“208,” he said, turning to the row of cubbies behind him that held keys.
Vivien’s eyes followed his finger as it danced across the row of second-floor room keys.
“208,” he said, his finger stopping abruptly.
He removed the large key hanging from a golden rope.
But when he held it out to Vivien, she found herself refusing it.
“No,” she said, “I’ve made a mistake. I’d rather stay in a different room.”
His face did not belie any frustration or confusion. “A different room then,” he said, replacing that key and handing her another one.
Vivien followed the bellhop who was moving her trunk into the elevator. Inside, she pressed her back against one wall, remembering how David had pressed his body against hers that night, perhaps in this very elevator. She closed her eyes, almost feeling his rough face against her own smooth neck.
“Ma’am?” the bellhop asked. “Are you going to faint?”
Vivien opened her eyes and shook her head. What was she thinking coming back here?
“You look like you saw a ghost,” the bellhop said. “We got one, you know. Up on four. He fills the bathtub with water and walks up and down the halls.”
He paused to measure the effect of his story.
“Some people,” Vivien said, “do believe in ghosts.”
“They say he’s harmless,” the bellhop said as the elevator came to a jerky halt. “But anyway, he doesn’t come down to the third floor.”
Vivien studied the bellhop’s earnest face. A ruddy complexion and the sort of nose that came from too much drinking, a road map of veins.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing a ghost,” Vivien said.
He looked startled, but she didn’t explain further. How could she? What was there to say?
The restaurant in the Hotel Majestic was surprisingly empty. Vivien was seated discreetly in the back corner. A woman dining alone always raised eyebrows. Quickly she scanned the large menu. Why, they served crab Louis salad, Vivien read, delighted. She and David used to go to the St. Francis Hotel just for their crab Louis. She hadn’t had it since she left the city. When the waiter came, she ordered one.
“Oh,” she said as he turned to leave, “and a glass of Chenin Blanc.”
“Yes, madame,” he said, gratuitously polite.
Vivien knew he found it odd, even disturbing, that she dared come into the dining room without a man, eat her dinner alone, and have the audacity to drink wine as well.
It had been a long time since she’d dressed up and sat in a fine restaurant like this, and she surprised herself when she realized that she missed it. The buttoning and smoothing and primping. The smell of powder and perfume. She missed David’s hand on her arm as they entered a restaurant, how he pulled out the chair for her and glided it back into place. The candlelight flickered, casting everyone in the room in a soft glow. Vivien watched the other people eating and drinking—couples with their heads bent close together, men smoking cigars and sipping brandy from crystal snifters. Her gaze settled on a man eating alone, like her, one sleeve of his jacket pinned up. He’d lost the arm in the war, no doubt. She thought briefly of all the obituaries she had written in those months, the Spanish influenza coming right on the heels of the war, the deaths adding up with terrible speed.
The waiter brought her wine, and right behind it came a cart with her dinner. He made a lavish show of tossing the sliced hard-boiled eggs and tomatoes, asparagus and cucumbers with the white crabmeat.
“Shall I add the dressing, madame?” the waiter asked, a small silver ladle poised over the bowl of orange dressing.
Vivien nodded.
“Bon appétit,” the waiter said officiously before he walked away.
Vivien picked up the heavy silver fork and took a bite of crab. The familiar taste brought with it a rush of memories so strong she had to put the fork back down and work hard to swallow. Alone in Napa, her days had taken on such a similarity that she had almost forgotten pleasures like these: good food, good wine, the murmur of conversations. But sitting here tonight, Vivien ached for all of it, and more. How she missed the companionship, the touch, of a man.
She got to her feet quickly, and laid some bills on the table. Before the waiter could make his way to her, Vivien had already hurried out. Was this how she was meant to spend her life? Alone, untouched, unheard? The thought was almost too much to bear. Would someone meeting her now even believe that she had once been like these people, carefree and pretty and loved?