Destiny Lingers (14 page)

Kat throws out a batch of tough love as she hands me a drink. “You’ll get through this, girlfriend,” she says as she lifts her martini glass. “You gotta get through it to get to it! Here’s to gettin’ to it. Cheers!”

“Cheers!”

Hope places her cold martini on the table and her warm hand on my shoulder. “Forget about feeling embarrassed in front of us,” she reassures me. “We’re your girls. We got you. Remember, we’re not here to see through each other; we’re here to see each other through.”

“What have you guys been doing, reading a bunch of self-help books or something?” I tease.

“After it’s all said and done, I guess I’m not really all that surprised,” Hope admits with her head down. “We all saw from day one how much Eve drooled over Garrett and his big TV position.”

“You think all of this is for a TV job?” I ask incredulously.

“Maybe for Eve. She has nothing else,” Hope replies.

“’Cept ho-ing,” says Kat. “And we still don’t know why your idiot husband would risk everything he has by doing something and someone so stupid and so close to home.” Kat bites her martini olive and chews it up. “I’m sorry, but you don’t work out your problems with your wife by sticking your dick in another woman’s pussy!”

“
Kat!”
Hope snaps.

We take long sips of our drinks, staring off into space, in wonder of what we’re all now aware of.

“What are we going to do now?” asks an exasperated Hope.

Kat looks up, waits a beat, and then turns to me and says, “Wipe your tears and dress to kill, honeybunch. We’re going to Boston.”

Chapter
Eighteen

T
hanks to Hope’s job as a flight attendant, we are well on our way to Boston after she finagled three last-minute buddy passes on the shuttle from New York. I admit that we are still a bit tipsy from our martinis back at my house, but we’ve had just enough of the liquid courage to get us on that plane by 8:00 p.m. for our one-hour trek north. We should beat Eve there—but only by an hour or two. We’ve got to move fast.

I called Garrett’s assignment desk before we left for the airport to ask Garrett’s boy, Stevie, where they were putting up my husband in Boston for the big race riot story. The girl who answered the phone informed me that there was no one named Stevie on the desk, no one named Stevie in the entire newsroom, but because she knew I was Garrett’s wife, she would give me the information. Garrett’s staying at the Ritz-Carlton. Once in Boston, we plan to race over to the swanky hotel, all in hope of storming my husband’s room, where we highly suspect we’ll find him fucking my best friend.

Oh, this’ll never
work.

“Y’all got your tickets? We’ve gotta board the plane,” Kat barks as we march down the long LaGuardia Airport hallway leading to the shuttle gate. Kat is acting as if we’re on some kind of military war mission. Perhaps, in a strange way, we are.

Finally seated on the plane, Kat, still breathless, holds an emergency strategy meeting across the aisle.

“Look, we’ll just tell the guy at the front desk that you came to the hotel to surprise your husband for his birthday or something. Hell, you’ve got proof you’re his wife. Wave the ring.”

“Okay, Kat,” I say, totally exasperated. “This is crazy!”

“No, it’s not,” Kat spits back in a harsh whisper. “Not if you want that bitch to stop fuckin’ your husband.”

“Be brave, girl,” Hope offers as she gently pats my hand. “We’re with you on this. Plus, you need to know once and for all what’s really going on between Garrett and Eve—if anything. We’re here to support you. Do not worry.”

I am less worried about the plane going down.

“What if he’s there alone?” I persist. “What’ll I say then?”

“Well, then, say you came to surprise him, that you love him, and then you jump his bones, and get your husband back.” Kat’s cocky smile says she has it all figured out.

“Wouldn’t that be a blessing?” Hope always imagines good things. “I mean, I really pray she’s not there, and this is all a big misunderstanding.”

“Me too,” I say under my breath. I look out the window and down at the bright pinhead lights winking from the ground below. These may be my last moments of solitude. We’ll soon land in Boston, where I may face one of the biggest challenges of my life.

The tall, slender flight attendant speaks with a silky voice through the airplane’s PA system. “Please fasten your seatbelts and prepare for landing. Gather your belongings, and please be careful when opening the overhead bin, as stored items may have shifted during the flight.”

Lady, my whole life has shifted during this fl
ight.

We beat the crowd to the taxi stand and hail a cab. None of us says a word as we make our way through the streets of Boston, silently preparing for what, we do not know.

The Ritz-Carlton reeks of elegance. We drive up to the five-star hotel, where a smiling uniformed gentleman with a bright red face approaches our cab and swings open the door.

