Chapter 11

MELODY

Saturday at noon

Manhattan

"Here is your key, Miss,"the man says before directing me to the parking lot.

It's a cold, foggy day, and more rain is expected in the afternoon. Frankly, I don't mind it.

I'm well equipped for nasty weather with a tall coffee in hand that smells like dark chocolate and roasted hazelnuts, a short crimson raincoat, red flat shoes, warm black pencil pants, and a cream cashmere top.

I packed my suitcase with my favorite slippers, socks, warm pajamas, snacks, and books.

Let it rain, baby.

I so need to get out of town and clear my head.

A few things have happened since last night.

Number one… I haven't heard from Thomas.

It's not like I didn't anticipate that, but I thought he'd send a message… eventually.

If not immediately to ensure I'd gotten home all right,thenmaybe in the morning.

I don't know where we are at this point.

Should we just ghost each other and move on?Forgetwe've ever met and avoid each other in the future?

I have no idea.

My mother used to say, ‘When in doubt, do nothing,' and this little gem of wisdom has saved my butt more than once.

I dwelled this morning on whether to send him a message. After writing and erasing several, I still couldn't come up with one that looked all right, so I did nothing.

And then there was… Uh… The green-eyed devil.

I couldn't get a wink of sleep after he left.

His touch got locked and thrived inside my skin like some disease.

I bumped into things for a while–which is so not me–before settling for a warm bath.

Lingering in the water that smelled like flowers, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to empty my mind.

I accomplished that only to make room for the man who'd forcefully carved his way into my life.

He was bold and foolish.

But he and I will never be together.

I ponder that thought for a few seconds before reaching my rental car, which is the same color as my outfit.

I set my coffee on top of the car,clickthe key fob,openthe trunkand slidemy suitcase in before shedding my coat and heading to the front.

I'm still mulling over that scenario, him and me together, as I grab my coffee and slip into the driver's seat.

Before fastening my seat belt and turning the ignition on, I tuck my drink in the holder and my coat in the back seat while thinking about him a little longer.

My phone sits in a holder on the dashboard, and lounge music fills the space as I adjust my seat and mirrors and slowly back away.

It's been a while since I went on a trip.

I remember how necessary it used to be to break my routine, get out of the city, and experience something different.

That hasn't changed.

It's just that work has taken over my life completely these past few years.

Maybe that's why finding a man has become moreimportant.

Life changes in subtle ways, and so does my perspective on things.

It's not as if work is no longer essential or demanding––it's probably more challenging than ever.

It's just that I've learned to manage it better, say no from time to time, and not be constantly fearful that I'm not doing enough.

I try to concentrate on the road and move away from Manhattan as quickly as possible, but getting out of the city ismore difficultthan I thought.

The music flowing from the speakers flies past my ears, and I forget about my coffee, mymind spinningimages of Jax London.

I refuse to give in to thinking about him, so I crank up the music, wrap my fingers around my coffee, and finally take a sip.

I'm still in the city when the lights turn red, and I stop at an intersection.

With my foot on the brakes, I take another sip of coffee and check the rearview mirror.

A car like Jax's crawls down the street behind me, and I freeze. Is that him? No. It can't behim.

What would be the odds of something like that, even if it was him?

In a city with over eight million people, we are on the same street at twelve-thirty on a Saturday afternoon.

Really?

I slide the coffee back into the holder while craning my neck and peering into the rearview mirror.

Just asI grow hopeful that I might get a glimpse of the driver, the car turns right and vanishes out of sight.

Another car moves closer, and the driver honks at me as the lights have already turned green, and I'm holding the line.

MELODY

Connecticut

The thoughtthat Jax London was in that car stays with me all the way to my destination, despite the music, gourmet coffee, and chocolate bar I extract from my purse and munch on for most of my trip.

But once the country road leading to the inn takes me through clusters of trees looking modest now with their bare branches wrapped in tendrils of fog, calmness sets over me.

I turn off the music, lower the window, and take in the silent beauty stretching before me.

Before long the historical buildingentersmy line of sight.

A couple of cars are parked on fine gravel in the front, while fairy lights adorn the nearby trees, main entrance, and window sills.

A waterfall of lights shaped like icicles drips from under the eaves, challenging the dominion of gray winter.

