Must Love Otters (15 page)

“Fantastic. Glad I could amuse you.”

She laughs quietly and leans closer to me. “Honestly? Everyone thinks it’s awesome that a live wire is here. We get so many newlyweds and nearly-deads that this place could use a little shaking up.”

Which makes me wonder, quite embarrassed at the thought, “Are there … security cameras … around the outside? Of the building?”

She gives me a quiet, lip-closed smile and nods yes.

“So, you guys saw … the other night …”

“Just a quick bit when you ran around the front of the lodge. And you do have a great body,” she says, her hand on my wrist. “Ryan made sure the footage was deleted so no one would put it on YouTube.”

“Wonderful.”

She thrusts her hand out to me in introduction. “I’m Tabby. And I think you need some pampering.”

“Hollie. And yes. Pampering would be nice.” I’m mortified all over again, the idea of untold numbers of staff watching my naked ass run across the front of the lodge.

“Let’s do this. I have an opening for a massage right at nine, which is,” she looks at her watch, “in eight minutes. Perfect. Then I’ll give you a facial and do your makeup, no charge. Just because I need someone to play with, and you need someone to be nice to you.”

Her kindness almost makes me want to cry, this girl named after a cat. But then I remember that I have a chance at redemption with Roger tonight. Some pampering might be just what I need to get relaxed and in the mood, to let loose and be twenty-five instead of listening to that nasty hag in my head who reminds me that good girls don’t do it on the first date. Technically, bitch, this will be the third date.

Which means all bets are off.

The massage—oh, how my muscles melted into blobby blobs the consistency of beached jellyfish. Mike—Steve—whatever his name is—his hands should be insured by that place that insures Gene Simmons’ tongue and David Beckham’s legs. Even my ankle feels better this afternoon, thanks to Mike/Steve’s special attention to the muscles in my calf. He force-fed me what seemed like a gallon of water afterward, “to flush out the toxins locked in your muscles,” and then scrubbed me down with lavender-infused towels. I smell so good right now, I might make out with myself.

Only I won’t. Because Roger’s hands are far better suited to doing egregious damage to my girl parts.

Tabby continues the Hollie Holiday by practicing her makeup skills on my face. Says she wants to head south to Hollywood after college and break into the makeup artist biz. Even pulls out her phone to show me photos of the fantastic makeup she’s done on some of her staffer comrades.

“You ready?” she says, hands on the back of the chair.

“Ready.” She spins me around slowly, and I’m taken aback by the face in the mirror. It’s me, only better. I look …
pretty
. I haven’t looked pretty in a long, long time.

“Don’t cry! Your mascara!”

“You should be doing this for famous people.”

“I know, right? Some of those stylists are ridiculous. I could do so much better!”

“No, I’m serious. This—you have a gift. I look …”

“Amazing.” Mike/Steve the masseuse steps up next to Tabby. “She does killer work, eh?”

Oh, these adorable Canadians and their
eh
s. “Indeed. Quick. Someone take a picture. I’ll need proof later that I looked so girly.”

“Hot date tonight?” she says, handing my phone back.

“God, I hope so. After the week I’ve had, I need something so immoral, it borders on illegal.”

I try to tip her, but she curls the money back into my hand. “Keep it. Go to the MAC counter as soon as you’re back home and buy yourself some treats. You’ve got a terrific canvas here. Don’t let it fade away.”

“How’d you get so wise?” I laugh. “You’re, what, twelve?”

Tabby hugs me and sends me on my way, but not before she presents me with the crutches bedazzled with ribbons. “Like a parade,” she says. “Pretty crutches for pretty Hollie!”

I never want to leave here.

I feel like a supermodel as I move through the lodge. A little girl smiles at my very fancy crutches. When I round the corner to the front desk area, Miss Betty’s face lights up. “Welllll! I see that Tabby got her claws into you,” she sings. “You look so marvelous, my dear.”

“Like a girl, right?”

