Must Love Otters (10 page)

Too far to jump without breaking something important. Break a bone, end of vacation. Wouldn’t that be the irony to end all ironies if Concierge Ryan and Miss Betty had to call for medical help to have my naked, broken body transported back to civilization?

No. No jumping.

A vined trellis extends up the side of the building, stretching from the patio below all the way up. Must be four floors here. I could climb down the trellis. Those vines don’t look thorny. It’s dark enough, I might be able to sneak past unnoticed, dash around to the front, and maybe … somehow … find some clothes.

I soak for another ten minutes. I am ridiculously pruny now. I don’t know if the folds in my fingertips and the pads of my toes will ever flatten.

I have to act. Before they lock the front door and I’m super screwed.

Now or never, Hollie.

Out of the tub, slowly, slowly. Oh dear baby Jesus, it’s cold. I swear I see snow until I realize they’re billowing cherry blossoms from a nearby tree. It feels cold enough to snow.

I don’t have time to think about if there are spiders or other multilegged, antennaed friends hiding inside the trellis. I give it a solid tug, a tight shake to see if it will support my weight. Seems sturdy enough.

God, if anyone’s down below, they’re going to see parts of my body only my gynecologist should see. One rung at a time, toward the ground. It should only take a few steps to be close enough to jump. Please don’t let there be guests on the ground floor enjoying their soaker tubs too.
Please
.

The ivy is pokey. Not like thorns, but still pokey. I’ll have splinters to withdraw. And me without my jump kit.

I’m down. Onto the grass. I hunch into a ball, as if tightening like a turtle will make me invisible. When we were kids, we thought if we squeezed our eyes shut and rolled our bodies like roly-polies, no one could see us. I now know that this is untrue.

Eyes must remain open. I have to find a way to move past these patios, up the sidewalk, through what I hope are unlocked doors, and pray that Miss Betty is still at the front desk.

Tick tock, Hollie. Ain’t gettin’ any younger over here.

I am the wind, dashing past potential onlookers, up the sidewalk, on the balls of my pruned feet, freezing pavement under me, an unforgiving breeze patting my buns. God, I hope they’re not jiggling as I run. I should really re-up that gym membership.

Front doors—unlocked! Open quietly. Poke head in. It’s quiet. Lights are still on and distant voices float down the hallway—people laughing—but not close enough to pose an immediate threat. I throw myself inside and fly behind the check-in counter, praying Miss Betty will find me first, or better yet, there’ll be a warm, fresh stack of towels hiding behind on a shelf.

On hands and knees, I scuttle along the length of the counter. No towels. Not even a box of Kleenex.

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice says from above. I flatten against the desk. I consider pushing the garbage can out of the way and crawling into its cubby, but then the person would know I’m there and oh my
God
, he might come around the counter. “Is someone there?”

“No. I … I don’t work here.” Maybe he could get me a towel.

“Can you get someone who does?”

“Sure. I can send someone.” As soon as I find some clothes. “Where shall I have them find you?”

“I work here. What can I do for you?”

No. This is not happening. Concierge Ryan’s voice is approaching from the right. And I am still naked as a newborn, ass blowing in the breeze, freezing nipples on full salute.

“Someone’s back there,” the other voice says.

“Stay where you are!” I shout. “Nobody move!” Ryan does not oblige. He moves around the side of the check-in desk, where he can now see me.

“Hollie Porter?” he says. “Are you … naked?” My hands are just not big enough to cover all the parts. I’m squished as tight as I can against my bent legs but this floor is super cold under my … yeah. That.

“I need a towel. Or a bathrobe.” I look up. A very handsome, tall, blond man is looking down at me. Smiling. Widely. “Seriously! Both of you stop looking at me!” I yell. “I got locked out. I forgot that the patio door locks and I didn’t take my cardkey.”

“And you didn’t think to take a robe out there with you?” Ryan smiles.

“No,
Ryan
, I did not. Now are you going to get me something to cover up with or what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to go find something.”

