stretched finger to his lips. “Ssshhh. Yes. Hockey. Detroit Red Wings. Later when you’re settled in, I’ll show you our jersey collection and give you a primer in case someone corners you and asks about your favorite team.” He leans in and lowers his voice behind his hand. “Probably best to be a Canucks fan around here. West Coast fans usually like the Canucks or one of the LA teams. I can give you a primer on the Original Six, in case one of the old-timers wants to talk Bruins or Blackhawks.”
“It’s all Greek to me. But I’ve heard of the Canucks. I can handle that.”
“You should know they have goalie issues. Which is why they can’t win the Stanley Cup.”
“Is that bad?”
“Don’t you remember the riots a few years back?”
“Yeahhhh … I think so. We talked about it at work—everyone making jokes about the Canadians rioting. We figured they threw beer and doughnuts at each other.”
“Ryan, you’re back,” interrupts an older woman scooting in behind the counter. “Who have you dragged in with you?”
“Miss Betty, this is Hollie Porter. She’ll be staying with us for a few days.”
I stretch an arm across the gleaming marble counter and shake hands with Miss Betty. Her skin is soft, the lavender of her lotion floating toward me. When she smiles, her whole face smiles, the lines deep from a good life lived. “Welcome to Revelation Cove. Let’s get you checked in and on your way to relaxing and away from this brute of a man. He smells like grease.”
“Hollie Porter, I look forward to seeing you soon.” Ryan bows again. “You’re in good hands here. Find me tomorrow and I’ll give you a personalized tour of the grounds.” He winks and walks away. Before he reaches the door, he turns back toward us. “Miss Betty, can you send a few of the guys down to the dock? Lil’s belly is full.”
Miss Betty smiles as Ryan pushes the door open with his rear and disappears into the night. She checks me in and shows me to my room, asking me about the flight, how I fared, if Ryan was well behaved.
“Perfect gentleman,” I say. She smiles and slides the cardkey into the door lock. The room’s interior is even more breathtaking than the website photos promised. The queen-sized bed with the rough-hewn timber headboard, a round wooden soaker hot tub on the patio, windows that look out across a green lawn and manicured beds and blossoming trees sloping down toward the blackness of the water. I can see the dock. Ryan is down there, much smaller from this far away. Three other guys, one pulling a cart not unlike the one left behind in Victoria, move down the dock and greet him, handshakes and shoulder slaps all around. Friends.
What are those like?
“Are you hungry, Miss Porter?” I’m starved, actually. “We have room service, or the dining room is open until midnight. Come on down when you’re ready, or we can send something up. Whichever you prefer.”
Miss Betty opens an antique armoire and places my bag inside. “We have fresh terry robes here if you decide you want to take a swim. The outdoor pool is heated year-round. It also closes at midnight. We don’t allow the little ones in after 9 p.m., so you don’t have to worry about getting splashed.” She opens another cupboard in the bathroom next to the tub and calls out. “Fresh towels here. And if you run out, there are plenty more at the front desk. And of course, be sure to help yourself to the soaker tub. Only thing is, remember to take your cardkey. The door to the patio has a lock, so once you’re out there, you’ll need your cardkey to get back inside.”
“Okay, thank you, Miss Betty.”
“Come down to the front desk anytime and one of our staff can show you all the wonderful activities we offer. Enjoy your stay, dear.” She slides out of the room, her movements no louder than the footfalls of a cloud-walking cat.
I flop onto the bed, and despite the slight minibottle buzz pulsing through my veins, I feel
“It’s all Greek to me. But I’ve heard of the Canucks. I can handle that.”
“You should know they have goalie issues. Which is why they can’t win the Stanley Cup.”
“Is that bad?”
“Don’t you remember the riots a few years back?”
“Yeahhhh … I think so. We talked about it at work—everyone making jokes about the Canadians rioting. We figured they threw beer and doughnuts at each other.”
“Ryan, you’re back,” interrupts an older woman scooting in behind the counter. “Who have you dragged in with you?”
“Miss Betty, this is Hollie Porter. She’ll be staying with us for a few days.”
I stretch an arm across the gleaming marble counter and shake hands with Miss Betty. Her skin is soft, the lavender of her lotion floating toward me. When she smiles, her whole face smiles, the lines deep from a good life lived. “Welcome to Revelation Cove. Let’s get you checked in and on your way to relaxing and away from this brute of a man. He smells like grease.”
“Hollie Porter, I look forward to seeing you soon.” Ryan bows again. “You’re in good hands here. Find me tomorrow and I’ll give you a personalized tour of the grounds.” He winks and walks away. Before he reaches the door, he turns back toward us. “Miss Betty, can you send a few of the guys down to the dock? Lil’s belly is full.”
Miss Betty smiles as Ryan pushes the door open with his rear and disappears into the night. She checks me in and shows me to my room, asking me about the flight, how I fared, if Ryan was well behaved.
“Perfect gentleman,” I say. She smiles and slides the cardkey into the door lock. The room’s interior is even more breathtaking than the website photos promised. The queen-sized bed with the rough-hewn timber headboard, a round wooden soaker hot tub on the patio, windows that look out across a green lawn and manicured beds and blossoming trees sloping down toward the blackness of the water. I can see the dock. Ryan is down there, much smaller from this far away. Three other guys, one pulling a cart not unlike the one left behind in Victoria, move down the dock and greet him, handshakes and shoulder slaps all around. Friends.
What are those like?
“Are you hungry, Miss Porter?” I’m starved, actually. “We have room service, or the dining room is open until midnight. Come on down when you’re ready, or we can send something up. Whichever you prefer.”
Miss Betty opens an antique armoire and places my bag inside. “We have fresh terry robes here if you decide you want to take a swim. The outdoor pool is heated year-round. It also closes at midnight. We don’t allow the little ones in after 9 p.m., so you don’t have to worry about getting splashed.” She opens another cupboard in the bathroom next to the tub and calls out. “Fresh towels here. And if you run out, there are plenty more at the front desk. And of course, be sure to help yourself to the soaker tub. Only thing is, remember to take your cardkey. The door to the patio has a lock, so once you’re out there, you’ll need your cardkey to get back inside.”
“Okay, thank you, Miss Betty.”
“Come down to the front desk anytime and one of our staff can show you all the wonderful activities we offer. Enjoy your stay, dear.” She slides out of the room, her movements no louder than the footfalls of a cloud-walking cat.
I flop onto the bed, and despite the slight minibottle buzz pulsing through my veins, I feel
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