Not far from the house, tidy, narrow alleys loop around a lake partly obscured by fog, an arched wooden bridge, and the trees waiting for a new set of clothes in the spring.

I find a parking spot near the entrance, turn off the engine, and open the door.

The silence of this magnificent place is imbued with the smell of earth, crumpled leaves, and burning logs while frozen rain comes down in beads of light.

Despite the grayish afternoon and sun captive behind a blanket of dark clouds, I"ve never seen something more beautiful.

It's cold.

Definitely chillier than yesterday, but I don't mind the shivers rolling down my spine.

The lit windows catch my attention.

A man and a woman chat in the hallway at the base of a stairwell, and to my right, I notice the dining room.

The decor is cozy and nostalgic, the view of a departed world coming to life in my imagination as my eyes move steadily over the linen-covered tables, heavy ornate chairs, Victorian mantle clock, and the two–arm bronze sconces guarding the fireplace.

Floral centerpieces enliven the tables, and paintings hung on the walls. It's too early for dinner but not for an afternoon snack.

Maybe tea, pastries, and finger sandwiches.

At least, that's what I crave.

Two. No… Three tables are occupied.

A young mother with a little girl sits next to the window. She keeps looking at the hallway as if waiting for someone to join her.

An older man sits alone at a table nearby, his head tilted down, his eyes pinned on a bookin front ofhim.

And then an older woman chats on the phone, bringing her drink to her lipsfrom time to timeand peppering her conversation with tiny bursts of laughter.

She makes me smile.

"Miss Hill?"

The man I spotted in the hallway walks out of the house with a big umbrella and a smile on his face as I rise out of my seat, collect my raincoat, and put it on.

His white hair sets a nice contrast to his blue eyes.

"Mr. Stone?"

He gives me a soft nod.

"You can call me Herbert."

"Nice to meet you, Herbert."

We connect hands.

"Same wise."

"We spoke on the phone, right?" I say, retrieving my things from inside the car while he's waiting patiently with his umbrella hovering over our heads, protecting us from the damp mist rolling over the lawn in waves.

"Yes. Once. The other time, you spoke to my son."

"I couldn't tell," I say, my words meant as a compliment. "You sound just likehim."

He laughs quietly.

"Don't tell him that. He hates to hear that."

Smiling, he looks down.

"Is that all?" he asks as I slide the door closed.

I gesture to the trunk of my car.

"I have a suitcase too."

"Don't worry about that. I'll bring it to your room. Let me take you to the front desk to meet my wife. How was your trip?"

I hand him the key, and we chat while strolling across the driveway.

"Beautiful place," I say when we reach the door.

He opens it and invites me in. I walk in, and my eyes go wide with surprise.

The house is even prettier than I imagined.

Fully renovated and still preserving its Victorian charm, the place takes me back to a different time.

What an amazing interior.

Soft music wafts through the air, and people enjoy their afternoon snacks in the dining room.

Herbert introduces me to his wife, Olivia, a petite woman with a big smile and short hair.

She wears a gray dress with a round neckline, a fitted waist, an A-line skirt, and three-inch pumps.

Much older than her, her husband is decked out in black trousers, a white button-down shirt, and a silky waistcoat.

They both notice the direction of my gaze.

"You are welcome to have an afternoon snack with the other guests."

I ponder the idea. It's not like I don't want to sink my teeth in a scrumptious pastry topped with whipped cream and berries.

But…

I'd love to shower, unwind, and get ready for dinner instead.

"What time do you serve dinner?"

"We start at six," Olivia says. "Our French chef is versed in more than French cuisine, so you can order anything you like."

"Sounds good."

"We also have a cocktail hour and offer appetizers and complimentary wine. Since today is Saturday, expect to see more guests tonight. We're fully booked."

I mull over my options.

"I'll skip the afternoon snack then."

"No problem," Olivia says, spinning to her desk. "Let me help you get settled."

"I'll be outside," her husband says beforemaking the trip backto retrieve my suitcase.

Olivia rounds her carved desk, where a parchment lampshade filters a warm glow over a big burgundy leather guest book.

Next to it lies a computer screen, a sleek keyboard, and a wireless mouse.

Iwatchher check the information I provided when I booked my room online last night.

I was lucky to find it, considering how busy they are.