The guy standing over the top of the counter is laughing. “Aw, get the poor girl something to cover. She looks cold.”

I look down to make sure he can’t see my nipples.

“I’ll be right with you, Ms. Porter. This gentleman asked for help first,” Ryan says.

“No, I’m okay. We just were wondering if we could get some ice. That’s all,” Mr. Handsome Blond Man says.

“Sure, sure, I’ll bring some in right away. Hollie, do you need ice too?”

“Very funny.”

“Good luck, Lady Godiva,” the resort guest says, the sound of his feet tapping away from the counter.

“Now, what did you say you needed again?”

“Ryan whatever-your-name-is, if you don’t get me a towel or something to cover up this instant, I will tell every travel review site in the world that your hotel is infested with bed bugs and seedy lowlifes.”

“Really? You’d do that? That’s sorta mean, even for you.”

“Please … help me. I’m freezing here.”

“I can tell.” I look down again. My boobs are covered. He points to my exposed arms and legs. “You have goosebumps.”

“All the more reason to help me.”

“I’ll get you a towel. Hang on,” he says, shuffling away.

Nine minutes later—and I know because there is a clock above the check-in desk—he comes back. With a hand towel.

“That’s the best you could do?”

“I still have a party going on in that room. I had to get their ice. I grabbed that on my way through the kitchen.”

“This won’t cover anything.”

“It will cover the front. Just walk along the wall,” he says, that smile still solid on his hairy mug. He maneuvers above me, fiddling with something on the counter.

“Don’t you dare look down or I’ll tell your boss.”

“You’re pretty brave throwing all these idle threats around when you’re the naked one needing
my
help.”

“What are you doing?”

He reaches a hand toward me, eyes averted. “Making you a new cardkey.”

“Oh.” I take it. “Thanks.”

“I’m going to walk away now so you can escape. Access to the stairs is the second door on the left. Don’t s’pose you want to take the elevator. Cameras and all. Can you remember that?”

“I’m cold, not mentally deficient.”

“And not at all a smart-ass,” he says. “Have a good night, Hollie Porter. Find me tomorrow when you’re … dressed.”

I wait for him to leave, sitting quietly, hoping that the lobby will remain quiet and unoccupied long enough for me to sneak out. If I keep my backside against the wall, the towel is just long enough to cover the other stuff.

On tiptoes, I slink toward the hall. Open the door. The one that leads to the stairwell.

Only it’s not the correct door. Instead, I’ve opened the one that leads into a meeting room, filled with drunken businessmen, one among their party on the small stage, microphone in hand. Upon my entry, everyone freezes. Mic feedback screeches through the silence.

“Sorry. Uh, wrong room.”

Mr. Handsome Blond Man is sitting at the table closest to the door. His face erupts into a heart-melting smile. Within a few seconds, there are many smiles. On way too many male faces.

As if planned all along, I run at the table and do my best yank-the-tablecloth routine. But as I’m not a practiced magician or tablecloth-puller, the lovely flower arrangement and unfinished drinks and water glasses and dessert plates launch and clamor upward and outward, thankfully taking the attention off me. The tablecloth wraps around my body as I fly out of the room.

Goddammit, he said the
second
door. That was the first.

“I hate you, Concierge Ryan,” I mumble upon opening door number two. The one with the little sign that says “stairs.”

“Wait!” A voice behind me. He’s going to want me to pay for the damage I’ve just caused. I don’t stop moving. Up the first flight of stairs, my tablecloth gown damp from whatever I toppled in my circus act.

Cardkey in my teeth, I bolt toward the top step on the second flight. “Wait! Don’t go!” he says. I stop, fully expecting it to be Concierge Ryan ready to chew me out.

“What?” I turn on him, one hand on the doorknob, the other clutched very tightly around the top of the tablecloth. It’s not Ryan but Mr. Handsome Blond Man.

“That was a hell of a stunt.”

“I’m very sorry. I just needed the tablecloth.”

“Yeah, I knew that. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry I interrupted your party.”

