“Towels,” Lola repeated, indicating that it was the word of the day and needed to be used as frequently as possible. “That’s what sets certain hotels apart. Really nice towels, and lots of them. As many as you like. I think towels are one of the big reasons people like hotels at all. You can use them and drop them on the floor…”
That was about how Scarlett felt. Used. Dropped on the floor. And she was really starting to miss Chip. She never had to deal with these kinds of wake-up calls before.
“…and someone comes along and picks them up and gives you new ones. Towels are nurturing. Towels go against bare skin. Now, lots of hotels provide piles of thin, scratchy towels. But when you use a good towel, a really thick, soft, amazing towel, you feel cared for. You remember the towels. And their cousin…the bathrobe.”
Scarlett picked up her shower basket and stared.
“Why are you talking about towels?” she finally asked.
Lola held up a photo from some high-end catalog. It showed some woman getting out of a tub the size of an SUV and wrapping herself in a massive blanketlike towel.
“Egyptian cotton,” Lola said. “These are pretty expensive, but once you feel them…”
“We have towels.”
“We have terrible towels from some bargain supply place.”
“They’re monogrammed.”
“They scratch! I’ve been trying to explain this to Mom and Dad. People are not going to come back if the towels scratch.”
“There are a lot of reasons people won’t come back,” Scarlett said. “Like, birds in the rooms and nonfunctional toilets. Do you really believe that expensive towels are going to solve our problems?”
“I’m just trying to come up with a few practical solutions,” Lola said.
“A bunch of towels we can’t afford for guests who aren’t here…that’s not really a solution.”
Lola looked genuinely saddened by Scarlett’s lack of support for her towel idea. It wouldn’t work…but Lola was the only one trying to help the hotel. Scarlett would have faked some more enthusiasm, but it wasn’t in her.
“Spencer told me to tell you that he’ll be back around six,” Lola said, carefully refolding her picture. “And it’s family dinner night tonight. Mom and Dad are out getting some pipes or something. There’s a leak in the kitchen. I have to get back down to the desk.”
“Hey,” Scarlett said, as the guilt sank in. “I’ll take the desk for a while. I mean, I’m here.”
The front desk of the Hopewell was not a good place to distract yourself. It was, however, a great place to really let the loneliness and pain sink in. Lola had gone off to try to find the towels of her dreams at a lower price, her parents were still buying pipes, and Marlene was off at her friend’s apartment. Even their three guests were out.
Scarlett was the most alone person in the city of New York—a city that never let you be alone. She tried to distract herself by reading e-mails from her friends, but it only made them seem farther away and their lives so much better than hers. She tried not to replay every single moment of what happened the day before…that didn’t work. Then she really tried to avoid watching Eric’s commercial online.
Seven viewings later, she was openly weeping at the desk. This was probably the only good thing about no one being around.
Unable to take it anymore, she hung the sign and headed out down the street to buy herself an iced coffee. She was just locking the door, when she heard someone speak.
“It’s not Tara,” the voice said. “It’s Lola, right?”
“Scarlett,” Scarlett corrected whoever it was. She gave her eyes a quick rub, just in case they were still dripping, then turned to find herself facing a woman with very short silver hair.
“Oh. I must have read it wrong. Nice name, though.”
Donna Spendler looked very different with a crew cut.
“Going out?” she asked.
“Just to get a coffee,” Scarlett said. There was the throat thing again. The clamp was on her—but this time, it was all panic.
“I’d like a coffee myself. Do you mind if I come down with you?”
It wasn’t like she could refuse, so the two walked together. Donna seemed strangely at ease as they went together. She even paid for Scarlett’s coffee before Scarlett could stop her.
“I left a message for you yesterday,” she began, when they sat with their drinks. “You may not have gotten it.”
“Sorry,” Scarlett said.
“I’ll bet you’re wondering how I got here.”
This was precisely what Scarlett was wondering. Her brain was working feverishly on this problem and getting nowhere.