His wife has been looking increasingly unhappy lately, but, he tells himself, it’s not just because of him. It’s the kids too. Her job. Encroaching middle age. Her thickening waistline. It’s everything. But one person can’t be responsible for another person’s happiness. She is responsible for her own. He can’t make her happy.
Yet, he’s not a complete heel. He knows it’s not that simple. He loved her once. She’s the mother of his children. He simply doesn’t love her anymore. And he has no idea what to do about it.
* * *
• • •
Dana Hart stamps the snow off her Stuart Weitzman boots at the front doorstep and looks around the lobby approvingly. The first thing that strikes her is the grand central staircase. The newel post and railings are elaborately carved out of a burnished, dark wood. The stairs are wide, with a thick runner in a dark floral pattern. She can see the glint of the brass carpet rods holding the runner in place. It’s very impressive, and these days Dana isn’t easily impressed. The staircase makes her think of Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, or perhaps Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. It’s the kind of staircase you put on your best long dress for, and make an entrance, she thinks. I’m ready for my close-up. Unfortunately, she didn’t bring any evening gowns. What a shame for such a glorious staircase to go to waste, she thinks. Next she notices the large stone fireplace on the left side of the lobby; around it are arranged a lot of comfortable-looking sofas and chairs for lounging in, some in deep-blue velvet, others in dark-brown leather, accompanied by little tables with lamps on them. The walls are paneled halfway up from the floor with dark wooden wainscoting. A gorgeous Persian carpet covers part of the dark wood floors and makes everything feel cozy but expensive, which is just what she likes. A chandelier sparkles overhead. The smell of the wood fire reminds her of blissful days spent at Matthew’s family cottage. She breathes deeply and smiles. She’s a very happy woman. Recently engaged, on a weekend tryst with the man she is going to marry. Everything is glorious, including this lovely hotel that Matthew has found for them.
He dropped her in front and is parking the car. He’ll be here in a minute with their bags. She sets off across the lobby past the fireplace to the old-fashioned reception desk to the left of the staircase. Everything here gleams with a patina of age and good furniture polish. There’s a young man behind the desk, and another man, older—obviously a guest—leaning against it, leafing through some pamphlets. He glances up when he sees her. He stops for a second, stares, and then smiles in an embarrassed way and looks away. She’s used to it. She has that effect on men. As if when they see her, they can’t believe their eyes for a minute. She can’t help that.
The younger man behind the desk does an almost imperceptible double take, but it’s there. She’s used to that too.
“I’m Dana Hart. My fiancé and I have a reservation under the name Matthew Hutchinson?”
“Yes, of course,” the young man says smoothly and looks at the register. She notices that they use an old hotel register—how quaint—rather than a computer system for checking in guests. Behind the desk, against the wall, are wooden pigeonholes for the room keys. “You’re in room 201. Up the stairs to the second floor and to the right,” the young man tells her.
The door opens behind her with a burst of cold air and she turns to see Matthew with a bag in each hand and a dusting of snow on his coat and on his dark hair. He comes up beside her and she brushes the snow off his shoulders; she enjoys these little demonstrations of ownership.
“Welcome to Mitchell’s Inn,” the young man behind the desk says, smiling and handing over a heavy brass key. She notices now how attractive he is. “Dinner is in the dining room from seven to nine P.M. We offer drinks in the lobby before dinner. Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you, I’m sure we will,” her fiancé says, giving her a look. She raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows at him, her way of telling him to behave himself in public.
* * *
• • •
Matthew picks up the bags again and follows Dana up the wide staircase. He notices that there’s no elevator. It’s a small hotel. He chose carefully. He wanted someplace quiet and intimate to spend some time with Dana before all the craziness of the wedding, which he would prefer to avoid altogether. He wishes they could elope to some delightful spot in the Caribbean. But the heir to a large fortune in New England does not elope. Such a thing would crush his mother, and all his aunts, and he’s not prepared to do that. And he knows that Dana, despite her sometimes becoming overwhelmed with the stress of the planning, the appointments, the millions of details such a wedding entails, is actually quite thrilled about the whole thing. But she’s been prone to emotional outbursts lately. This break will be good for both of them before the final push to their spring wedding.
The thick rug softens their footsteps so that it is almost perfectly quiet as they walk up the stairs to the second floor and a few steps along the hall to room 201. There’s an oval brass plate on the door, engraved with the number, and an old-fashioned keyhole lock.
He unlocks the door and opens it for her. “After you.”
She steps inside and smiles approvingly. “It’s lovely,” she says. She whirls to face him as he closes the door firmly behind them.
He puts his arms around her and says, “You are lovely.” He kisses her; eventually she pushes him away with a playful shove.
She shrugs out of her coat. He does the same and hangs them up in the wardrobe. They examine the room together. The bed is king-size, of course, and the linens, he notes, are first rate. There are chocolates wrapped in foil resting on the pillows. The bathtub is obviously intended for two, and a bucket of champagne on ice rests on a little table near the door, with a note of welcome. The windows look out onto the vast front lawn with snow-weighted trees, and the long, curving drive leading down to the main road, filling up fast now with snow. Half a dozen cars are parked in the lot to the side of the lawn. The two lovers stand together side by side, looking out.
