The lovely concierge and event coordinator at Iron Furnace Lake Resort, Stacia O’Dell, had eyes the pale green of honeydew melon. She met Luther—posing as Martin Moses, event planner from Atlanta—at the front desk. When he claimed to be inquiring on behalf of a hedge fund that he was not at liberty to name, Stacia was pleased to show what the resort had to offer. She understood that cost was of no concern. Seeking a venue to host a five-day bonding getaway for their fifty highest-tier executives, the principals of a hedge fund would find no price too steep. And when Martin Moses didn’t at once offer a business card, Stacia had the grace not to ask for one, lest she be mistaken for doubting a clearly cultured, well-spoken, quite convincing black man solely because of his race.
He said, “They tell me they want the ‘Kentucky-Tennessee experience,’ as though Nashville and Louisville are cut from the same cloth. But we’ll forgive them their provincialism.”
Stacia smiled at his smile. “Well, one thing common to both Kentucky and Tennessee is legendary horses. We have stables here, and even those who’ve never ridden can be matched with a gentle mount. Everyone enjoys our escorted rides through some of the most beautiful scenery in the state.”
“Yes, I saw that on your website. A unique feature. The usual number-one request is a golf course, and so it was this time. Until yesterday, when my clients informed me that a golf-centered retreat was old hat. They’re interested in being adventurous. If only I’d known, I would have called you two weeks ago, when I planned my itinerary.”
Stacia conducted a tour of the premises: an average suite; the stunning lake-view restaurant; the coffee shop with its striking Art Deco décor; a gym offering every conceivable resistance-training machine; the conference rooms and banquet hall; an immense outdoor swimming pool; an even more magnificent indoor pool; the riding stables as elegant as the hotel itself; the marina with its variety of boats; the tennis courts. Out of consideration for the guests currently making use of the men’s and women’s spas, Stacia couldn’t show him those, but a handsome brochure folder, which her assistant had ready for him at the end of the tour, contained a DVD depicting the full range of spa services.
During the tour, he had asked Stacia for a list of conferences and corporate retreats that had been held at the resort during the past three years, as well as any letters from the principals of those organizations that attested to their satisfaction with the experience. These, too, were in the folder she provided.
As though a business card must be too déclassé for Martin Moses of the premiere event-planning firm A Private Affair, he presented to her a cream-colored place card with embossed borders, on which only the ten digits of an Atlanta phone number appeared in exquisite calligraphy.
He had researched A Private Affair before leaving Minnesota, learned that Martin Moses was a partner, and had his multitalented wife, Rebecca, calligraph the phone number on six blank place cards.
“Of course,” he told Stacia, “I’ll be out of the office until next Monday. I find these research trips exhausting, as you might imagine, and to keep myself sane while on the road, I simply refuse to let myself be constantly harassed by my cellphone.”
“It’s the Devil’s invention,” Stacia O’Dell agreed.
“But I will certainly follow up with you early next week, Ms. O’Dell. And unless there’s some Shangri-La out there I’ve yet to discover, I expect we’ll be looking for an agreeable date when you have fifty rooms available. This resort, this town—it’s like one of those beautiful bejeweled Fabergé eggs, isn’t it? A mini-paradise.”