Page 5 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
I whisper, “Do you think it’s a trap? Like is that really a guy from TMZ and that clipboard is a camera?”
“Oh, yes,” says Jenner, his voice dripping sarcasm. “The infamous clipboard camera. I hear they’re all the rage these days.”
“What about the guy yesterday who knocked on the door and said he was from the electric company but turned out to be a journalist from The Examiner wanting to know if the reports that I was suicidal were true?”
Jenner purses his lips. “You have a point.”
“I know I do!”
Jenner sighs. “If this is a man trying to take your picture to sell to the tabloids, I’ll divest him of his testicles. Happy?” He sweeps me out of the way and pulls open the door. “Hello. How may I help you?”
“Got a package for Miss DiSanto.” The courier looks Jenner up and down. “That you?”
It would be a ridiculous question, but considering Jenner is wearing my fuzzy purple bathrobe and a long red wig I bought for Halloween a few years ago that he dug out of my closet, it’s a legitimate question.
Jenner is prettier than most women I know. Strike that—all the women I know.
“Although that has a lovely ring to it,” says Jenner, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that I’m not, in fact, Miss DiSanto.” He points to me. “Here is the lady in question.” He pauses. “And I’m using the term lady loosely, mind you.”
The courier thrusts the envelope at me. When I take it, he shoves the clipboard at me and says, “Sign on number twelve.”
I sign, the courier leaves, and Jenner closes the door. Then I rip open the thin cardboard envelope and look inside. There’s another envelope, this one square and ivory. On the outside my full name is written in scratchy black ink, the handwriting slanting and loopy.
Peering over my shoulder, Jenner says, “Ooh. Fancy. Do you think it’s an invitation to a ball?”
“Ha.” I tear open the glued flap, withdraw the piece of thick note paper inside, and read aloud, “I have been unable to reach you. Come at once. Your father is gravely ill.”
The card flutters to the floor as I tear off down the hallway, headed for the phone.
On the best of days, San Francisco International Airport is a nightmare. But on the day you’re desperately trying to get to Italy before your father dies, it’s absolute hell.
By the time I’m smashed into my economy seat between a three-hundred-pound woman with a crying baby on her lap and a college student with a head cold and a tattoo on the back of his left hand that reads Fuck the police, I’ve been in a fender bender that almost made me miss the flight, been jostled by irate travelers and smacked by carry-ons too many times to count, and endured a grueling second-tier screening from a hostile TSA agent who seemed convinced I was hiding contraband in a bodily orifice.
The earliest flight out I could book has a layover in New York. When my flight arrives at JFK, I stumble bleary-eyed from the plane in search of coffee and extra-strength hand sanitizer.
Whatever bug that college student had, it produced a lot of phlegm.
I’m just about to get at the back of the long line at Starbucks when I spot a discreet silver plaque on the wall next to an elevator across the corridor from where I’m standing. It reads Centurion Lounge.
Sweet Jesus, it’s an American Express members’ lounge!
I run so fast to that elevator I almost trample a family of four in my rush. Ignoring the father’s grumble of displeasure, I stab my finger on the elevator call button. My mouth salivates at the thought of the oasis of luxury and tranquility I’m about to enjoy, thanks to Satan.
My shiny new platinum card in the name of Mrs. Bradley Hamilton Wingate arrived in the mail only last week.
The woman at the check-in desk smiles pleasantly, sweeps the card through a reader to confirm I’m a member, then says, “Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Wingate. All food and beverages in the lounge
are complimentary. You’re welcome to take advantage of the massage and facial services offered in the private spa room near the back. Those are also complimentary.”
I want to kiss her.
She tells me to enjoy my stay, and I wander out of the check-in area into a large, attractively decorated room. Seating areas, tables, and comfortable-looking chairs dot the carpeted floor. A bar dominates one end of the space. Beside it stretches a buffet where a few travelers browse, holding plates. Classical music plays softly on hidden speakers, and I’m in heaven.
I drop into a big comfy armchair beside the wall of windows that overlooks the runways. Onto the chair next to me, I deposit my carry-on, coat, and handbag. A smiling waitress approaches with a tray of drinks.
“Champagne, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you.” I take the flute from her hands with near-religious gratitude, like she’s offered me the Holy Grail. I proceed to guzzle the contents in one go, then slump down in the chair and exhale a huge, exhausted sigh.
