remembered. Before I woke up this morning, I dreamed I was on a white beach with palm trees, celebrities everywhere. I guess I was obsessed.”
“Then why hadn’t you left yet? What were you waiting for?”
“Graduation, maybe?” She sighs. “Or more money. Or the return of my common sense.”
The clack of skinny heels on the hardwood staircase makes us scramble. I launch myself at the stack of papers and cash, hurling it all back into the drawer and sliding my elbow across the sticky paper to reseal it. Elyse tosses an armful of socks over the top just as Liz stumbles in, hobbled by a small mountain of photo albums.
I try for a winning smile. “What you got there, Liz?”
“Oh, hi , Jim.” She smiles back at me, but it’s all lipstick. I can tell she’s less than thrilled to discover a tourist in her daughter’s bedroom. Then again—I can practically see the wheels turning in her innkeeper mind—I was only talking to Elyse, with the door wide open. Is it really worth her saying something and risking losing my business? “We were just heading downstairs,” she says finally. “To look through some dusty old photo albums. Wouldn’t want to bore you,” she adds.
Since I haven’t been lobotomized, I get the point. Tourist Jim is not on the invite list.
I clear out of Elyse’s room and follow her and her mother down the stairs. Hoping to hang around within eavesdropping range, I wander into the breakfast room for a snack. The cheery oval table is bare, but there’s a bowl of cocoa-dusted dark truffles and a crystal decanter of port on the sideboard. I take a truffle, realize I’m starving, and grab two more. The heat’s already melted them a little, and the sweet chocolate liquefies on my tongue.
Weird how I somehow knew these would be here. Maybe I really have stayed at Preston House before.
I hear Liz’s and Elyse’s voices nearby and stealthily creep back into the hall. In the sunken front parlor, Liz perches on a high-backed striped sofa, plunks down the photo albums, and pats the seat beside her. Elyse sits down, but leaves more space between them.
Seeing them side by side almost takes my breath away. It’s startlingly obvious they’re related. Liz is Elyse plus twenty years. Both small and curvy and fit, tan-skinned, wavy-haired, with the same sharp chin and big round eyes. They even carry themselves the same way, shoulders down and back, like runway models. I feel a sudden pang of sadness for both of them. It seems absurd to the point of cruelty that Elyse could not remember Liz. Hopefully seeing these photos will help.
Craving something more substantial than chocolate, I head back through the breakfast room and swing open the kitchen door. And nearly run smack into the Bishops, the thirtysomething couple I talked to earlier.
Before I can say hi, she hisses at him, “Don’t call me paranoid, I heard her texting you.”
“For God’s sake, Luci—”
“This trip was our last chance.”
They’re standing squared off at the counter, their angry faces only inches apart. This is none of my business. I should go. But why haven’t either of them noticed me? Frank in particular is facing the door, but he’s not making eye contact or lowering his voice.
“The damn text was from work!” His every syllable leaks contempt. “You know, the job that pays for your Botox?”
It’s uncanny and weird, just like it was weird when Kerry the receptionist didn’t notice me till I got up in her business. Like it was weird when Liz didn’t notice me until I spoke up to protect Elyse. Is it just my imagination, or are people not registering my presence unless I speak?
“If it was work, then show me. Show me your goddamn phone.” Her skinny bird-talon fist pounds the countertop. Then her eyes grow round and she gasps.
And crashes to the ground in a heap.
“Holy crap!” I rush over to her still form. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Oh, hey, Jim.” Frank gives me a casual wave.
“Why
“Then why hadn’t you left yet? What were you waiting for?”
“Graduation, maybe?” She sighs. “Or more money. Or the return of my common sense.”
The clack of skinny heels on the hardwood staircase makes us scramble. I launch myself at the stack of papers and cash, hurling it all back into the drawer and sliding my elbow across the sticky paper to reseal it. Elyse tosses an armful of socks over the top just as Liz stumbles in, hobbled by a small mountain of photo albums.
I try for a winning smile. “What you got there, Liz?”
“Oh, hi , Jim.” She smiles back at me, but it’s all lipstick. I can tell she’s less than thrilled to discover a tourist in her daughter’s bedroom. Then again—I can practically see the wheels turning in her innkeeper mind—I was only talking to Elyse, with the door wide open. Is it really worth her saying something and risking losing my business? “We were just heading downstairs,” she says finally. “To look through some dusty old photo albums. Wouldn’t want to bore you,” she adds.
Since I haven’t been lobotomized, I get the point. Tourist Jim is not on the invite list.
I clear out of Elyse’s room and follow her and her mother down the stairs. Hoping to hang around within eavesdropping range, I wander into the breakfast room for a snack. The cheery oval table is bare, but there’s a bowl of cocoa-dusted dark truffles and a crystal decanter of port on the sideboard. I take a truffle, realize I’m starving, and grab two more. The heat’s already melted them a little, and the sweet chocolate liquefies on my tongue.
Weird how I somehow knew these would be here. Maybe I really have stayed at Preston House before.
I hear Liz’s and Elyse’s voices nearby and stealthily creep back into the hall. In the sunken front parlor, Liz perches on a high-backed striped sofa, plunks down the photo albums, and pats the seat beside her. Elyse sits down, but leaves more space between them.
Seeing them side by side almost takes my breath away. It’s startlingly obvious they’re related. Liz is Elyse plus twenty years. Both small and curvy and fit, tan-skinned, wavy-haired, with the same sharp chin and big round eyes. They even carry themselves the same way, shoulders down and back, like runway models. I feel a sudden pang of sadness for both of them. It seems absurd to the point of cruelty that Elyse could not remember Liz. Hopefully seeing these photos will help.
Craving something more substantial than chocolate, I head back through the breakfast room and swing open the kitchen door. And nearly run smack into the Bishops, the thirtysomething couple I talked to earlier.
Before I can say hi, she hisses at him, “Don’t call me paranoid, I heard her texting you.”
“For God’s sake, Luci—”
“This trip was our last chance.”
They’re standing squared off at the counter, their angry faces only inches apart. This is none of my business. I should go. But why haven’t either of them noticed me? Frank in particular is facing the door, but he’s not making eye contact or lowering his voice.
“The damn text was from work!” His every syllable leaks contempt. “You know, the job that pays for your Botox?”
It’s uncanny and weird, just like it was weird when Kerry the receptionist didn’t notice me till I got up in her business. Like it was weird when Liz didn’t notice me until I spoke up to protect Elyse. Is it just my imagination, or are people not registering my presence unless I speak?
“If it was work, then show me. Show me your goddamn phone.” Her skinny bird-talon fist pounds the countertop. Then her eyes grow round and she gasps.
And crashes to the ground in a heap.
“Holy crap!” I rush over to her still form. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Oh, hey, Jim.” Frank gives me a casual wave.
“Why
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