“Very much like a girl,” she says, patting my cheek.

“Round two for the hot date.”

“Tonight, dear?”

“Yup. I have one dress left. After that, it’s Levi’s and yoga pants for the duration.”

“Hollie, you could wear a burlap sack and still look lovely. Appreciate this,” she points to all of me, “while you can. It doesn’t last forever, sweetie.”

“That’s what everyone is saying. You guys are making me paranoid.”

“How’s the ankle? Those crutches working out for you?”

“You like my ribbons?”

“Very fetching.”

Another guest taps his cardkey on the counter, his not-so-subtle plea for attention. I wave and hop-skip to the elevator, sort of wishing meanie-face Ryan were at his concierge desk arranging whale watching excursions so he could see how cute I look.

I am absolutely down to the last winsome thing I brought with. It’s almost five—perfect timing. With the simple swipe of a credit card, Tabby has made me a vision—even painted my exposed toes of the sprained foot. Like magic.

Standing in the bathroom, I test the ankle. I can tolerate more pressure than I could last night but the zing of pain rockets up the side of my leg with too much weight. I hear my dad from the soccer sidelines after I’ve taken a hard hit. “Toughen up, Princess! Play now, cry later!” I am very much in the mood to play now, cry later.

I hope Roger is ready for what’s coming down the elevator for him.

By five thirty, I’m still waiting. One white wine spritzer down, I don’t want to get carried away.
Stay with the game plan, Hollie
. It’s not like he could’ve stood me up, unless he left the island. I consider hobbling over to Miss Betty to see if Roger has checked out, but I don’t want to come off as desperate.

By quarter to six, I am feeling exactly that. Maybe his meeting ran late.

At the maître d’s podium, I ask for a table for two, leaving word with him that Roger Swinyard will be looking for me and here’s five bucks if you can make sure he finds me thanks so much.

Another white wine spritzer. Fifteen more minutes.

And then I see him at the podium. My heart skips a beat. Twelve beats. If it doesn’t restart soon, we’ll have to test the defibrillator I’m sure Concierge Ryan has tucked under his mighty desk. Roger looks absolutely edible in the dark slacks and light blue button-down. Whatever he does to maintain that tan, it looks criminal on him. My mouth is already watering, and there’s nary a crumb of food on the table.

I push my chair back to stand, my hand raised to get his attention, when a gorgeous blond, her dress so tight I can see the outline of her liver, steps next to him and wraps an arm around his middle.

My hand drops.

There has to be some weird mix-up.

“Daddy, let’s eat at this table!” says a miniature version of Roger who materializes from behind the statuesque blond, her hand firmly gripped around Roger Junior’s. A fourth member of their party, yet another tiny clone, this one of the woman, grabs Roger’s unoccupied hand.

He makes eye contact with me—those sheepish, sheepish eyes telling me,
Oh fuck I’ve been caught please don’t say a word
—and then follows his picture-perfect family to the best table next to the roaring fireplace. The woman hugs him before sitting down, the rock on her left fourth finger big enough that it’s wondrous she can lift her arm without mechanical aid.

I slide into my chair, my face raw as if freshly slapped.

We never talked about past relationships because I didn’t want to reveal that the split from Keith was so new. He clearly didn’t want to talk about such things because he’s a cheating, lying son of a bitch.

Oh my God, he has kids. Two beautiful little kids who look at him like he’s some sort of god. The way I look at my dad, like he can do no wrong.

Only Roger is doing so much wrong, lying to their mother, disrespecting their very existence by rubbing his boner on my naïve, ridiculous body.

The wine glass is empty before I can warn myself otherwise.

“Is this seat taken?”

I look up, eyes wide. A man’s voice is not what I expect to hear, given this unnerving plot twist, but the voice does in fact belong to man. If it weren’t for the crooked nose, I’d not recognize him.

“What?”

“This seat. May I occupy it?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“You look breathtaking tonight.”

