As the driver turned the corner, bringing Central Park back into view, I asked him to drop me off at the Hotel Helios, my home. When I was young we’d lived in the suburbs and my parents would take the train into Manhattan every day. But as soon as my mother got her big promotion and my father scored a huge moneymaking deal, they traded in our upscale, more-rooms-than-we-knew-what-to-do-with suburban home for an even more upscale, snooty penthouse that was easily ten times the price and had even more rooms that we never used.
There were definite perks to living in Manhattan, and even more perks to living in a hotel—like maid service, room service at all hours, doormen, valets, access to the hotel pool, the steam room, and the gym. Still, it was hard for me to think of this residence as a home.
The streets of New York were constantly filled with noise. A drilling, jackhammering, honking, police-whistling, bus-squeaking, and exhaust-hissing cacophony that never faded. Then there was also the fact that “homes” in NYC came with apartment numbers and shared walls with various eateries, or, in my case, floor levels and room service. And then add to that, that my parents preferred to keep our residence looking magazine perfect, stiff, and unlived in. I didn’t crave a place where the grass was greener—heck, I just wanted grass, period. It was no wonder I felt a bit disenchanted.
To me, a home was a quiet place with a yard, a fence, and a dog. And not one of those sissy dogs that ride in purses, either. A real home needed a real dog, like maybe a German shepherd or a Doberman—a big dog that would slobber all over its owner, dig up the yard, and wait patiently by the window to welcome its master home.
Now, my grandmother’s farm was the perfect place for a dog. I had fond memories of chasing her various pets through fields of tall grass, wet noses being pushed into my hands, the smell of sun and wind and wood and fur as I kissed the tops of their heads and played with their ears. She’d had several dogs over the years, but her last dog, Bilbo, had recently died of old age and she didn’t have the heart to replace him yet.
As soon as the driver pulled up, Herb, the hotel doorman, made his way over and opened my door.
“Did you have a nice day, Miss Young?” he asked politely.
I allowed him to help me out. “Herb, it was one of the worst days of my entire existence. You wouldn’t even believe me if I told you,” I said as I squeezed his hand.
Chuckling, Herb walked me to the hotel’s golden doors. “I’d believe anything you told me. You aren’t one of those dramatic young women always vying for attention.”
I laughed. “Well, drama can sneak up on you, Herb. I have officially received more attention today than I’d ever want. The result is a killer migraine and a hankering for chocolate. Have a nice evening.”
“You too, Miss Young. I hope you feel better.” He gave me a puzzled look before opening the door.
“Me too,” I replied over my shoulder as I entered the hotel. When did the lights get to be so bright? I squinted to minimize the stabbing pain behind my eyeballs as I made my way through the lobby toward the private elevators, where Stan stood guard and let me up to floor fifty-two.