God, it’s going to cost him.” Angry tears appeared on her cheeks.
The phone rang on the other side of the bed. I scrambled to reach it. “This is the desk. Can I come get that roll-away now? I’m almost ready to leave.”
I cleared my throat. “Sure. Anytime. The bed’s all ready to go.” I spoke casually, all the while motioning frantically to Ginger. She hopped out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom.
“By the way,” I continued, stalling for time, “before you come, would you ask the dining room to have my usual table set for two? We’ll be down for breakfast in a few minutes. I don’t want to wait in a crush of reporters.” “No problem,” Fred replied.
I rushed back into my clothes and made the room as presentable as possible. I went so far as to beat an indentation in the pillow on the roll-away. I also did my best to straighten one side of the king-size bed. Ginger’s transformation was speedy.
Dressed, brushed, and wearing a subtle cologne, she emerged from the bathroom well before the clerk arrived. She may have worn some makeup other than a dash of pale lipstick, but I couldn’t tell for sure. She looked refreshed and beautiful. Smiling, she surveyed my clumsy efforts to conceal our activities. Walking to the far side of the bed, she expertly straightened the bedding. “Whose reputation are you trying to protect?” she asked. “All of the above,” I told her.
“I see.”
The desk clerk knocked. We managed to fold up the roll-away contraption and move it out of the room.
“Hungry?” I asked after Fred was gone.
“Famished,” she replied.
“Let’s go do it, then,” I told her. We walked through a quiet Rosario morning. The only noise was an occasional squawking gull. No one else from her group seemed to be up, although several of the dining room tables were occupied. The hostess led us directly to my preferred table, one by the window overlooking Rosario Strait.
“Morning, folks,” said the same cheery waiter who had sewed us the night before.
“What can I get you?”
“The works,” I told him. “Eggs over easy, hash browns, toast, juice, coffee.”
He looked questioningly at Ginger. “I’ll have the same,” she said with a smile.
My water glass had a narrow sliver of lemon in it. I speared the lemon with my fork, then offered it to Ginger across the table. Puzzled, she sat holding it.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“To wipe that silly grin off your face,” I replied. “People might get suspicious.”
She laughed outright, but soon a cloud passed over her face. “I believe,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m beginning to understand what Sig meant.” Outside our window the sky directly overhead was blue. As we watched, a thick bank of fog marched toward us, rolling across the water, obscuring the strait beyond the resort’s sheltered bay. We were well into breakfast when, over Ginger’s shoulder, I saw an obese but well-groomed woman pause at the dining room entrance, survey the room, then make her way toward us like a frigate under full sail. She wore a heavy layer of makeup.
Her fingers were laden with a full contingent of ornate rings. A thick cloud of perfume preceded her. “Ginger.” Her voice had a sharp, schoolmarmish tone. Ginger started instinctively, then composed herself.
“Good morning, Trixie.”
The woman stopped next to our table and appraised me disapprovingly. “I went by your room several times last night and this morning, but you weren’t there.” She paused as if waiting for Ginger to offer some kind of explanation. None was forthcoming.
“Trixie, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, J. P. Beaumont. Beau, this is Trixie Bowdeen, chairman of the parole board.”
“Glad to meet you,” I said.
Trixie ignored me. “Have you gotten word that the meeting’s canceled?” she asked coldly.
Ginger countered with some ice of her own. “I think that’s only appropriate. “
Trixie forged on. “We’re all
The phone rang on the other side of the bed. I scrambled to reach it. “This is the desk. Can I come get that roll-away now? I’m almost ready to leave.”
I cleared my throat. “Sure. Anytime. The bed’s all ready to go.” I spoke casually, all the while motioning frantically to Ginger. She hopped out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom.
“By the way,” I continued, stalling for time, “before you come, would you ask the dining room to have my usual table set for two? We’ll be down for breakfast in a few minutes. I don’t want to wait in a crush of reporters.” “No problem,” Fred replied.
I rushed back into my clothes and made the room as presentable as possible. I went so far as to beat an indentation in the pillow on the roll-away. I also did my best to straighten one side of the king-size bed. Ginger’s transformation was speedy.
Dressed, brushed, and wearing a subtle cologne, she emerged from the bathroom well before the clerk arrived. She may have worn some makeup other than a dash of pale lipstick, but I couldn’t tell for sure. She looked refreshed and beautiful. Smiling, she surveyed my clumsy efforts to conceal our activities. Walking to the far side of the bed, she expertly straightened the bedding. “Whose reputation are you trying to protect?” she asked. “All of the above,” I told her.
“I see.”
The desk clerk knocked. We managed to fold up the roll-away contraption and move it out of the room.
“Hungry?” I asked after Fred was gone.
“Famished,” she replied.
“Let’s go do it, then,” I told her. We walked through a quiet Rosario morning. The only noise was an occasional squawking gull. No one else from her group seemed to be up, although several of the dining room tables were occupied. The hostess led us directly to my preferred table, one by the window overlooking Rosario Strait.
“Morning, folks,” said the same cheery waiter who had sewed us the night before.
“What can I get you?”
“The works,” I told him. “Eggs over easy, hash browns, toast, juice, coffee.”
He looked questioningly at Ginger. “I’ll have the same,” she said with a smile.
My water glass had a narrow sliver of lemon in it. I speared the lemon with my fork, then offered it to Ginger across the table. Puzzled, she sat holding it.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“To wipe that silly grin off your face,” I replied. “People might get suspicious.”
She laughed outright, but soon a cloud passed over her face. “I believe,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m beginning to understand what Sig meant.” Outside our window the sky directly overhead was blue. As we watched, a thick bank of fog marched toward us, rolling across the water, obscuring the strait beyond the resort’s sheltered bay. We were well into breakfast when, over Ginger’s shoulder, I saw an obese but well-groomed woman pause at the dining room entrance, survey the room, then make her way toward us like a frigate under full sail. She wore a heavy layer of makeup.
Her fingers were laden with a full contingent of ornate rings. A thick cloud of perfume preceded her. “Ginger.” Her voice had a sharp, schoolmarmish tone. Ginger started instinctively, then composed herself.
“Good morning, Trixie.”
The woman stopped next to our table and appraised me disapprovingly. “I went by your room several times last night and this morning, but you weren’t there.” She paused as if waiting for Ginger to offer some kind of explanation. None was forthcoming.
“Trixie, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, J. P. Beaumont. Beau, this is Trixie Bowdeen, chairman of the parole board.”
“Glad to meet you,” I said.
Trixie ignored me. “Have you gotten word that the meeting’s canceled?” she asked coldly.
Ginger countered with some ice of her own. “I think that’s only appropriate. “
Trixie forged on. “We’re all
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