The humming drifting from the other room–a mix of clinking porcelain cups and silverware and muted words–reaches my ears as I run my eyes over a small bronze statue depicting a couple of horses.

The prolonged pause and unexpected nervousness in my hostess' clipped gestures make memove myfocus back to her before I become the disquieted witness of her smile dissolving into a puddle of concern.

"Is everything all right?" I ask.

"Uh… Yes. It should be,"shesays,hergrin tense, not in the least the bearer of good news.

She clicks the mouse, closes the computer window, and the screen goes dark before she excuses herself andgoes to speakwith her son in the back.

The tension fluttering in her wake seeps into my bones.

I move my eyes to the dining room, where the lights and flowers seem livelier than ever, and then I peer outside where Herbert rounds the corner, carrying my suitcase.

Seeing him comforts me. Things must be okay. There must be a room in this house waiting for me.

I hope that's the case, especially now that the sky gets darker, and the perspective of going back to New York or spending the night in the nearby town doesn't appeal to mein the slightest.

Herbert enters the house while his wife approaches the desk, stillvery muchtense.

"Yes?" I murmur, plastering a fake smile on my face.

She instructs him to leave my suitcasenext tome and peers down at my name scribbled in the guestbook.

"I'm sorry," she starts, and my knees turn to mud. "There's been a glitch. Our system didn't update the vacancies last night, and the room you picked had already been booked. The gentleman is here already."

"Okay," I say, my lips dry. "Is there anything we can do about it?"

My voice is neutral, yet evenso,if I look closely, a glistening bead of sweat forms on Olivia's brow.

She checks the guestbook and moves the mouse, waking her computer.

It's futile if you ask me.Shejust said it. They're fully booked.

It's not as if it hasn't happened to me before. I travel a lot, and there are always some errors made by people, or computers.

The thing is, it's easier to fix a blunder like this in ahugeluxury hotel.

"Um…"

Her bottom lip is rolled tight under her teeth while her eyes move swiftly across some text.

Hope flickers in her eyes when she swings her gaze to me.

"You've only booked it for one night, right?"

I nod, unsure whether that's good or bad.

"Okay."

Her voice is more upbeat before she sucks in a short breath.

"It will be tight, but we can do it. I just need to make some phone calls. I'm sorry…" She looks at me, gesturing. "This has nothing to do with you. I'm just talking to myself."

I start to feel bad as she apologizes profusely, and I'm ready to cancel my plans andgo backwhen she speaks again.

"Would it bother you if I upgraded you for free?"

I tilt my head to her, lifting a brow.

"Bother me? No," I say, reading her eyes. I notice she's holding something back. "But there seems to be a problem with it. No?"

She moves her eyes to the computer and starts putting in my information

"There's no problem for me as long as there's no problem for you. The honeymoon suite I offer you won't be occupied until tomorrow evening. We just need to get it ready for the lovely couple checking in at six o"clock in the evening. I'm sorry that Ihave tomake you privy to all these details."

"Don't worry. Are you going to be able to do all that? I imagine you need new flowers and––"

"Yes. And yes,"shecuts me off."There area lot ofthings we need to do, but we don't worry about the flowers.My sister-in-law is a florist."

"You can take all that stuff out of my room," I say. "I won't need it anyway. And you can savehera few hours of stress."

She gestures faintly.

"No, no. I'll only take it out if it bothers you. Does it?"

"No, of course not. I just want to make sure things work out for everybody."

"They will. Don't worry about us. Just enjoy yourself. The suite comes with complimentary champagne, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and…" She smiles. "Well, you'll see the rest. Let me get the key."

She calls her husband's name and tells him the news.

Behind him, a much younger man looks at me with curious eyes. That must be her son.

Once she starts talking, they all get busy.

Herbert takes my suitcase upstairs while the young man drives to the nearest town to take care of the flowers.

I feel bad.

I feel good.

I don't want to create so much trouble for so many people, but they seem content with how they've fixed the problem.

I am, too, although I never imagined spending the night in a honeymoon suite meant for someone else.

My hostess talks as we take the stairs up, none of her words registering with me.

And then she walks me to a different side of the house and carefully opens a large door.

"This is it," she says, welcoming inside.

I pivot to the entrance and turn to stone.