Hotel Ruby (2 page)

“Guess I should have worn my clean hoodie,” he mutters.

“You don't own anything clean,” I say. “I haven't done your laundry all week.”

Daniel puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a sideways hug. “When we get to Nana's, I'll start washing all of my own clothes. I'll even wash yours.”

I laugh, because Daniel would certainly destroy anything he put into a washing machine. But secondly, he's taken to calling our strict old grandmother Nana. I can't wait to see her face when he lays that one on her.

Dad stops at the front desk, Daniel and I behind him.
There's a haggard desk attendant in the corner, tapping the computer keys while he surfs the Internet. He doesn't even lift his head to acknowledge us. I clear my throat to get his attention, but when he still doesn't respond, I sigh and lean my elbow on the counter and glance around the lobby. I'm on sensory overload, unable to take it all in. I feel completely out of place here, especially in regular clothes. I should be wearing a cocktail dress, a ball gown maybe. Suddenly a door the same color as the wall opens from behind the desk, and a bald man with a small, pleasant face walks out. He glances in the direction of the other attendant, but the guy is gone. I didn't even see him leave.

“Welcome to the Hotel Ruby,” the man says joyfully. “It's a beautiful night.”

“Morning,” I correct. The man turns to me, giving me a quick once-over, as if he's not exactly sure he wants to answer. I read his name tag:
KENNETH—CONCIERGE
.

“So it is,” he responds with a chuckle. Before he can ask, my father places his license and credit card on the counter.

“Three rooms,” Dad says. “Just for the night.”

Kenneth nods politely, reading the name. He takes a moment to study me and Daniel, and then leans over the counter toward my father. “I apologize in advance, Mr. Casella,” he says. “It seems we are overbooked tonight.” He pauses, as if waiting for me to interject that it's morning.

My father's posture sags. “Is there another hotel close by? A motel maybe?”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Kenneth says quickly, waving his hand. “We wouldn't dream of inconveniencing you like that. The problem is clearly on our end. Let's see.” He taps a few keys. “I have two rooms on the sixth floor, and if your daughter won't mind, we have a room available for her on the thirteenth floor. There are some renovations under way, but I assure you”—he turns to me—“you won't be disturbed.”

I can't imagine what they would want to change about a place this beautiful, but I'm grateful that we won't have to spend the night in some sleazy motel along the interstate.

“The rooms on the sixth floor,” Kenneth continues, “have wonderful views of the Ruby Mountains. And, of course, you all have complimentary late checkout. I hope that's acceptable?”

Kenneth's fast-talking, smooth voice continues to dominate the conversation. Within seconds my father's agreeing before even finding out the price.

“Fantastic,” Kenneth says, clapping his plump hands. “Joshua is dropping off your bags as we speak. We have a variety of amenities for you to enjoy during your time here. There's an on-site restaurant and gift shop, a salon and day spa. Out through the garden doors”—he motions to a set of glass doors—“is a café, and just beyond that are the tennis courts. There's an outdoor pool, a recreation room with
billiards, and, of course, our theater. This is a current list of our movies.” Kenneth hands my father a brochure and exhales, finally taking a break from his monologue.

“Wow,” I say, peeking over my dad's shoulder to look at the brochure. “Why would anyone ever want to check out?”

Kenneth turns slowly, folding his fingers over his chest. “They rarely do, Miss Casella. Now,” the concierge says, smiling pleasantly to the three of us. “Here are your keycards and maps. Again, I'd like to welcome you to the Hotel Ruby. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

I widen my eyes and reach to slide my keycard off the desk. Kenneth watches me, and then after a moment he turns and disappears behind the small door once again.

“What a weirdo,” Daniel says, slipping his hands into the pockets of his zip-up. “Place is great, though. I feel classy as fuck.”

“Daniel,” my father warns, but I see the hint of a smile on his face. This hotel has put us all in a good mood. It's almost enough to make us forget why we're here.

Beyond a set of oversize doors in the hallway, music drifts in, soft piano playing and lounge singing. There is a gold stand with a sign that reads
ANNIVERSARY PARTY—1937
set out in front. Must be a rager, because I don't know who would be up at this ungodly hour for an anniversary party, or why the hotel would allow it to go this late. Aren't the other guests sleeping?

“I'll see you later,” Daniel says, tugging on my sleeve.
Before I can ask where he's going, he crosses the lobby, turning back once to wave to me. My father calls my name from the golden doors of the elevator, waiting.

We ride without a word. It's rare to spend any alone time with my father. Even these few minutes pass awkwardly, as if he were a complete stranger. The bell for the sixth floor dings. My father murmurs his good night and then walks out. He pauses and turns to me. In his eyes is the beginning of an apology, and I open my mouth to ask him what's wrong. But the doors close, leaving me all alone in the elevator.

A nagging starts in the back of my mind like something I've forgotten, but then the elevator doors slide open, revealing the thirteenth floor. I step out.

The hallway, long and ominous, has a burgundy-patterned floor, dark wood paneling on the walls. It's beautiful, but at the same time it feels . . . heavy. Like the air is too thick. At the end of the hallway, above a glass table, is an oversize gilded mirror. I catch my reflection—my light ginger hair tied in a knot, frizzy along the crown from travel, my long-sleeved T-shirt casual and worn; I'm completely out of place among the old-fashioned decor. The familiar image comforts me, I realize, and I battle back the chills that are trickling over my spine.

Room 1303 is at the beginning of the hallway, and I take one more glance around before unlocking the door and going inside. When I flip on the lights, I gasp and
cover my mouth. I think I've just won the hotel room lottery. It's gorgeous. There is an elaborate sitting area (is that a fainting sofa?), with vintage furniture in bold patterns, stained-glass lamps, and an intricately carved wood table. The bed in the corner has a fluffy white comforter and large, overstuffed pillows; the posts frame the mattress and curve over the top. I wander around the room, struck again by how incredible this entire hotel is.