“Welcome to the Ritz Cah-lton,” the man exudes in his Boston accent, which only reminds me of how far away we are from Harlem. “Can I gah-ther your bahgs, ladies?” He offers his impeccable white-gloved hand to help us out. Although the man has a round pouch of a stomach, the brass buttons on his jacket still lie uniformly neat and flat.

“We don’t have any bags,” Kat replies matter-of-factly as she slowly steps one of her long cocoa legs out of the cab. She lifts her skirt just a bit, and then, with a coy smile, she offers the man her hand. Quite pleased, he helps her out of the car, stealing a quick glance at her lithe legs. As Kat stands, she moves in closer to her unsuspecting prey. With a sexy lift of her eyebrow and a naughty twinkle in her eye, she seductively slips the man a hefty tip inside his left breast pocket. She smiles again, serving the man a sweet little pat-pat-pat on his pocket and then winks as she turns and smoothly floats away. “Thank you, sir,” she purrs.

The man’s eyes follow the slow and purposeful sway of Kat’s voluptuous hips as she saunters her way up the long marble staircase leading to the world-famous Ritz. The uniformed man with the big brass buttons admires Kat as if she’s a delicious piece of chicken.

Hope suddenly jabs me with her skinny elbow and together, we swiftly follow our Oscar-worthy girlfriend across the red carpet, up the marble stairs, and through the revolving door. From the scowl on her face, I can tell Hope is annoyed with Kat’s bellhop theatrics.

“I do not believe you actually flirted with that big fat man!” Hope snaps at Kat as we tumble out of the revolving door and into the marble lobby. “You looked ridiculous out there, winking and rubbing on him like that.”

“Hey, look.” Kat spins around to face Hope. “That big fat man might be able to help us later. You never know. Now, let’s move. We’ve got business to handle.” Kat turns and struts away toward the front desk.

Hope and I, growing even more nervous, follow Kat.

The hotel lobby is simply breathtaking, with thick, ornate, gilded molding wrapping around the tops of the high marble walls. Angels in white flowing gowns and chubby blushing cherubs in baby-blue sashes gracefully fly around overhead in the oil-painted fresco on the ceiling. Posh Elizabethan furniture, selectively situated on Persian rugs scattered throughout the area, create conversation pits where well-dressed, well-mannered, and surely well-invested guests comfortably lounge, enjoying polite exchanges.

This is amazing. I am shocked that ABC would send my rookie-producer husband to the glitzy Ritz-Carlton Hotel just “so the people shall know.” I wonder why he didn’t invite me to come along, especially over the weekend, particularly since we’re going through this difficult time.

“Good evening, ladies.”

I snap out of my awe-induced stupor as an olive-colored man with a thick French accent greets us from behind the mahogany front desk. “May I help you with your reservations?” He grabs a leather ledger, flips through the pages, and then looks up at us with elegant anticipation.

“No,” Kat replies sweetly. You could squeeze sugar out of her tone. “We don’t have any.” She bats her big brown eyes as she leans in closer over the desk, as if she’s letting the man in on something, like a peek at her bosom. “You see, we are actually here to surprise Mrs. Nelson’s dear husband, who is staying here at your fine hotel.” Kat smiles as she wraps her arm around my shoulder as if to prove that I am really Mrs. Nelson. For some odd reason, I instinctively flash my wedding ring.

“Ah, I see,” replies the man, though he is still looking at us with a hint of reservation as we don’t have one. I pray he doesn’t take us for call girls.

“What is your husband’s name?” the man asks.

Kat squeezes my shoulder, jolting me to answer the question.

“Oh, Garrett. Garrett Nelson,” I quickly insert. My heart is pounding wildly. Why do I suddenly feel as if I’m lying?

“Mr. Nelson?” the man asks with a raised brow as he shuffles through the pages of his ledger. “Mr. Garrett Nelson?”

I nod as the three of us rise up to peer over the tall desk at the big book, as if it holds a treasure chest of secrets.

“Ah, yes!” the man suddenly exclaims, his eyes lighting up with swift recognition. “Of course, of course, Mr. Nelson. Such a nice gentleman,” he says. “But madame, I do not believe you have surprised your
tres intelligente
husband this time.” He waves his long index finger at me and smiles. “
Non
, in fact, Mr. Nelson was holding a very special table for the two of you in our main dining room. He told me specifically to make everything this weekend ‘very special for Mrs. Nelson.’”

