. He laughed and called me a puritan. Then he kissed me and said, “In France I would be overdressed. Many men walk the beach naked.” I closed my eyes, willing the image away.
“Tell you what; I’ll order room service.” I walked back inside and picked up a leather-bound menu. “How about starfish-shaped chicken nuggets with baby peas and carrots?”
“I’ll take room service.” My mother came into the living room. She looked tiny next to the piano and the large canvases of art on the wall. “Get me a salmon please, with broccoli.”
“How about some bread or mashed potatoes, Mom.”
“I think I’ll mix a martini, would you like one?” She walked over to the bar and scanned the bottles of alcohol.
“No, I overdid the gummi bears. I’ll never fit into a bathing suit. Go easy, Mom. You need fruits, grains, vegetables.”
“Nonsense, I need a drink!” She filled her glass and sipped it carefully.
“Delicious. A toast.” She turned to Max, who was playing with the TV remote. “To my darling grandson and my beautiful daughter: May we have a summer of fun, and may all our dreams come true!”
I closed my eyes, wishing for my mother to be healthy, my son happy, and for the slide show of my pathetic husband to stop playing in my head.
While we waited for our dinner, I started making the suite feel like home. I insisted my mother take the “presidential” bedroom and its en suite bathroom. The bathroom was
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