{ 3 }
When Sandy entered the hotel she felt momentarily strange and shy. She didn’t think she’d ever stayed in a hotel by herself before. The few times she’d paid for accommodation, she and her husband were traveling together. And once she and her sister took a bus trip through the Rockies.
Well, as her mother would have said, ‘you’ve made your bed, girl. Now lie in it.’ Only she wouldn’t actually be making her bed, she thought as she approached a sign that said Reception. A wonderful blessed chambermaid would make her bed for her.
Her room in the Blossom Flower Hotel was on the third floor. She had a view of the car park, which resembled a snow sculpture of vaguely car-shaped mounds. The room was clean, the bed enormous and the bathroom was tiled in marble and stocked little bottles of shampoo and body lotion.
She unpacked her case. Then wondered what to do with herself.
It was six o’clock. She decided to go downstairs for supper.
She’d never eaten dinner alone in a hotel before. The idea seemed glamorous and cosmopolitan. She could be a traveling business woman, or someone attending some sort of conference. She had a book with her, a book club selection that June, who’d picked this month’s read, had promised them wasn’t depressing. She picked it up. Checked herself in the mirror before going down for dinner. Her black slacks were old but pure wool and still decent, her white blouse was neatly pressed and she wore the red and black sweater Elspeth and Bill had given her for her birthday. On impulse, she swiped some red lipstick over her mouth and tied her hair back with a black bow. She’d never dyed her hair in her life. Now it was a silver-white color and still as thick as a young woman’s. If she had a vanity it was her hair. She still wore it long, hanging loose to her shoulders unless she tied it back, as she did now.
Good enough, she thought, and triple checking that she had her key card in her purse, she left the room.
When she got to the lobby, she paused. Of course, this close to the holidays there were no conferences. Probably no traveling business women, either. The only people staying here were probably in town visiting family.
The fake tree in the corner needed dusting, she thought as she passed it, then noted that the local firefighters were doing a toy drive. All the presents under the tree would be picked up tomorrow afternoon and distributed to children of less fortunate families. Of course, tomorrow was Christmas Eve. She made a mental note to purchase a gift the following day.
The Blossom Flower Inn offered both a dining room and a coffee shop. She hesitated but quickly realized she wasn’t quite brave enough to eat in the dining room by herself. Perhaps she’d have her Christmas dinner there. Instead, she headed across the lobby for the brightly lit coffee shop.
As she passed the registration desk, she heard a man say, “Where can I mail this?”
She heard the word ‘mail’ and she turned. After working for the postal service for thirty years she couldn’t help herself. It was like being in a store and hearing a child call, “Mom?” She still caught herself turning to the voice even though her sons were all grown.
“There’s a postal outlet in the mall over the way,” the young man at the desk said.
“Thank you.”
She hesitated, not wanting to interfere, but the parcel probably contained presents – which would never get where they were going in time—but probably had value.
He turned, with his parcel in hand and she said, “Excuse me, but you need to put a return address on that package or the postal service won’t take it.”
He blinked at her. He was around her age, she supposed. A tall man with upright, military bearing and blue eyes that had faded with time. He wore a sports coat and gray trousers and shoes that gleamed with polish. He glanced down at the package, a frown forming.
“It’s for security,” she explained.
“I don’t know what to put as the return address,” he said, sounding a little lost. “Do I put my home address? Where I live? Or the hotel’s address, where I’m staying?”
“Put your home address,” she said. “Then, if the package somehow gets lost, it will come back to you.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling at her as though she’d solved the national debt crisis. “I’ll get a pen from the front desk.”
But the young man had disappeared into the back somewhere. “I’ve got a pen,” she said. She opened her purse and handed him the black pen she always kept clipped to her check book.
He put the parcel down on a handy table beside arm chairs that flanked a gas fireplace. He put a hand into his jacket pocket and emerged with a pair of glasses that should be in a case. He put on the glasses and carefully wrote a home address in Bend, Oregon.
The address he was sending to was local. “It’s a present for my grandson,” he said, handing back her pen.
“You know the package won’t get to him in time.” She felt she had to tell him.
“Doesn’t matter. He’s not there.” He sounded sad. Defeated almost. “They went to Hawaii. My son and his family.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s my fault. They asked me to come for Christmas but I said no. Then I changed my mind. Decided to surprise them.” He shook his head. “Stupid idea. You see, my wife always used to take care of things like this.”
“I know.” Now she understood his slightly lost expression. She thought she’d carried that around with her for at least a year after Henry died. “I didn’t even know how to write a check when I lost my husband. It’s silly the things we let the other person take care of.”
He nodded. “Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome. And good luck.”
He headed to the door with his package under his arm and she took her book and went to the coffee shop.
She paused on the threshold of the brightly-lit space. There were about twenty tables and a lunch counter. All the tables were empty but one which was occupied by a middle-aged couple who looked bored with each other and the food.
A waitress appeared with a fresh pot of coffee. “Seat yourself anywhere,” she called out to Sandy.
She chose a table not too far from the others, thinking it would make the waitress’s job easier, but not so close they’d think she was eavesdropping. Not that they were talking much.
The waitress brought her over a menu and offered her coffee which Sandy accepted. “The special tonight is lasagna,” the woman said. “Vegetarian or meat.” She shifted from one foot to the other as though she’d been standing too long. “It comes with salad and bread and it’s nine ninety-five.”
“That sounds fine,” Sandy said, closing the menu. Even a quick glimpse of the rows of sandwiches and salads and pastas and rice bowls, whatever they were, had overwhelmed her. Lasagna she understood. “I’ll have the vegetarian one.”
She picked up her book. Started to read.
She was half way through her meal when the older gentleman she’d helped earlier paused at the entrance as she’d done. He smiled when he saw her and nodded.
She nodded back.
“Sit anywhere,” the waitress told him. He took a second to make up his mind and then chose a table near Sandy’s. There was snow still melting on his jacket, she noted, and his hair was damp.
“Snow’s really coming down,” he said to her as he settled himself.
“Did you get the parcel mailed all right?”
“Sure did. Thanks.” He rubbed his hands together. They were red from the cold. She was certain his wife would have reminded him to wear gloves and a coat before heading out into a snowstorm.
The waitress came over with the pot of coffee and he accepted a cup. Then she told him about the lasagna special.
“How is it?” he asked Sandy.
“It’s good.”
“I’ll have the meat one.”
“You got it,” their waitress said. And then she turned and refilled Sandy’s coffee. Behind her the other couple were paying, then they left and she and her new friend were alone.
She put down her book. It hadn’t held her interest anyway and said to him, “Why don’t you go to Hawaii?”