Carlton had never been an introspective sort. Even with two bodies in his closet, he was reluctant to make any personal decisions.
He felt comfortable at the Hotel. It was old and grand and reassuring. If he didn’t think too hard, he could almost relax. He had spent most of his evening reading a booklet detailing the Hotel’s history. In 1982, one century after it first opened, the Hotel had been entered into the National Register of Historic Places. In California that kind of honor was usually reserved for old missions. But more than saints had stayed at the Hotel. It had attracted sinners aplenty. The gangsters, pony players, painted ladies, and playboys were as woven into the lore of the property as were the visiting emperors, heads of state, and fabled actors and actresses.
The Hotel. That’s what Southern Californians called it. There was no need to elaborate. There were many pretenders to the throne, but only one Hotel. Its standing was perpetuated by the staff. The switchboard operators were instructed to answer calls with, “The Hotel. May I help you?”
The Hotel had grown in reputation over the years, even gained a dignity that wasn’t there in her youth. Such is the case with many a biography. As the seaside resort became more popular, as La Jolla established itself as a playground for the rich, the Hotel had added, and expanded, and gilded upon the original lily.
Carlton read about the hotel characters, personalities as big as the property. He marveled at the anecdotes, all the tales and tragedies, never stopping to think that he himself was now a part of that history. There was everything at the Hotel, he thought, even a ghost affectionately known as “Stan.” Ladies be warned! the booklet cautioned. Stan wasn’t a malevolent sort, but he did like to show off for pretty women.
Before putting the booklet aside, Carlton read about the guest who came to stay. He envied Wallace Talbot, the artist who had checked into the Hotel in 1942. Half a century later he was still there. “I could never bring myself to leave,” Wallace said.
I know just how he feels, Carlton thought. The Hotel was seductive, a world unto itself. It offered an ongoing soap opera. He could almost pretend that nothing bad had ever happened, that it was all a dream and he had awakened to this beautiful place.
I don’t ever want to leave, either, he thought.