“Are you kidding?” he laughs. “You were the highlight of the evening.”

“What, in this old thing?”

“Dullest party ever. I think some of the guys were hoping you were the surprise entertainment.”

“People really do that?”

“Not here. But a guy can hope,” he says.

“Totally sexist.”

“You’re telling me if you went to a party with a bunch of your female coworkers, you wouldn’t get excited if some muscled stud walked into the room pretty much naked?”

I think briefly about my coworkers. Strippers and Les? Troll Lady? Polyester Patty? I do not need to have this conversation wrapped in a tablecloth in front of a total stranger.

He moves to the landing and extends a hand. “I’m Roger.”

I tuck the cardkey under my tablecloth-dress hand. “Hollie Porter.”

“Yeah, I caught that earlier. From Ryan.”

“He’s the devil.”

“Nah, he’s a good guy. And a hell of a hockey player.”

“How would you know?” There’s no ice rink at Revelation Cove, as far as I’m aware.

“He played in the NHL for a few seasons.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. Cool guy. Don’t be too mad at him. He’s just giving you shit.”

“He brought me a
hand towel
.”

“Well, you’re clearly a resourceful girl. You have quite the fashion sense here,” he says, gesturing to my ensemble.

“It’s a gift.”

“How long are you staying?”

“Four days. Maybe less, maybe more. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, it would be a great pleasure if you’d honor me with your presence at breakfast tomorrow.”

“What?”
Is he asking me out? Now?
“I don’t even know you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Um, enough to be certain you’re not a crazed serial killer who preys on girls wrapped in tablecloths in hotel stairwells.”

“I’m a boring businessman here for a conference. Tomorrow we’re playing golf. I’m supposed to go back to the mainland by Friday but I might stay the weekend, that is, if I find something to keep me here.”

“That’s a terrible pickup line, Roger.”

“I’m not good at it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Come on, Hollie, have breakfast with me. Some poached eggs, fresh salmon and bagels, Miss Betty’s secret-recipe blackberry jam … I promise, that’s all. If you like me and are sure I’m not going to drown you in the inlet, you can drive the golf cart tomorrow and get drunk like a proper resort bum.”

I squint at him. “This is really weird.”

“Why? You’re adorable. You have an obvious fire about you. I’m not going to walk away and forget the last fifteen minutes haven’t happened. It was too much awesome.”

What harm could breakfast do? He’s not asking me to marry him or have his gorgeous blond babies. “Fine. Breakfast.”

“Perfect.” He claps his hands together. “Say, nine? Is that too early? We can go later if you need your beauty sleep.”

“I’m plenty beautiful. I don’t need sleep to help me with that.”

He laughs at me. “I think we’re going to get along splendidly, Hollie.”

“No one says ‘splendidly.’”

“I think I just did. I want to impress you with my verbal prowess.”

“Breakfast, then.”

“I’ll meet you at the front desk at nine.”

“Fine.”

“Looking forward to it. Thank you again for crashing our party.”

“Anytime,” I say, finally turning the knob and moving down the hall toward my very warm room.

After a long hot shower and a thorough brushing of my knotted hair, I cozy into the queen-sized bed and, looking at the vacant pillow next to me, wonder what Mr. Handsome Blond Man looks like when he sleeps.

My wardrobe choices are limited. I brought three dresses but only two that might pass for dinner apparel and enough clean everything else to get me through four days without having to do sink laundry. Something else I will have to work on now that I’m single—buy clothes that don’t make me look like I’ve given up. No more baggy T-shirts printed with superhero logos or cartoon otters. I’ll have to start shopping in the women’s section again rather than raiding the men’s clearance rack with the change of seasons.

I did have enough forethought to bring a summery dress with matching sweater. Still means tomorrow I’m back to a Batman T-shirt and Levi’s. I don’t want to make a bad impression on my breakfast date, though.