When we traveled as a family,
before
, we were thrifty. The only time I've ever stayed in a nice hotel was when Ryan took me away for the weekend. I still loved him then, still thought we'd end up married, high school sweethearts just like my parents. I lost my virginity on the twenty-second floor of a Marriott. This is so much better.

I drop my bag next to the bed and find a single rose lying across my pillow with a wrapped chocolate. The red of the flower is lush against the starched white fabric, and I pick it up and smell the petals. They're sweet and powdery. I wonder momentarily if I'm still in the car, dreaming. After the obligatory bounce on the bed and check of the bathroom, I decide that despite the late hour, I can't sleep. Not when there's so much to explore. I quickly brush my teeth, take down my hair, and reapply deodorant. There was music downstairs—familiar music. There has to be people. I put on some gloss and slip my keycard into the back pocket of my jeans and head to the lobby.

The lobby is deserted when I walk through, but the bored desk attendant has returned to his computer duty. I wonder if he was reprimanded for ignoring us earlier. By his lack of attention now, I guess not. The music leads me forward until I'm at the entrance of the grand ballroom. It sounds like a serious after-party on the other side of these doors. I look around, my heart racing, and then push my way inside.

There is, indeed, a party. And not a few drunken late-night castoffs, either. I spin, trying to take in all the sights at once. The room is three stories tall, with massive chandeliers, golds and yellows splashed through the room, heavy deep-red drapes framing the doorway. On the walls are panels of intricate tapestries, gold frames. There are private alcoves with benches carved into the wooden walls, guests sipping from fancy glasses. All around me are sequins and bow ties. On the low-rise stage a distinguished-looking older man plays the black baby grand piano while a woman in a gold dress sings along. The words seem slightly familiar, although off somehow. But the singer's voice is amazing—haunting and soul scratching. I want to people-watch, so I go to find a space in the alcove, smiling as the world twirls around me.

A server in a black tux comes by and offers me a drink, bending low so I can take the glass from his tray. He smiles at me, much like the valet, and then disappears back into the crowd. This must be how celebrities live—all-night
parties, free drinks. I sip from the glass and the champagne bubbles tickle my nose. My father would kill me.

I stop. Would he? Would he even care at this point?

“Is it casual Friday already?” a voice asks. I turn just as a guy about my age sits down. He's wearing a sharp gray suit, and when he crosses his leg over his knee, I see his shoes are impossibly shiny. He's not smiling, not like the others, but there is a definite hint of flirting in his amber-colored eyes.

“Not technically,” I respond, sipping from my drink in a movement that I hope looks natural. “But as it turns out, formal wear at four a.m. on a Tuesday is kind of douchey.”

The guy laughs, genuine and hearty, and I like the sound of it. In my world of constant faking, he's showing me the first authentic joy I've seen in a while. I sip again, wondering how much champagne I'd need to forget everything but him.

“You win,” the guy says, uncrossing his legs to lean forward. “And I have to tell you, I'm quite charmed by your lack of party attire.”

“Well, that's good, because I'm super impressed with the fact that you own a suit.”

He laughs again, and the skin crinkles around his eyes, his dimples deepen. His smile is absolutely disarming in the most wonderful way.

“Elias Lange,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Fancy,” I tease, and slip my hand into his. Rather than shake it, he brings my fingers to his lips, kissing them
politely. The heat of his mouth nearly makes me swoon, and when my hand falls back onto my lap, I'm entirely self-conscious of it. As if Elias has brought that particular body part back to life. He smiles and gazes out at the party, seeming to realize his effect on me.

“I'm Audrey,” I say. “And I didn't know there was a party tonight. What's the occasion?”

“Same party every night. It's what we do here.” He loosens his tie and then reaches to grab a glass from the tray of a passing server.

“We? Do you stay here a lot?” I ask.

He sips, looks at me, and sips again. “I do. Want me to show you around? I've about mastered the trust-fund-kid tour. Promise it's more fun than this.”

I plan to tell him no because I don't typically run off with complete strangers after a three-second conversation, even if he does own a suit, but my response is cut off.

“Eli,” a girl calls loudly, and then pauses to stand in front of me. She pretends I don't exist as she speaks. “I thought we were going to dance,” she says. Her pink lips pout in a childish way I find obnoxious, and from his lack of attention I'm guessing Elias does too. Despite her behavior, the girl is stunning, a vision in a white, sparkly dress, with snow-blond hair framing her face.

“You know I don't dance, Catherine,” Elias says casually. “I'm sure Joshua would love to take a spin with you. Would you like me to ask him?”

Catherine's small blue eyes tighten to slits. She spins to face me as if I've spoken. Her glare shoots splinters of ice, stabbing me all at once. “Who are you?” she asks.

Wilting, I try to take a sip of my drink without letting my trembling hand spill the champagne. “I'm Audrey,” I respond. Elias shifts next to me like he's about to step in. I hope he does before this girl scratches my eyes out.

“You weren't invited here, Audrey,” Catherine says dismissively. “Now leave.”

Elias leans forward to take Catherine's hand, drawing her gaze back to him. “Cathy,” he says softly. I expect her to warm to his voice—I know I would—but she rips her fingers away like she's offended by his tone. Elias's posture goes rigid, his brown hair falling into his eyes before he smooths it back in place. “Go away,” he says coldly. “I'm not doing this with you right now.”

Catherine bends down, bringing her face close to his. For a second I think she's going to kiss him, and my stomach turns. Instead she smiles. “Eli,” she whispers. “Drop dead, darling.”