Hope, Kat, and I are shocked. We look at each other, blinking through blank stares, our minds and thoughts racing, while trying not to show our mass discomfort. My throat has turned to sandpaper. This is one surprising twist that even our brave Sherlocking strategist Kat had not figured out.

“He just left a message, however.” The man snaps back into his elegant, professional tone. He squints at his ledger, reading some small print. “Ah, yes.” He turns around to the dark wooden chest of mail cubbyholes behind him and pulls out a shiny room key dangling on a gold tassel. “Mr. Nelson asked us to inform you that he is held up at work and will, unfortunately, not be back in time for the special dinner he had planned for the two of you. However, Mr. Nelson asked that we give you the key to your suite, where you can go inside and make yourself comfortable until he arrives. I think you will be very happy with the accommodations, Mrs. Nelson. Your husband left no detail untouched.” The man beams brightly.

I feel a strange sense of doom.

He hands over the key, holding the gold tassel between the long slender fingers of his well-manicured hand. I stare at the dancing metal before me and want to throw up. Nervous, speechless, and paralyzed by the shock of it all, my eyes won’t stop blinking. It’s as though they are trying to wipe away the harsh and brutal reality hanging right here in front of my face, dangling right before my eyes, dangling its promise to Eve.

“Thank you very much.” Kat abruptly snaps the gold tassel from the man’s hold. “Mr. Nelson is such a thoughtful man, isn’t he?” She fakes a charming grin through rising venom. “Which way to the Nelson suite?”

“Just through the archway there.” The man behind the desk directs with his graceful hand. “Emilio will gladly show you the way.”

“Thank you,” we three respond in unison.

“Just go with the flow,” Kat assures us in a tight whisper, with a dogged determination under her brow. I am literally shaking, my nerves are so shot. This little sojourn of ours has just gone from really bad to even worse.

“Right this way, beautiful ladies.” An energetic Emilio sweeps us across the gilded lobby toward the bank of polished brass elevators. “Floor twelve,” he jovially announces as he pushes the up button with his gloved hand.

We stand here together, not daring to speak a word in front of this short, jolly stranger. I stare at our reflections shining in the polish of the brass elevator doors. We are each in our own deep abyss of heavy thought and grave contemplation, all except for the cheery little man standing here dutifully at our service. The heavy doors of the elevator clank open. We step in. The stocky bellman pushes the button for the twelfth floor, and we begin our slow, smooth ascent to anywhere but heaven. I think of all the frescoed angels soaring above the guests in the lobby below, and I pray that at least one of them is following us up to the twelfth floor.

The elevator bell rings, signaling our arrival. We walk out in silence and into the long, winding carpeted hallway that leads to my husband’s love den. “Ah, suite 1207!” Emilio hastens to the door. “This is one of our best.” His pride shines from underneath his little round hat and bushy brows. “Your husband is one of our best too. Mr. Nelson has climbed mountains to make sure you are comfortable in his absence, Mrs. Nelson.”

Emilio sticks the key in the door and turns the lock. It opens with a hushed click.

“Here you are, ladies. Suite 1207,” Emilio announces as he politely escorts us inside the cozy yet opulent suite. “I think you will enjoy the many amenities Mr. Nelson has ordered for your comfort.” Emilio smiles without looking at me. “Please do not hesitate to ring us if you require anything else during your stay. We only aim to please.” Emilio’s smile lingers. So does he.

Kat is on it in a snap. With a crisp twenty-dollar bill neatly folded in the palm of her hand, she takes Emilio by the arm and escorts him out the door.

“Thanks, Emilio,” she gushes as she seductively presses the bill into his waiting glove. “I see why the Nelsons always insist on staying at the Ritz. Ta-ta,” she coos, playfully tickling her fingers at him as she pushes the poor soul back out into the posh hallway.

“Phew!” Kat exhales with her back to the door. “That little man is a little too happy.”

“Now what do we do?” Hope looks as if she’s about to cry. We both turn to Kat for direction and strength.

“Well, let’s think,” We follow Kat deeper into the suite.

It is one of the most lavish rooms I have ever seen. The large luxurious living room is decorated in deep shades of forest green, with inviting lounge chairs upholstered in rich, luxurious fabrics. I can’t help but run my fingers along their textured backs and arms. Coffee tables with intricate inlaid wooden patterns hold porcelain lamps, painted with scenes of geisha girls dressed in brightly colored silk kimonos.

“Whoa, look at these.” Hope is gawking at a ginormous bouquet of red roses in the center of the dining table. Carefully positioned in a sparkling crystal vase, the bouquet sits there like a pretty lady-in-waiting.