“What? Yeah … Tabby. She’s great.” Another foolish glance over my shoulder at Roger’s table shoots one more arrow into my chest. His wife is doing her best to mark her territory, her fingers ring-deep in his hair, their smiles warm and affectionate.

“Lying bastard,” I whisper to no one. To Concierge Ryan. Because he’s there and his face is clean and his green eyes are staring back at me with what I expect is pity. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I just don’t think it’s right that this work of art should go unappreciated.” He gestures at me.

“What do you want?”

“Dinner might be nice.”

“Did you know? About Roger?”

“Do we need to talk about that? Maybe we should have that hockey talk. I can get more wine.” He sniffs at my glass. “You drinking spritzers?” He motions to a waiter, points to the wine glass, and holds up two fingers.

“He’s married? How did I not know this?”

“Would you look at that …” Ryan is looking out the tall windows. “There’s a unicorn over there, dancing with his leprechaun friends.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t figure this out.” I’m replaying the last two and a half days, searching for clues, even the slightest hint, that Roger was a married, cheating douche nozzle.

“Oh! And Santa just arrived! Look at that rainbow!”

I slam my hand onto the tabletop, startling the silverware. “What the
hell
are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Just trying to get your attention off matters who don’t deserve it.”

“You knew.”

“Knew what?”

“You knew Roger was married.”

“Hollie Porter, it is none of my business what goes on with the guests here.”

“Bullshit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What would I say? Don’t hump the good-looking business stud with the fake tan and glistening teeth because he’s a lying scoundrel?”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

“As I recall, I tried to mention something along those lines the other day and you shut me down. Told me to stay out of your love life.”

I glower at him. “I don’t even know you. This … this is not happening.”

“You do know me. I’m friend, not foe, Hollie. Let’s have dinner. I can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about the N-H-L.”

My laugh is cruel and acidic. “I don’t want to know anything about your stupid hockey or why you looked like a mountain man three hours ago and now you don’t or how your nose got to be so damn crooked.”

“You don’t have to be mean,” he says, sitting back as the wine arrives. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Maybe I’ve had enough help from you for a lifetime.”

I shove back my chair and grab for the crutches, trying not to look like a clumsy asshole as I hop across the fancy dining room filled with fancy people eating fancy food with their cherubic offspring and fashion-forward wives.

God, you are such a fool.

I need to go home. This was a mistake. Revelation Cove—no, my
life
—has been one fucking disaster after another since I stepped foot out of my apartment. That’s what I get for listening to my drunken self.

I don’t stop at the front desk to ask Miss Betty why
she
didn’t tell me about Roger because this place is filled with traitorous liars. They probably all knew about it. Tabby said it herself—it’s gossip central around here. I wonder who won the wager about if Roger would nail the dumb tourist before his 36-24-36 wife arrived.

The sun hasn’t set, though it is low in the sky, painting the chubby gray clouds in the purples and reds and pinks of late spring. Seabirds across the way are tearing apart something on the shore—looks like a dead fish. It’s dinnertime. I should be tearing apart my own fish, though with a little less violence, giggling at the clever things my dinner date has to say, enjoying the adoration of being the only one in the room who looks this good on crutches.

Instead I’m down on the dock in front of the lodge, stopping only because I can go no farther without falling into the water. The tears have made a ruinous mess of Tabby’s handiwork, I’m sure, but who cares? All of this fawning and special treatment was just a big fucking joke. Now everyone’s tee-heeing over clinking shot glasses, watching the pathetic Hollie fall apart on the closed-circuit security television.

Among the row of small boats moored to the dock, canvas tarps covering passenger compartments, one remains open. I don’t think—I act. Perhaps a float in a boat is exactly what I need right now. Time away from Roger and his magazine-spread family, from Concierge Ryan’s piteous face, from the knowing glances of staff who saw me going gaga over that ridiculously handsome man because
oh my God someone who isn’t Keith is paying attention to me
.

Frailty, thy name is woman.

Shut up, Hamlet.