Several wall sconces flickered on. My eyes bulged when I saw what the light had to show me: a king-size four-post bed with a sheer canopy and ivory bedding, a stone fireplace flanked by two overstuffed loveseats, and rosy valances swirling their way around a triple window. Lavender brush strokes caressed the walls, while pearly threads of carpeting kissed my feet. And it was all mine. The gods had sent a crumb of justice my way.
“Not bad,” I mumbled.
“What’s that?” Vincent asked.
“Nothing—sorry.” I walked over and sat on one of the loveseats, which felt like velvet and looked like aquamarine—the same color the dancers were wearing in the Degas print hanging over the mantel. “It’s just, this room is really pretty.”
“It’s my personal favorite.” He moved past me and set my bag on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Come on,” he motioned me over to where he stood. “Take a whiff and tell me what you think.”
I didn’t know what he was up to, but he must have been trying to cheer me up. Which was a sweet, albeit futile task. Obediently, I walked to the middle of the room and inhaled. The smell was rich, zesty, inviting, like walking into my favorite pizza place. “Wow,” I said, “you’re right. It smells like…like a feast or something.”
“This room sits directly above the kitchen, and that’s why it’s my favorite. Now if you’ll allow me, I’ll tell you what’s for supper. I’ve got this down to a science, since Miss Rita doesn’t let anyone outside the Henion family in her kitchen while she’s cooking.” He tested the air with several short snuffles at different angles. “Cloves, cinnamon—that’s probably the soup. Veal. Some sort of squash—Miss Rita makes a fabulous acorn squash soaked in brandy and mango juice. Let’s see, mushrooms and…something nutty for dessert. Sound all right?”
I looked at him, wondering if he were kidding. At home, it’s gourmet dining if we bother taking the Spaghettios out of the can. Veal, mangos, dessert? If it weren’t for all those hours I spent drooling over the Whole Foods shelves while I waited for Mom to get out of work, I wouldn’t even know what real food looked like. I wished I could forget how dismal I felt so I could enjoy this place, but I knew that would never happen. Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the mind as the wish to forget it. That’s what some Renaissance guy said about five hundred years ago, and I believe him.
“Supper’s at seven,” he said, returning to the doorway. “You’ve got almost an hour. Oh, if you want me to build a fire later, let me know—it’s my specialty.”
“Okay.” I dug into my back pocket, hoping a dollar would show up, but he disappeared before I could tip him.
The first thing I did when I was alone in the room was kick off my clogs and flop belly up on the bed, just looking around, trying to adjust to this alien physical comfort. Satiny sheets, carpeting deep enough to sleep on, a carved table I hadn’t noticed on my way in. Everything felt plush and elegant and almost sparkly, but somehow unsettling too. Everything so pristine, so quiet, so someone else’s. And here I was, alone in it for the next two weeks.
To busy myself, I decided to unpack. There wasn’t much to do, but I managed to make a little project out of hanging up my shirts, stuffing my underwear into the dresser, and unearthing my hair ties. Next, I headed into the bathroom with my toiletry kit.
Wow, the bathroom. Peacock blue tiles from floor to ceiling, black granite countertop, a light-up mirror, Jacuzzi tub, a separate shower stall, and the crowning cherry: a heated floor. I took my time transforming the space into my altar of vanity, laying out all the wares for my skin, hair, teeth and nails. Then I tried to pretend this was my house, that my beauty products weren’t drugstore knock-offs, that I padded barefoot on heated floors every day of my life. Yeah, right.
Never eat more than you can lift.
—Miss Piggy
“Dinner?” said Vincent from a podium outside the dining room, which was on the far side of the lobby and down a hallway. We were standing in a dimly lit alcove, and he was wearing a suit jacket now. So Vincent was the maître d’, as well as the bellhop. Probably the maid and the dishwasher too.
“Come along, Miss,” he said, pushing open the door behind him and leading me into a small but lavish room where four glass topped tables stood on four oval rugs. The burgundy walls boasted jewel framed mirrors, bead and ceramic hangings, and an ancient map of the world. A huge picture window and a double fireplace completed the room. It felt dark and spicy in here, old and sophisticated, and I hoped I wouldn’t break anything.
Vincent pulled out a high-backed wicker chair for me at the window end of the room. “This is our best table,” he noted as I sat down. “The Bushes always request it when they’re here from Kennebunkport.”
“Bushes?” My disbelief leaked out as a snicker. “As in former Presidents?”
“George, George W, Jeb,” he said. “The food is very good here. Very good.”
“Oh, I know. I mean, I smell it.”
He poured me a glass of water from a crystal pitcher. “Miss Bubbles and George were looking forward to dining with you, but something…came up. I’m afraid you’ll have the place to yourself tonight.”
What? Please, Vincent, tell me I heard you wrong. I couldn’t bear the idea of sitting alone through a whole meal here. I felt watched—the glinting eyes of the mirror jewels, the beaded eyes of the wall hangings, the hungry eyes of the sea dragons that swam the oceans of the antique map, they were all on me. I wished my mother were here. I wished this were a real vacation, and we were sitting down to dinner together. But it wasn’t anything like that, not even close.
“Where are the other guests?” I asked, hopeful for some other warm bodies in the room.
“You’re it,” Vincent answered.
“But what about that girl I saw in the parlor?”
“Girl?”
“Blonde hair, jeans, my age?”
Vincent thought for a second and then shrugged. “Don’t know who you saw, but honestly, no one else is staying here. Maybe it was Mike the heating guy’s daughter. She tags along with him from time to time.” He lit the candle in the center of the table, then made a little bow and disappeared into the kitchen.
I dropped my forehead onto my hands and tried to take a few cleansing breaths. Okay, I told myself, this is going to be okay. Who’d want to eat with a strange girl like that, anyway? Or with George No-Personality Henion? I drank some water from the goblet and began to wonder what could have come up so abruptly. Was George at the bottom of it? Did I disgust him to the point where he refused to come to dinner? A pulse of nausea kicked me in the stomach. All I wanted was to run away, but suddenly Vincent was standing over me again, setting a crock of soup and a loaf of steaming bread on the table.
“A Miss Rita original,” he said proudly. “Cream, cinnamon, cloves, beer and five cheeses.” He refilled my water and retreated.
Cinnamon and cloves—so he was right. I was still queasy, but I picked up my spoon and played with the soup—stirring, lifting, inhaling, stirring some more. This had to be a week’s worth of calories in one bowl—not exactly what I needed. Still, Cook Rita had gone to a lot of trouble, and I didn’t want anyone thinking me ungrateful, so I put a spoonful to my mouth.
Whoa. This was good. Very good, as Vincent said. I ate the rest of the spoonful greedily, then promised myself that would be all.
I broke my promise. This velvet potion was some kind of magic. I was suddenly ravenous, and a pinch less