Considering I’ve not seen the resort in the daytime, I’m early. I want to scope it out, get a feel for the territory before I submit to breakfast with a total stranger. “What a lovely little dress,” Miss Betty says. “I thought girls nowadays forgot how to wear those.” When she smiles, her green eyes twinkle. No mention of my shenanigans last night. Maybe she didn’t hear.

She shows me to a quaint table against the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, through which is an unrivaled view of nature in her finery. So taken by the indescribable natural beauty before me, I am suddenly very glad that my room is on the opposite side of the building and that I did not make my naked trek past these windows. The whole resort community would’ve seen my parts had I sprinted past here.

Seems I’m not the only person looking for an early start to the day. Across the way near the quiet fireplace sits a couple I’m pretty sure might consummate their love on the table if they run out of scrambled eggs. He wipes the corner of her mouth with his napkin; she leans over and licks jam from his lip. They entwine their arms to sip what looks like champagne. Like it’s a wedding rehearsal. And judging by the rock on her left fourth finger, it probably is. Maybe even the honeymoon.

Keith and I, we were never happy, romantic saps. We met when one of his supervisors told him there was a single dirty-blond girl working in dispatch. (For the record, dirty blond is the color of my hair. I am not necessarily dirty. I shower regularly. I do watch occasional porn. Is that what he meant by dirty blond? How the hell did he find out?) Keith started hanging around dispatch. Asked me out. We moved in together four weeks later because he lost his lease when his roommate got engaged to a hot swimsuit model from Brazil. (She was smokin’ hot. Even I wanted to touch her.) The rest, as they say, is history. But not the kind of history you buy albums for or write about in your journal.

I think we were just wasting time. Keeping each other warm.

That couple … they look really
in love
. She’s glowing. He’s so attentive. He pours her more orange juice. She cuts his ham. They take turns talking. She looks up something on her phone, holds it for him to see. He laughs, grabs her face, and kisses her. Again. He smooths her hair when it falls over her shoulder and threatens to dangle in her hollandaise sauce. After a busser clears their table, he pulls a flower out of the tiny vase and tucks it behind her ear. She smiles, her teeth an advertisement for whitening strips. Her diamond glistens so brightly, I’m almost blinded when it reflects the sun streaming in through the windows adjacent to their table.

He pulls her chair for her, she yanks on his shirt and lays a long, smoldering kiss on his lips. They walk out, so attached to one another’s bodies that it’s miraculous they haven’t melted into one mass of flesh. Like the Human Love Blob. The table next to their vacated one holds another couple—she’s an animated talker, using her hands to illustrate her point. He grabs one and kisses the tattoo that sits on the fleshy spot where her thumb attaches, as if the tattoo is there to remind him where to kiss her. She blushes.

A young family in the dining room’s center hosts a curly-haired, oatmeal-covered baby tossing handfuls of cereal at his mom. The dad pretends to nom on the kid’s chubby little hands. When a Cheerio ends up on Momma’s face, Daddy grabs and eats it. She clutches Dad’s hand, and he squeezes her fingers. The look between them … it’s foreign to me.

Like they’re home. Home to each other. Not strangers in the same boat. Like if they were in a boat, he’d give her the sole life vest and jump into the raging sea to kick them to shore, even as the sharks swarmed underneath and threatened to eat his legs, one toe at a time.

With my luck, I’d be the one to answer that 911 call.

“Good morning, Miss Porter,” Roger says. I jump.

“Hey. Hi.” I stand.

“You’re early.”

“A little.”

“Hungry?”

“Very.”

As if I weren’t nervous enough. This is the first “date” I’ve been on in … years.

Like a dope, I marvel open-mouthed at the scene on the other side of the double-paned glass, hoping my addled brain remembers soon how to make small chat. I could pretend he’s one of the 911 callers, but that’s ridiculous. He’s not in distress. I don’t have to talk him off a ledge. I have to relearn how to talk to men, a feat compounded by the fact that this one is devastatingly handsome. Wow, leagues from Keith.

Why am I sitting here again? Has there been some weird identity swap?

“Something else, isn’t it?” Roger asks.

