Page 43 of Sapphire Sunset

“Sandra, every night this week I will replay the simple,polite, but devastatingly effective speech you made to the building managerabout fire safety, how electricity actually works, and how short our livesmight have been if we’d actually plugged all of thestage’spower cords into the one power strip he bought for us earlier today, eventhough we told him, three weeks ago, exactly what our electricity needs wouldbe. I was a particular fan of the graceful hand gestures you used to indicate aconflagration capable of wiping out a city block.”

“Thanks. I minored in large-scale conflagrations in college.”Sandra fluttered one manicured hand through the air as if to indicate a riverof fire.

“And Sarah,” Connor continued.

Sarah, their newest member, with her Kewpie doll face andadorable chipmunk voice, braced herself as if for a physical blow. “Oh, God,me? No, not me. I was horrible today.”

“Wrong turn onto the Queensboro Bridge and the resultingpanic attack notwithstanding, you demonstrated an amazing amount ofsticktoitivenessafter our idiot ice sculpture artist liedto us about having a delivery van, which manifested in your willingness to gocompletely outside of your comfort zone to get the job done.”

“And Manhattan,” Chad muttered.

Connor raised a warning finger. “Even if, I’m sorry to say,through no fault of your own, you brought us the wrong ice sculptures.”

“What?No!” Sarah lunged at the gap between thecolumns next to Connor so she could see the melting ice sculptures towering overthe now depleted raw bar. “Oh my God. They’re supposed to be two globes. Thoseare…people.”

“No, they were never people. They were always ice,” Sandrasaid.

“Icepeople, I think is what she’s saying,” Sueoffered.

“Indeed,” Connor answered. “I did some research, andapparently the one close to us is IvanHirschbaum,and the one farther away is his wife, Eva. They celebrated their fiftieth weddinganniversary this afternoon in Greenpoint. With our ice globes, apparently.However, since the sculptures were packed in dry ice when you picked them up,this is once again the complete fault of our idiot ice sculptor who we willnever use again because tomorrow he’ll be dead and floating in the East Riverwith Jaycee’s handprints around his neck.”

“Also,” Sandra said, “I passed by the raw bar earlier, andit sounded like everyone thought they were the Greek gods of art and literatureor something, so I think as far as the guests go, we’re fine.”

“They don’t look Greek to me,” Chad said.

By this point in the event, they looked like monstrosities outof theHouse of Wax,but the point was Sarah should get credit forwhat she had managed to accomplish.

“All right, everyone. One glass of champagne and then oncethey start the exit music, you’re at your breakdown stations. Nothing stays.It’s one of those, so stay on your vendors to pack up so we can get out of herebefore midnight.”

The group dispersed, leaving Connor alone to study thetwinkling sea of banquet tables, the precise shafts of lighting that dividedthe stage without obscuring the massive projection of the center’s elegant logoonto a white tapestry draped over what had once been the cathedral’s altar.

Then he made the mistake of looking down at his own flute,and the sparkling shade within made him five years younger, five years dumber,and a few hours away from suffering a rejection that had lingered ever since.

7

If Logan could bottle the energy that filledSapphire Cove’s lobby on Sundays, he’d savor it in sips each morning. It wascaffeine blended in something sweet. The excitement of new arrivals blendedwith the bittersweet farewells of satisfied departing guests.

The checkouts were always the most boisterous. They shoutednervous questions to each other about who’d packed what as they trundled theircarry-ons across the marble floors, which sparkled with a new shine after therecent renovation. They either sought out the bellmen or ignored their help toavoid doling out one last tip. But the envious looks they all gave Logan asthey passed into the motor court said the same thing: He was surrounded by thisbeauty all year long, and for this, he was a lucky man.

Sunday check-ins sent the same message. They were mostlyconference attendees, wide eyed and grateful as they realized their sterileoffices would be replaced for a week by Dale Chihuly-inspired chandeliers andpanoramic views of the Pacific. The vacationing couples and families, they’darrive later in the week, and with them a sense of stress and entitlement, adesire to make their three days perfect. If Logan could give them any advice,it was let your trip happen to you and not the other way around.

But until then, Sunday mornings were a chance for Logan toremind himself of the pact he’d made for himself—never take Sapphire Cove’sbeauty for granted. He was lucky to have this job, lucky to spend his days inthis gorgeous place. Lucky the place had given him the stability he’d needed tohelp turn his father’s life around.

The latest renovation had only amplified that beauty. Theold gift shop that once bisected the lobby had been swept away, replaced by anopen seating area that allowed an uninterrupted view from the lobby doors tothe wall of plate glass windows in the restaurant overlooking the coastline.The lobby seating areas were now clusters of square, wicker love seats andchairs with deep cushions of aqua and coral beneath chandeliers that looked likesea anemones. The potted plants were spare, slender, and artfully arranged intheir tiled ceramic pots so as not to block the view.

Inside Camilla’s, where the holdouts tried to drink in asmuch as they could of the cliffs and ocean before checkout time, the once gaudygold furnishings had been replaced by glass and metal tables and chairs thatseemed to float against the ocean’s blue expanse.

And yeah, Rodney Harcourt could be a prick, and Logan wasstill sore he’d been passed over for the security director gig, and Buddy’splan to write him up still had him gritting his teeth every time he thoughtabout it, but Logan took some pride in the fact that the general managerthought he was a fixture worthy of these surroundings.

The fact was, he loved this place, loved that it was still ascrappy, family-owned business on a coastline peopled by posh corporateoutposts. Even if the family had its issues and its tragedies.

And he loved the kids. The ones who’d wander away from theirparents and hide behind potted plants, engaging him in a game of peekaboo thatsoon became their whole delighted world. Logan had a sixth sense for thepresence of the little tykes, and he’d always manage to scoop them up in onepowerful arm before they slipped outside or ran too far from Mom and Dad. He’drefused more than one unnecessary tip from a parent grateful to have theirtoddler returned. There were things you should tip for in a hotel—protecting ayoung child’s life and limb wasn’t one of them.

That’s what he was doing when about fifteen federal agentscame barging through the doors from the motor court, and the shit, as they liketo say, hit the proverbial fan.

All eyes went to the exposed gun holsters on their belts.They were all men, mostly white, wearing khaki pants and running shoes and ablend of dress and golf shirts under their FBI windbreakers. Several split offin the direction of the front desk, and several more split off in the directionof the management offices. And one, snowy-haired, a rigid side part, and a brawnthat suggested a football background, made a beeline for Logan, locking him inthe sights of his intense chestnut eyes as Logan handed off the still wrigglingchild to a mother who’d already started retreating from him in horror.

Logan was trying to watch the approaching agent, but hecouldn’t help but notice how the dawning wave of recognition was sweeping thelobby. Heads everywhere had turned to the front doors. Guests were alreadyasking questions of the front desk staff, their voices rising with concern.

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