Smiling, I gathered my unruly hair in a high ponytail and pinched my cheeks to look more presentable, then picked up my luggage from the carousel and made my way through customs. The arrivals area was filled with waiting families and taxi drivers. I spied a cardboard plaque the size of a notebook with my name written on it and walked over, expecting my new boss to be waiting for me. The middle-aged guy greeted me in broken English, and I knew it couldn’t possibly be Mayfield.
“Seniorita Stewart, I’m your driver. May I take your luggage?” He didn’t wait for my answer. He grabbed my suitcase and heaved it up in a fluent motion, then carried it to the parked SUV, dodging the dissipating crowds and taxi drivers vying for tourists’s attention. I hurried after him, concentrating hard to keep up with his chitter-chatter as he went on to tell me about the weather, the country, sightseeing opportunities, and who knows what else.
Night had descended, but the airport was brightly illuminated, allowing a breathtaking sneak peak at the mountain scenery I had seen outlined through the plane’s window. I smiled and nodded politely as he opened the door for me, and I jumped onto the back seat of the car. He paused in his conversation for all of five seconds, or as long as it took him to pull out of the parking lot. As we headed up the highway he resumed his chat.
“You had a nice trip but very long?” I nodded, and he laughed. “But now it’s over and you’ll have a beautiful vacation.” I didn’t want to point out that I wasn’t on vacation, so I just nodded again. The driver continued his half-English, half-Italian monologue through the drive to Bellagio. By the time he pulled over thirty minutes later, my head was reeling, and not from the fresh air and stunning backdrop I had glimpsed outside the window. I jumped out on shaky feet, my hand clutching the car’s door for support, as I gawked at the hotel in front of me.
The architecture was definitely neo-classical, reminding me of Ancient Greek and Rome with its little columns, capitals, and beautiful sculptural bas-reliefs that my fingers itched to touch. It was big but not oversized, about five stories high with a beautiful illuminated fountain spewing up water onto two embracing angels from which a thick, red carpet was stretched out to the heavy glass door. As I entered my home for the next two weeks, my breath caught in my throat.
Holy cow.
The reception hall, though not big, was absolutely stunning. Glass candelabra dangled from the high ceiling, illuminating the polished ivory marble floor below and accentuating the flower reliefs adorning the ivory-colored walls. But what impressed me most were the two Corinthian columns behind the reception desk.
Silvio passed my luggage to a uniformed bellboy and instructed him to bring it straight up to my room, while I waited at the reception desk to check in.
The receptionist smiled. She was a woman in her thirties with glowing olive skin and glossy hair to die for.
“Welcome, Miss Stewart,” she said in heavily accented English. “You’ve been booked on the upper floor. This is your key.” She held up a white piece of plastic the size of a credit card. “The restaurant’s open from seven to midnight. Room service is available around the clock. If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them. Let me show you the way.”
I shook my head and returned her generous smile. “That won’t be necessary. I think I’ll be fine.” Architecture had always been my thing, only I never had the chance or money to visit a place this grand. I didn’t want to have to make small talk when I’d rather gawk at every single detail without anyone watching over my shoulder.
“But I insist. The elevators are over here.” She pointed behind her at the narrow corridor leading past the columns and around a corner. I followed her upstairs while listening to her recommending Italy’s must-see sights and excursions. And then she let me into my room and closed the door as she left, wishing me a pleasant stay.
I tossed the swipe card on the nearby coffee table realizing I hadn’t thought of tipping her, the bellboy, or the driver. “Oh, crap,” I muttered. Was it too late to run downstairs and do it now? Should I wait until the morning? I had never stayed in anything remotely expensive, so my knowledge of proper tipping etiquette was rather limited.
“Are you okay?” The male voice coming from my right startled me. I shrieked and jumped a step back, dropping my handbag in the process. My head turned in the intruder’s direction, and my mouth opened to let out an earsplitting sound, but what came out resembled more a surprised grumble that slowly turned into a sensation of anger pounding against my skull.