“Yeah. Unreal. I don’t know how I’m ever going to leave.”

“First time here?”

“Mm-hmm. Oh my God, are those deer over there?” I point to a smattering of soft brown dots across the water.

“Probably. If you sit here long enough, you’ll see a little of everything. It really is a gorgeous venue.”

“You’ve been here a lot, I take it?”

“We have a businessmen’s association conference once a year and then a lot of us visit more often. It’s relatively close to Seattle and you can’t beat their all-inclusive golf-and-stay deals. Plus, wait until you taste Miss Betty’s secret-recipe jam. You’ll be hooked.”

“That good, huh?”

“I’ve tried to talk her into mass producing and selling it in my stores, but she won’t have it.”

My stores. He’s rich. Roger is rich. And no ring on the left hand.

He’s probably a stalker. Or maybe he really is a serial killer.

“Your stores?”

“Yeah, among other things, I run a chain of independent grocers and fruit markets in the greater Seattle area. We’ve just expanded down I-5 into Portland. I’m here this week trying to get investors on board for moving into the California markets. That’s where the real money is. Big state—lots of organic eaters, healthy folks.”

“I’m from Portland.”

“Oh, yeah? What part?”

“Northeast originally. I live over by Laurelhurst Park now. Maybe I know your store.”

“Maybe. Ever heard of FruitBasket or the Monday Merchant?”

“Those are
you
?”

He laughs quietly. “Those are me.”

“Nice. I’ve started going to Merchant because your selection is better than Trader Joe’s.”

“Don’t say that too loud. One of their Western reps is just a few tables away.” He winks. “So, Miss Porter—”

“Just Hollie.”

“Okay, Just Hollie, what do you do?”

“I’m an emergency services dispatcher. But I don’t know for how long.”

“Uh-oh, what happened?”

“Nothing happened. It’s … it just might be time to move on.”

“To what?”

“Not a clue. Maybe finish college. Four years late.”

“Hey, getting it done is the important thing, at any age. I finished my MBA five years later than my classmates because I did it at night. And I only did it because banks wanted those three little initials behind my name to give me loans.”

“I’ll bet those loan officers feel stupid now.”

“I was a risky investment.”

“Not anymore, though?” My meaning is double-edged. I think he gets it.

“Not anymore.” His grin confirms that he does.

A young, pretty, long-haired waitress dressed in what must be the Revelation Cove uniform arrives at our table. Roger orders for us both, and I don’t protest because he’s interesting. Might be nice to let a real man take charge for a few minutes. Wondering if he likes to take charge in the bedroom …

Hollie Porter, you mind your manners.

What? A girl has needs too. Don’t judge, you mean, uptight inner dialogue.

When the Mimosas arrive in stemmed glassware, Roger proposes a toast. “To Just Hollie’s future, whatever adventures may come her way.”

“And to Roger and his many stores. May your produce always be freshest.”

Clink. Sip. Flirty smiles.

We eat. We laugh. We talk, about nothing particularly important. Superficial life stuff. Getting-acquainted-with-a-new-person stuff. I’m doing okay, not stumbling face first into taboo topics. No politics, no religion, no contentious current events or tumultuous relationship rehashing.

And most importantly? No medical talk.

He’s funny and he laughs at my (lame) attempts at humor. Roger is thirty-one, clearly financially independent, and comfortable in his own skin. He’s not pretentious or self-righteous. He listens when I talk and asks insightful questions. He’s not overbearing or argumentative. For the first time in a very long time, I feel present, like I’m important to the person across the table, that what I say matters. He wipes a crumb off my cheek, picks up my napkin when I drop it. Not creepy or too touchy-feely, just … comfortable. When his conference cronies stop by the table to confirm their tee time, he’s friendly and introduces me to faces and names I won’t remember past today.

Despite the weird luck of the first twelve hours of my journey, the sun’s out, the Mimosas are flowing, and Roger has a smile that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.

