Page 4 of Even After This
“Something’s not right.” Using my free hand, I scrunch my hair on top of my head. “The restaurant was booked for a private event, but the maître d’ made an exception for me to dine here tonight. Someone mentioned a memo and I—”
Details of the day shutter through my head like I’m watching an old movie reel. An eerie understanding clicks into place. This isn’t the only abnormal exception the Broadmoor made for me today.
“Molly, I don’t understand what’s going on, and you’re the only one who knows I’m at the Penrose Room tonight.” I drop my hair and press my palm flat against the door. “What did you do?”
Silence causes me to pull the cell down and confirm the timer is ticking off the live call.
When I put the phone back to my ear, my sister’s demanding voice says, “Promise me you’ll be open-minded about this.”
“Spill it.”
“I called the Broadmoor last week and talked to a manager. Since you wouldn’t let me go on this trip to be your buffer, I asked them to take care of you and to be your advocate.”
In the dictionary, under the word “vigilant,” it says “See Molly.”
Frustration surges through me for not anticipating this move. Trying to keep my voice level, I ask, “What did you tell them?”
“When you check in with their dining rooms, the spa, or your realtor, anyone who assists you views a memo requesting sensitivity to your situation.” Her words spew out in rapid succession.
The conversation comes to a standstill while tears prick the back of my eyes. “I just want to be normal, Molly.” My voicesounds garbled, and I lean my weight into my forehead, now pressed to the fabric wall. I’m hoping my waterproof mascara serves me well.
To others I will always be That Woman. The Widow. The One Who Lost Everything. I can’t blame them. Horrible things happened. And I am That Person.
However, four years later I’m starting to breathe again. And for the first time since the accident, I wonder if I could become another person.
“I think this will help.” Molly forges forward. “Didn’t you once say telling new people is always difficult because you end up emotionally managing their reaction? Now they’ll already know, and you can skip the hard part and talk about the weather.”
Tears stream down my cheeks.
Molly’s loud sigh breaks the silence. “Are you there, Meredith?”
“Yes.” I grab some of the impossibly soft toilet paper to use as a tissue.
“I could still come to Colorado. A flight from Dallas will only take a few hours. I don’t think you should be by yourself.”
“Please don’t. I need to do this.” I close the lid of the toilet to create a place to sit. One hand holds the cell to my ear while the other presses the wrinkled toilet tissue to my cheek. “If I fall apart, I’ll come home in a week, and you can say you told me so. But I need to try to do something different with my life.” A stray tear falls to the marble tile. “There has to be more for me in this life than being alone, doing volunteer work, and living out a sad story.”
“Okay.” The voice coming through the phone is thick. “But call me every day.”
“I love you. I’ll call you when I can.”
Stepping out of my stall, I glance at the mirror and recognize a familiar reflection. Not tonight, I vow as I pull my makeup bag from my purse. I won’t wear the face of grief. Tonight is about the comfort of an old place that might kindle a new beginning.
Tears are allowed, but they don’t get to rule the evening.
While I blend concealer under my eyes, two beautiful women walk into the room. No, beautiful isn’t accurate. Exquisite? Glamorous? Otherworldly? Or, just wow.
I’ve missed some movies over the last four years, but not enough not to recognize these women as actors. One is the leading lady of a rom-com, the other a longtime lead for a television drama, now turned movie star.
Oh man. I’m at a real live Hollywood party, and the hotel handed my life tragedy on a silver platter to one of the most famous men in the country.
As I wrap up my eye makeup repair, I know what I must do.
Shoulders squared and chin up, making great effort not to hobble in these silly shoes, I enter the dining area and place my purse at my booth. Turning on my heel in platforms proves to be more difficult than I anticipated, and I twist and fall into the arms of a wall. A hard, well-defined wall of muscle. Strong hands grip my biceps to steady me. I draw my eyes up, and up, and find a second chiseled Greek god staring down at me. Only this one is young. Jailbait young.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” The dimples. His dimples are speaking louder to me than his question.
“Nice catch, Charlie.” Harlan Holcombe’s words pull me out of my drooling stupor as he claps the man-child on the shoulder.
