Page 54 of Holiday Wedding
“Besides, you haven’t seen the inside. I’ve got a four-poster bed like a princess and an original claw-foot bathtub from the 1930s.” I don’t mention the hard mattress or therust stains in the bottom of the tub.
“Oh! Oh!” I grasp his forearm and bounce excitedly. “It has a tiny kitchen, too.”
“All kitchens in New York are tiny,” he says, not impressed.
“Yes, but this one is the teeny, tiniest. One burner and a minifridge. I’m stocked up on soup and stuff to make PB and J’s.”
“Wow.” A sarcastic quirk of his brow. “You’re really living the high life.”
“I am.” I sniff, lifting my chin.
“Look,” he says, pointing outside the car window. “There aren’t even any lights on.”
“What?” I scramble forward, practically climbing into his lap, to see. “That’s strange. There’s always someone at the front desk.”
Dean unclicks his seatbelt, sliding it off his shoulder. “Let’s check it out.”
“It’s fine. You don’t have to come in. I—”
“Jennifer.”One word, his eyes flashing in warning.
“Okay. Okay. Chill,” I grumble as I climb out of the car and promptly slip on a patch of ice. I tumble into a drift of snow higher than my knees. Dean rushes over with a worried frown. He says something but the wind blows so hard that it rips the words away before I hear them.
“What?” I shout, holding back my hair. It whips around wildly. Curly tendrils slap my cheeks and cover my eyes until I’m blinded.
Dean leans down and yells, “I said. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” I laugh, embarrassed. “I’m fine. Just slipped.”
He grasps my upper arms and hauls me to my feet. With swift, efficient movements, he brushes the snow off my pants. “Let’s get you inside.” He keeps one hand on my arm as we struggle through the driving snow and into the lobby. The very dark lobby is lit by a single flashlight held in the trembling hand of a young night clerk whose nametag reads “Andy.”
“What’s going on?” Dean booms in his deep voice.
Andy, who can’t be more than 19, shrinks in on himself, stuttering. “S—sorry, sir. The entire block has lost power because of the wind and snow. It’s a real nor’easter.”
“A nor’ what?” I ask.
Dean spares a glance at me and says, “A bad storm.”
“We’re giving out flashlights and bottled water.” Andy points to a basket on the counter, loaded high with flashlights, candles, matches, and bottles of water. In front of it a small hand-lettered sign reads,Help yourself.
Dean scoops up two flashlights, along with the other supplies. He stalks off, heading for the stairs, next to the now-useless elevators.
“Thanks, Andy.” I give him a reassuring smile and sprint after Dean. “Hey. You don’t need to stay.” I’m panting from chasing him down. “I’ve got this.”
He doesn’t bother to answer. He just gives me a blistering stare, hands me a flashlight, and continues into a pitch-black stairwell that stinks of dead bodies—or maybe it’s mold. I press closer to Dean, suddenly grateful for his presence. I merge the beam of my light with his so we can see what’s in front of us. We climb. The only sound is our breathing, mine fast, his annoyingly even.
My room is on the third floor. The hallway leading to it is just as dark asthe stairs. In the wavering light from the flashlight Dean holds, I manage to put my old-fashioned metal key into the lock. I use the weight of my body to turn it and wrench the door open. Wide curtained windows along the far wall let in enough moonlight for me to see the shadowy outlines of the queen bed and matching nightstands. A small, round table with two spindle-backed chairs sits in the corner next to the kitchen. Through another doorway, I glimpse the pedestal sink in the bathroom.
“Here it is,” I say cheerfully as I sweep out a hand. “Home sweet home.”
Dean scowls, casting a critical eye over the space. “What isthat?” he asks. His flashlight plays over a small pine tree, two feet tall, in the corner of the room. The light makes the tree’s shadow waver on the wall behind it. The tree is thin and crooked. I’ve placed ornaments on its stronger branches, but they droop under the weight of the colorful balls. A tiny gold star sits on the uppermost portion. It leans to the side, canted at an awkward angle. I picked the star out because it reminded me of the one Gwen has, back at her mom’s house in California.
“It’s my Christmas tree.” I walk over to it and straighten the star. “I got it from the lot down the street. They were going to throw it out.” I prepare myself for Dean to say something demeaning about the tree. I know it’s no beauty pageant winner, but it called to me as soon as I saw it. It had seemed such a shame, to not let the little thing perform the duty it was grown for. Maybe I identified with it. It’s not perfect, just like me.
He grunts and says thoughtfully, “Reminds me of that television show,ACharlie BrownChristmas.I watched it with my nieces.”
“That’s what I thought too,” I exclaim, surprised by how diplomatic he’s being.