At the front desk, we’re waiting for keys to the golf cart. The one he wants me to drive. Not sure if it’s safe for me to do so three orangey-Champagney drinks later, but if I steer us into the inlet, I’m pretty solid that we’d laugh it off and order more drinks. Concierge Ryan likely won’t be happy with me destroying resort property, but isn’t that what insurance is for?

In the course of our five-hour golfapalooza, I only drive over one guy’s foot, and he seems liquored enough to not be too mad. I manage to keep the golf cart free of the surrounding water, which is actually quite simple because the paths are wide and well demarcated. To get to the water, I’d have to crash through some shrubbery and drive along a short rocky beach covered in foraging seabirds. When the tide goes out, the smell of seaweed flies our way on the occasional wayward current. Fat white clouds slink by, pleased with how the day has turned out, sun bright, storms somewhere far away and not our joint concern.

It’s so idyllic, it doesn’t seem possible that I’m here.

But I am here. And though the air is occasionally crisp, chilled enough to remind us that May along British Columbia’s coast is not exactly bikini weather, it’s pleasant. Roger points out a pair of eagles as they track and dive after a midafternoon snack, their huge black and white bodies thrusting toward the water’s surface, yellow talons outstretched for the big grab. Roger’s golf buddy, a stout, pleasant fellow named Jorge, sneaks toward a tree and gestures toward a sleeping owl. A
big
sleeping owl.

It’s one of my nature shows,
in real life
.

Roger shoots a terrible game way over par but not once does he scream at the ball or blame the breeze or pound his club’s head into the green. A real contrast from the one time I made the mistake of golfing with Keith. This is not a sport for people with short fuses. As he proved with epic flair that day.

Why am I thinking about Keith when I am the belle of this ball, where this new, very good-looking man has no problem with his advancing affections throughout the day, offering a hand to me as I step from the golf cart, wrapping a loose arm around my waist while we wait for Jorge to take his turn, pushing an errant hair behind my ear so it doesn’t stick to my eyelashes. When the refreshment cart ambles through the green’s pathway, Roger pays for a round for all of us, not once questioning or taking cash from his cohorts. Keith would’ve pulled out his cell phone and broken down everyone’s portion, down to each person’s contribution to an embarrassingly paltry tip.

Stop comparing, Hollie. Roger is not Keith.

This is a new day!

Or it was, but now the day is over, the golf carts are put away, and the clock is tiptoeing toward yet another meal. “Feel like a quick swim?”

Swimming? Really? Can’t we just stare into one another’s eyes over a nice bottle of local wine?

“Now?”

“Do you have other plans?” he smiles. Warm and fuzzy erupts like a soda bottle left in the afternoon sun.

“No other plans.”

Swimming. In my bathing suit. My four-year-old, very saggy, wildly unattractive bathing suit. “We could do that.”

“Go change. I’ll meet you in the lobby in, say, twenty?”

“Sure. Yeah. Okay, sounds doable.” Panic.
Thud thud thud
, says the heart. Shit. Things were going so well too. Now he’s going to see my third-world bathing suit and all bets are off.

Unless … Concierge Ryan is standing behind a desk across the lobby from the check-in area. On the phone, he waves as I approach. I wait, impatiently, knowing the twenty minutes is evaporating and I
might
need to trim the tarantula right quick before exposing it to the world.

He hangs up. Finally. “Hollie Porter, how has your day been? Enjoying the links with your new friend?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s great. Hey, quick question. I, uh, I need a bathing suit.”

“What, no more streaking through the resort?”

“I’m serious.”

“Did you check the gift shop?”

“You have one of those?”

“Follow me.” He grabs a set of keys and moves from behind the desk, down the hall past the wall of framed jerseys. I am ashamed to notice that his ass looks really nice in his tight black slacks. He’s cleaner than yesterday, although the beard is still firmly attached to his face. The crisp white cotton of his monogrammed
Revelation
Cove
button-down fits his physique well. Hunky. He must work out. I should live up to the promise I made to myself last night when my flabby butt was jiggling in the elements and see about the gym facilities here.