After the Climb (River Rain 0.50)

“That wasn’t necessary,” though it absolutely was, “but thank you.”

“Ms. Sinclair believes it is,” she replied, referring to the owner of the place. Having been fiddling with things at her desk, she handed me my key card. “You’re on the top floor. Room four-oh-one. With a view to the square. We have your cell number on file in case of emergencies, and your credit card in case of incidental charges, so all is well. The elevator is behind me, to your right.”

“Again, thank you.”

“My pleasure, and should you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask any member of staff.”

I nodded.

After she gave me a thankfully non-obsequious smile to end the equally thankfully non-obsequious check-in process, she busied herself with something at her desk.

Rodney continued to shield me from the bar as we moved beyond it toward the elevators.

When we’d stopped at them, and he’d shifted in order to shield me from the lobby, I looked up to him.

“Honestly, I can take it from here.”

“I’ll see you to your room, Ms. Swan.”

I was sensing from his demeanor that he would.

I gave in. We entered the tiny elevator. And we were silent on the way up, the short walk to the door to my suite, and through it after I touched the key card to the pad.

Rodney moved directly to the sizable, antique, free-standing wardrobe as I looked around.

The room was large, as it would be, considering it was their deluxe suite, taking half the top floor and spanning the entire front of the hotel.

Six arched windows (I suspected two more in the bathroom). Black-backed wallpaper adorned with gold and blue and cream with purple-edges flowers. Camelback settee with scrolled arms covered in an ivory brocade damask. Tufted armchairs angled across from it in brown velvet. Heavily carved, oval coffee table in between that held an attractive urn stuffed full of fresh peonies, dahlias and trailing greenery that looked tipped with berries.

The king bed up against the wall to the right was high, huge, dizzyingly carved, padded and radically covered with pillows.

There was a writing desk at an angle beside one of the two fireplaces, facing the room. It had delicately swooping legs and was accompanied by a Belvedere oval-backed chair.

There was also a small bistro table with two chairs in front of one of the windows, the better to enjoy morning coffee and a croissant with a view to the bustle of the square.

And oddly, since it was situated all the way across from the bed, double doors opened to an extravagant Victorian bathroom with gold wallpaper, marble-edged copper basins, a sunken tub, intricately carved wainscoting painted coin-gray, all of this topped with an opulent chandelier.

Last, there was a silver bucket containing a bottle of champagne, a napkin precisely folded and draped over it. And beside the floral arrangement was a plate of what looked like homemade chocolate chip cookies under a glass dome.

It was extraordinary.

I loved every inch.

So much, I could stay in that space for weeks.

But honestly, they had me with the cookies.

My son called me the Cookie Monster.

And there was reason.

Rodney’s voice took me out of my admiration of the room and thoughts of my second born.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home?”

I turned to him to see him at the door, but on my way, I noted he’d erected the luggage stand, and laid my suitcase on it. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

I licked my lips and felt my face soften.

Even the best of actresses could not pull one over on the kindest of souls.

He knew nothing, and yet, having sat often behind the wheel with me in the back, or me in the back with one or both of my daughters and/or my son, he sensed everything.

“Truly, I’ll be all right,” I lied.

He knew I was lying and did not hide that fact.

Even so, he said, “I’ll be back tomorrow at eight to take you home.”

I nodded.

He moved to the door.

He then gave me a long last look, dipped his chin, and left the room.

I stared at the closed door and my eyes started stinging.

“No, no, no, after the facial,” I said to myself, and then got busy.

Unpack first, since I hated living out of suitcases, even only for a day, and hated more not having my toiletries and toothbrush at hand when I needed them.

Check.

Go to the floral arrangement and read the note sticking out. Heavy stock. Folded once. And at the front, an embossed Sienna Sinclair.

Handwritten inside,

Ms. Swan,

We’re honored you selected The Queen.

If there’s anything my staff or I can do to make your visit more enjoyable, please do not hesitate to ask.

Yours,

Sienna

Nice.

Classy.

Read.

Check.

Peruse room service menu and call down to order, giving them a time to deliver, so it’d be ready when I was. Then ask them to refresh the ice in my champagne bucket so I could enjoy it with dinner.