“It’s the honeymoon suite,” he tells her, “if you haven’t already guessed.”
“Isn’t that bad luck?” she asks. “To book the honeymoon suite when it’s not really your honeymoon?”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” They watch a car struggle bravely up the drive and pull slowly into the lot. Four people get out. Three women and a man. He nuzzles her neck and says, “How about a nap before dinner?”
* * *
• • •
Ian Beeton drops into one of the chairs next to the fireplace in the lobby while Lauren signs in and gets the key to their room. He wouldn’t mind a drink. He wonders where the bar is. The dining room is to the right, off the lobby—the glass doors to the dining room are open and he can see tables with white linen tablecloths set up inside. The place is quite charming. Probably lots of little rooms and hallways and alcoves by the look of it; not like a typical modern hotel, built for efficiency and maximum returns.
He turns his attention to the two women they rescued. Gwen, the driver, is getting the key to their room. It looks like they’re sharing. He watches them go up the stairs together. He lets his mind drift.
Lauren approaches and holds out her hand to him. “Ready to go up?”
“Sure.”
“Dinner is from seven to nine in the dining room, but we can have cocktails down here,” she tells him.
“Good. What are we waiting for?”
“We’re on the third floor.”
He gets up and lifts the bags, then follows Lauren up the stairs. The place seems so quiet. Maybe it’s the snow, or the thick carpet, or the soft lighting, but everything seems muffled, subdued.
“Did you notice anything odd about that woman Riley?” Lauren whispers as they climb the elaborate staircase.
“She looked pretty rattled,” he admits.
“She didn’t say a word the whole tim
e. I mean, they only slid into a ditch. No actual harm done.”
“Maybe she’s been in a car accident before.”
“Maybe.” When they reach the third floor she turns to him and says, “She seemed awfully tense. I got a weird vibe off her.”
“Don’t think about her,” Ian says, giving her a sudden kiss. “Think about me.”
THREE
Friday, 5:30 p.m.
Gwen sits on the bed farthest from the door—they have a room on the third floor with two double beds, as requested—and watches Riley anxiously. She could tell that woman, Lauren, had been wondering about her.
It dawns on Gwen for the first time that maybe she isn’t what Riley needs right now. Gwen is becoming infected by Riley’s quiet panic, rather than Riley being reassured by Gwen’s calm pragmatism. Riley has always been the stronger personality; she probably should have realized that Riley would have an effect on her rather than the other way around. Already Gwen finds herself looking into dark corners, jumping at unexpected sounds, imagining bad things happening. Perhaps it’s just being in a strange place, and the old-world atmosphere of this hotel.
“Maybe we should freshen up a bit and go down for a drink before dinner,” Gwen suggests.
“Sure,” Riley says unenthusiastically.
She’s pale, and her long blond hair hangs limply around her face. There is none of that liveliness she used to have. She was beautiful once, but now it’s hard to think of her that way. What an awful thought, Gwen realizes. She hopes that beauty will return. Gwen looks imploringly at her. “I know you’re going through a tough time. But you have to try.”
Riley flashes a look at her; annoyance maybe, or resentment. Anger. Gwen feels a little flare of anger of her own and thinks suddenly that it’s going to be a long weekend if she has to watch everything she says. But she immediately reminds herself that Riley is one of her best friends. She owes her. She wants to help her get back on her feet; she wants her gorgeous, vivacious friend back. She wants to be jealous of her again, she realizes, like she used to be.
“Let me brush your hair,” Gwen says. She gets up off her bed and rummages through Riley’s handbag for her hairbrush. Then she sits down on the bed behind her and starts brushing her hair in long, soothing strokes. As she does, she sees Riley’s shoulders begin to loosen a little. Finally she says, “There. Put some lipstick on. I will too. And we’ll go down and get something to eat. Then we can come up here and have a quiet night and talk, just like we used to. Or read, if that’s what you want.” She’s brought a couple of books herself. She wouldn’t mind escaping into a book. Her own life is far from perfect.
* * *
• • •
A corridor runs past the reception desk along the west side of the hotel, dividing the west wing of the hotel into front and back rooms. Down the hall is a bar, but when David Paley pops his head in, the room is empty. To the right of the door is the bar itself, with an impressive array of liquor bottles, but there is no one behind it to serve him. The room is paneled in the rich, dark wood of the lobby. Across from the bar, on the other side of the room, is a fireplace with a handsome mantel, and above the fireplace is an oil painting—a dark, moody study of a man holding a pheasant by the feet. The windows look out onto the front lawn. In front of the fireplace is a gathering of small tables and aged, comfortable leather chairs. It’s a man’s room. He wonders whether he should stay and hope a bartender shows up, or return to the lobby and have a drink brought out there. It’s awkward, traveling alone. He sits in a leather club chair by the fireplace, even though there is as yet no fire burning in the grate, waits a few minutes, supposes that no one is coming, and wanders back out to the lobby. There’s no one there either; the young man who was behind the desk earlier has vanished. David taps the old-fashioned bell on the front desk. The clear ring is louder than he expected and he starts a little. The same young man from before rushes up to the desk, appearing from the hall that runs behind it, beside the staircase.
