man tells her, looking altogether too cheery to have recently witnessed a cold-blooded killing. He hands her a small envelope containing her key card, then lowers his voice, as if he is about to impart some news of great importance. “Room 1612. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call. Do you need help with your bags?”
“We’re fine,” Ben informs him, slipping the overnight bag back over his shoulder and heading for the bank of elevators.
Amanda is about to stop him, tell him she can handle things from here on out, that it isn’t necessary for him to accompany her to her room, that just because her mother shot and killed a man in the lobby of this very hotel, she doesn’t need tucking in and looking after, that she isn’t the damsel in distress he thought he’d rescued when he married her, that he should know better by now.
Unless of course, he’s in the mood for a conciliatory quickie, she decides. A brief reminder of the impulsiveness of their youth, an acknowledgment of the chemistry still stalking them, something to get out of their systems once and for all, a let’s-just-satisfy-our-curiosity-and-get-this-over-with kind of onetime thing they could enjoy and then forget ever happened. She might be up for that, she is thinking, as he lowers her bag to the marble floor.
“I’ll let you find your way from here,” he tells her.
Amanda tries not to look either surprised or disappointed. It’s better this way, she decides, wondering if he’sgoing to suggest having dinner after she settles in. She’s hungry. She hasn’t eaten anything all day.
“I’ll pick you up around one o’clock tomorrow,” he says instead.
“Fine.” Room service it is, she thinks, retrieving her bag from the floor as a set of elevator doors opens to her left. She steps inside and presses the button for the sixteenth floor.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Ben unzips his jacket and pulls out a large manila envelope, thrusting it toward her just as a middle-aged couple enter the elevator, snow sparkling on the shoulders of the woman’s black mink coat.
“What’s this?” Amanda asks.
“Something you might want to look at later.”
The envelope weighs heavily in Amanda’s hands, as the woman in the black mink coat presses the button for the twenty-eighth floor, and the elevator doors draw to a close.
Amanda throws her overnight bag across the queen-size bed and walks to the window, stares down at the street. It’s very dark, and only a few people are out walking, their faces buried against the raised collars of their winter coats, their backs hunched against the wind, snow falling like confetti on their heads. “What the hell am I doing here?” she asks the silent room. Just last night I was staring out the window at the ocean. “Last night you were puking your guts out,” she amends, exchanging the envelope in her hand for the room-service menu lying on the desk. She grabs the remote-control unit from the top of a nearby cabinet and flips on the television. “Get somenoise in here,” she says, glancing back at the envelope on the desk, and deciding not to open it until after she’s had something to eat. She already has a pretty good idea what’s inside it. She should eat something first. Shore up her strength.
It takes less than a minute to unpack the few items in her bag, five more minutes to decide what she wants for dinner. “I’ll have the carrot soup and the roast chicken,” she tells room service, as a television announcer excitedly reminds her to stay tuned for
Hockey Night in Canada.
“That’ll be one hour,” room service says.
“An hour?”
“We’re very busy.”
Amanda hangs up the phone and plops down on the edge of the bed, her eyes moving restlessly between the salmon-colored walls and the beige carpet at her feet. She leans back, kicks off her black, ankle-high boots, and dangles her now bare feet in the air, as if she were sitting at the end of a dock. “What am I
“We’re fine,” Ben informs him, slipping the overnight bag back over his shoulder and heading for the bank of elevators.
Amanda is about to stop him, tell him she can handle things from here on out, that it isn’t necessary for him to accompany her to her room, that just because her mother shot and killed a man in the lobby of this very hotel, she doesn’t need tucking in and looking after, that she isn’t the damsel in distress he thought he’d rescued when he married her, that he should know better by now.
Unless of course, he’s in the mood for a conciliatory quickie, she decides. A brief reminder of the impulsiveness of their youth, an acknowledgment of the chemistry still stalking them, something to get out of their systems once and for all, a let’s-just-satisfy-our-curiosity-and-get-this-over-with kind of onetime thing they could enjoy and then forget ever happened. She might be up for that, she is thinking, as he lowers her bag to the marble floor.
“I’ll let you find your way from here,” he tells her.
Amanda tries not to look either surprised or disappointed. It’s better this way, she decides, wondering if he’sgoing to suggest having dinner after she settles in. She’s hungry. She hasn’t eaten anything all day.
“I’ll pick you up around one o’clock tomorrow,” he says instead.
“Fine.” Room service it is, she thinks, retrieving her bag from the floor as a set of elevator doors opens to her left. She steps inside and presses the button for the sixteenth floor.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Ben unzips his jacket and pulls out a large manila envelope, thrusting it toward her just as a middle-aged couple enter the elevator, snow sparkling on the shoulders of the woman’s black mink coat.
“What’s this?” Amanda asks.
“Something you might want to look at later.”
The envelope weighs heavily in Amanda’s hands, as the woman in the black mink coat presses the button for the twenty-eighth floor, and the elevator doors draw to a close.
Amanda throws her overnight bag across the queen-size bed and walks to the window, stares down at the street. It’s very dark, and only a few people are out walking, their faces buried against the raised collars of their winter coats, their backs hunched against the wind, snow falling like confetti on their heads. “What the hell am I doing here?” she asks the silent room. Just last night I was staring out the window at the ocean. “Last night you were puking your guts out,” she amends, exchanging the envelope in her hand for the room-service menu lying on the desk. She grabs the remote-control unit from the top of a nearby cabinet and flips on the television. “Get somenoise in here,” she says, glancing back at the envelope on the desk, and deciding not to open it until after she’s had something to eat. She already has a pretty good idea what’s inside it. She should eat something first. Shore up her strength.
It takes less than a minute to unpack the few items in her bag, five more minutes to decide what she wants for dinner. “I’ll have the carrot soup and the roast chicken,” she tells room service, as a television announcer excitedly reminds her to stay tuned for
Hockey Night in Canada.
“That’ll be one hour,” room service says.
“An hour?”
“We’re very busy.”
Amanda hangs up the phone and plops down on the edge of the bed, her eyes moving restlessly between the salmon-colored walls and the beige carpet at her feet. She leans back, kicks off her black, ankle-high boots, and dangles her now bare feet in the air, as if she were sitting at the end of a dock. “What am I
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