Dean is delightfully stubborn because he pulls it out of Tom’s reach yet again. “If you don’t have a key chain of your own, you can buy one at our gift shop.”
Tom and I both look around at the tiny space, which is big enough for the reception desk, us, and a crooked Christmas tree. That’s about it.
“The . . . gift shop?” I ask.
Dean gestures to a spinning rack atop the reception desk, so small and barren I hadn’t noticed it until now, even with the Post-it Note proclaiming “Gift Shoppe.”
“Ah!” I smile widely. “There it is.”
Blue hell mote’s gift shop has what looks to be a used fidget spinner, a couple of ballpoint pens, a lone pack of gum, and eureka! Key chains!
“How will we decide?” I muse, reaching out to touch a felt pickle with googly eyes. “Ooh, this one is nice. Is this meant to look like dentures?”
Dean leans forward. “Could actually be dentures. Some people get this confused with the lost and found.”
I snatch my hand back just in time.
“Look, I’m not buying one of those,” Tom snaps.
Uh-oh. I know that voice. Tom’s about to dig in his heels. For a minute there, I was enjoying this whole thing, but it’s time to wrap it up.
There’s a jolly jingling noise from behind us, and Dean stands to look over our heads at the newcomers. “Be right with you folks.”
“And them, you greet,” Tom says with a sigh.
“Tom, let’s just buy the pickle,” I say. “It can’t be more than a few dollars. How much is this little gem, Dean?”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen dollars?” Tom says, his voice going up a full octave.
“No, Tom, I’m sure he meant rubles. Fourteen rubles. Yes, dollars.”
Dean nods. “Plus tax.”
“Are you kidding me?” Tom says, really getting worked up now. “Not only is it unethical, but it’s bad business. I’m sure the Better Business Bureau would love to hear about your felt pickle.”
I open my mouth, and Tom holds up a hand to me. “Don’t.”
With great pain, I let the dirty joke opportunity pass.
“Sir, if you don’t want the key chain, you don’t want the room. I’m sure this lovely couple behind you—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Tom says, reaching into his pocket.
“Easy now,” Dean says, stepping back. “Nice and slow. Let me see your hands.”
Tom is incredulous. “What? Is this a hostage situation?”
“How I know you’re not getting a gun.”
“I’m not,” Tom snaps. “I was getting a fucking key chain.”
He pulls it out and dangles it at Dean.
I let out a little gasp when I see the key chain he’s holding out. It’s a pair of small blue dice. I recognize it because I have a red version of the same key chain, though mine’s tucked away in a keepsake box in my apartment.
“You kept it,” I say softly.
“Don’t make it a thing,” Tom says as he irritably adds the motel key to the dice chain. “It’s just a sturdy key chain is all.”
“It is not,” I say, though I know I’m on dangerous ground to push the issue. “Our marriage was more sturdy than that keychain, and look how that turned up. That pickle is stronger than that key chain, which broke before we even checked out of the hotel, and you whined until I glued it back together for you.”
“What hotel?” Dean asks.
The woman behind us makes an impatient noise.
“Nowhere,” Tom snaps. “Focus on your hote—motel . . . nope, not even that. Structure.”
“The Bellagio,” I tell Dean as we both ignore Tom. “Vegas. It’s where we got married.
“But now you’re divorced,” Dean says.
“Yes, we are. Which is why it’s so interesting that he kept this key chain,” I say with a grin.
Tom hooks a hand around my arm and drags me toward the door. “Thanks so much, Dean. It’s been an absolute pleasure.”
“You’re welcome!” Dean says, lifting a hand with complete sincerity.
“Tell me the truth. Do you sleep with the key chain under your pillow?” I ask gleefully.
“What key chain?” He shoves it into his pocket. “There’s no key chain. Maybe you have a fever. Go make a snow devil outside to cool down, and don’t come back into the room until you’re ready to drop the whole key chain thing.”
Tom’s hands are full with the bags once more, so I open the door as he maneuvers both suitcases back out into the storm.
I’m about to follow him when I hear Dean greet the couple who were waiting behind us with a smile. “You’re just in time, I’ve only got a couple rooms left.”
I whip my head in his direction. “A couple? You said you only had the one?”
He shrugs and winks. “What can I say. I’m a bit of a romantic.”
Tom pokes his head back in the front door, clearly impatient. “You coming, or what?”
I want to reply: Or what.
I want to tell him that Dean does have another room. That we’ve lucked out, and that if we spend fourteen dollars on a felt pickle key chain, we won’t have to sleep in the same room.
Instead I find myself nodding. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
TOM
December 23, 11:44 p.m.
“Oh, now this is very nice,” Katherine says with a thick layer of sarcasm, turning in a slow circle and surveying our motel room. “Spacious. New. Not at all frigid in here! And what does that smell remind me of . . . Oh yeah. The bus.”
I manage only a grunt in response to her sarcasm and drop our suitcases and bags into an unceremonious pile in the middle of the floor.
“What do you suppose they call this paint color,” Katherine says, reaching out a gloved hand to touch a wall and then wisely thinking better of it. “Dirty diaper?”
“It’s definitely dirty something,” I say, gingerly pushing aside the ugly floral curtains until I can find the old-fashioned thermostat in the window. I turn the heat to high. I hold my freezing hands over the vent hoping for some warmth but get only a mildewy draft.
“You know what I always wonder about these kinds of places?” she says, sounding in remarkably good spirits.
“Have you been in these kinds of places often enough to warrant an ‘always’ in that sentence?” I ask, shrugging out of my wet coat since it’s only adding to the persistent chill.
She ignores my rhetorical question. “I always wonder if that paint color was as hideous when they first slapped it onto the wall, or if interior design standards have changed over the past hundred years. Or take this carpet, for example . . .”
“I will not,” I say, purposefully not looking down. “I’d prefer not to think about it.”
But Katherine is persistent, the way she always is when a particular topic captures her fancy, and continues the badgering. “Do you think they thought, Let’s go with the ugliest combination of brown and green that we can find, or was brown-and-green carpet the height of interior design style back then?”
“Fine, I’ll play.” I face her, hands on my hips. “Third option. The carpet was only brown to begin with, and the green is some sort of growth that’s taken over. Or the other way around. The carpet was originally green, and those brown parts you’re seeing are actually—”