“So sorry to keep you waiting,” he says. “We’re a bit short staffed because of the weather.” He smiles apologetically.
“I was wondering if I could get a drink.”
“Of course. We’re going to be serving drinks here in the lobby. I’ll be bringing out the bar cart in a couple of minutes.”
“That’s fine,” David says amicably. He just wants a drink, a comfortable chair, and a warm fire. And then a good dinner and a deep, undisturbed sleep.
He sits down and wonders who might join him. He soon hears the rumble of wheels and the sound of glasses and glances up and sees the young man pushing a well-stocked bar cart into the lobby. The usual bar staples are there, as well as a cocktail shaker, a bucket of ice, several mixes and garnishes, good liqueurs, and assorted glasses. Underneath are wine bottles, as well as a champagne bucket filled with ice, with the foil-wrapped neck of a bottle sticking out.
“What will you have?” asks the young man.
He’s just a kid, really, David thinks. He looks so young. Twenty-one, maybe. “What’s your name?” David asks.
“Bradley,” he answers.
“Are you old enough to serve alcohol in the state of New York, Bradley?” he quips.
“I’m older than I look,” Bradley grins. “Twenty-two.”
“Then a gin and tonic, please,” David says, smiling back.
He prepares the drink expertly. As David watches him, he catches movement in the corner of his eye and looks up. There’s a youngish couple coming down the stairs.
“Oh, look,” the man says, spying at the cart. He smiles and rubs his hands together for effect.
David can’t help but notice his smile. It makes the man instantly likeable. He’s tall and lanky, with rumpled brown hair and a five o’clock shadow—the casual type, in jeans and a plaid shirt, but David suspects he could carry that look off anywhere. David is pleased to see him; he could use some light, distracting conversation. The woman with him is attractive, but not as striking as the woman who passed him awhile ago on the stairs. For a moment he wonders if everyone here is part of a couple.
“Mind if we join you?” the man says.
“Not at all,” David says.
“I’m Ian,” he says and extends a hand.
The woman beside him reaches out her hand in turn and says, “I’m Lauren.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he says. “David.”
“It seems a bit empty,” Lauren muses, looking around.
Bradley nods and says, “The hotel isn’t full. We have twelve guest rooms but only six are occupied this weekend. We had some cancellations because of the snow. And some of our staff—the bartender, for one, and the housekeeper, for another, weren’t able to make it in. But I’m here, so we’re good.” He clasps his hands together. “I know a few things about mixing drinks,” he adds spontaneously. “The bartender’s been teaching me.”
“Excellent!” Ian says. “Can you make me a whiskey and soda?”
“Of course.”
“And I’ll have a Manhattan,” Lauren says.
“Did the chef make it in okay?” Ian asks. “Because I’m starving.”
Bradley cocks one eyebrow, “Don’t worry. My dad’s the chef. It’s a family-owned hotel. We live on-site—in an apartment at the end of the hall, past the bar.” He nods toward the hallway. “He and I should be able to manage all right until the roads are cleared. Although dinner will be more of a buffet tonight.”
A blast of wind slams angrily against the windows. The guests turn instinctively toward the sound.
“We get some good storms up here,” Bradley says.
Now David notices an older man appear in the lobby. Judging by the apron he’s wearing, he came from the kitchen, which must be behind the dining room. Bradley’s father.
“Welcome,” he says. “I’m James Harwood, the owner of the hotel. And the chef.”
He adds, “And don’t worry, I promise we will take very good care of you, whatever the weather.”
David sizes him up. He has a confident air, someone who is certain he can make good on his promise. He’s obviously been very successful with this hotel; he’s proud of his establishment, and it shows. He chats with them for a moment and returns to his kitchen.
David settles back in his chair, once again looking forward to his weekend.
* * *
• • •
Lauren watches Ian charm the man sitting by the fire. Ian can get on with anyone. He’s already discovered that David is a criminal defense attorney from New York City. Now he’s trying to draw him out about some of his cases.
“What was the most interesting case you ever worked on?” Ian asks curiously.
“They’re all interesting,” the attorney says, with a slightly evasive smile.
“Are there any we might have read about in the papers?” Lauren asks.
“Possibly.”
At that moment she senses someone coming down the staircase and glances upward, over her shoulder. She sees that it’s Gwen and Riley. She catches the attorney watching them as they descend. The two women make their way over to them and sit down together on a sofa across from the fire. Gwen gives them a tentative smile; Riley doesn’t look at anyone. But Bradley is there with the drinks, creating a useful distraction. They each ask for a glass of merlot and fall silent.
Gwen looks quite different without her ski hat and puffy winter jacket, Lauren thinks. She’s petite and slim, and her shiny black hair makes a striking contrast to her creamy white skin. Riley is taller, and her blond hair falls limply to her shoulders. She looks unhealthy next to Gwen.