8. Conrad

CHAPTER 8

CONRAD

I woke late the next morning — well, late by my standards. Late enough the sun was up and I could hear birdsong. Claire was still sleeping stretched out beside me, the hem of her dress rucked up to mid-thigh. We'd lain down together when they sent us back to our rooms. We hadn't discussed it, just flopped on the bed. It had felt right in the dark, with the wild wind still moaning. Now, in the daylight, I guessed I should leave her. She might find it awkward waking up in my arms.

I unfolded myself slowly, not to disturb her, and found my phone and thumbed the screen to life. No missed calls came up, no texts. No bars. I dug in my suitcase and found my sat phone instead, and stepped out on the balcony to call my office. When I came back in, Claire was poking her own phone.

"No signal," she said.

"You can use mine if you'd like." I held out my sat phone, but she shook her head.

"We'll be back in a few hours. I'll catch up then."

I pulled a face. "About that…"

She did a facepalm. "What now?"

"It looks like the storm did mostly cosmetic damage — gardens ripped up, trash on the beach. But the one place it did hit?—"

"Oh, God. Don't tell me."

"The airport's control tower. We'll be here a few days."

"No. No. No way. I have work. You have work. Isn't there something?—?"

"Joe's working on it. But the way things are looking, we'll be stuck here a while." I blew a breath through my nose to vent my own frustration. If Claire made a thing of this, I thought I might snap. She'd brought me into it, not the reverse. If anyone should be fuming, it should be me.

Claire got off the bed and went to her suitcase. She dug through it aggressively, tossing clothes on the couch. When she'd found what she wanted, she stalked to the bathroom. I changed into light dress pants and a white linen shirt, chuckling through my annoyance. Claire wasn't a morning person. I'd forgotten how much. You heard about people waking up on the wrong side of the bed, but she had no right side. She just had dawn rage.

One time in college, we'd studied late, and I'd slept over and woken to mad mongoose mode. She'd kicked me, quite literally, off her futon, jammed a bagel in my pocket, and rushed me out the door. I'd thought at the time she was embarrassed, scared her roommates would see me and jump to the wrong conclusion. But, no, that was morning Claire, and nothing had changed.

"Let's go downstairs," I said, when she emerged in her sundress. "We'll want to rebook our room before they boot us."

Claire pulled a sour face, but she pulled on her shoes. I slapped on a bright smile, ignoring her mood.

"We'll find you some coffee. Something to eat."

"Coffee," she grunted. I tried not to laugh. Morning Claire was annoying, but also quite cute, like a small, ruffled kitten baring its teeth.

We made our way to the lobby and found it jam-packed, guests with no cell service waiting for the landline. A second, shorter line had formed at the front desk, but it wasn't moving. An older, thin lady had taken the front spot, palms on the front desk, shoulders drawn up. She looked like she was trying to push the desk over, or flip it like a card table, onto its back.

"What's her problem?" said Claire.

I shook my head. Out on the terrace, a baby was crying, its high, thin wails muffling the scene at the front desk. I touched Claire's arm.

"I'll be right back."

I headed for the front desk, setting my face in a bland smile. The lady was scowling now, slapping her palm on the counter.

"I don't know what to tell you," said the desk clerk. "Your room will be comped till you can rebook your flight. Everyone's will be, who's wound up stranded. This doesn't affect?—"

"The hell it doesn't!" She slapped the counter again. "I come here for the atmosphere. For peace and quiet. Not, not — who are these people? I know they're not paying. Can't you shut down that screaming? Can't you?—"

"Ma'am, please?—"

"Don't you ‘ma'am' me. My husband's cruise line brings in half your business. I don't pay your salary so you can?—"

"Excuse me." I slid up beside her and held out my hand. "I'm Conrad Farley. Good morning."

She stared at my hand, thrown off her tirade. "I'm sorry. Do you work here?"

I smiled at her. "No. But I run Constel. You know it. Maybe I can help you here. What's going on?"

She peered at me narrowly, as though searching for lies. I could feel the distrust coming off of her in waves. But, in the end, her need to vent triumphed.

"My husband and I—" She cast about, didn't find him, and pulled a sour-grape face. "Well, I don't see him, but he's around here somewhere. We come here every year, three weeks in spring. It's our anniversary, our time just for us ." She slapped the counter at that, with the flat of her hand. The clerk flinched away, and I took the lady by the arm.

"That sounds lovely," I said. "How long have you been married?"

"Twenty-two years. Hey, what are you doing?"

I was guiding her out of the way of the counter, letting the desk staff get on with their jobs. "Finding us somewhere quiet to talk."

"But, that man—" She jerked her thumb at the clerk.

"Don't worry about him. He's just a clerk. I doubt he can help you, but maybe I can. What's going on here, with you and your husband?"

She drew herself up, still trembling with rage. "Everything was perfect, then they let in those people . Now this whole place is crawling with God knows who, moms, screaming kids, people who—" Her face had gone purple, screwed up like a raisin. "People who probably have barbecues. "

I bit my cheek hard, fighting back laughter. "I love a good barbecue. What's wrong with that?"

"You know what I'm saying. They're not like us. You know . They save up ten years for some scuzzy motel room, four nights in some dump miles from the beach. And suddenly, their planes get stuck, and they get to come here? They'll probably steal from us?—"

"Ma'am—"

"—go through our rooms?—"

" Ma'am ."

"They'll be out on our terraces with cheap beer and firecrackers, hooting and hollering and carrying on. You know what I mean. This isn't the kind of resort for poor people."

I bit back the first response that came to my mind, and the second and third ones. Then, I smiled broadly. "I hear you," I said. "You flew out here for a quiet vacation, and then the storm came, and that was pretty bad, right?"

She shuddered. "My Brian's older. He has a bad heart, and that ballroom was awful . That screaming, that crowd — they should have somewhere private. We didn't get a wink of sleep, and now with those moochers?—"

"Now, imagine if you went through that and got up this morning, and the front desk told you, ‘hey, your room's booked.' Imagine you found yourself standing outside, in a strange country, nowhere to go. Wouldn't you want someone to give you a room?"

She frowned, then sniffed. "I'm still paying for my room."

The desk clerk shook his head. "Like I said, Mrs. Adelford, we're not going to bill you. Your suite will be comped for the rest of your stay. Room service as well. Whatever you need."

I smiled at her. "There. Doesn't that sound good?"

"Not if that baby's staying as well! That horrible shrieking, I can't hear myself think."

I grimaced. "Funny. I was thinking the same about you."

Mrs. Adelford's jaw dropped, her mouth gaping wide. I took her by the elbow and hustled her away from the counter.

"Now, listen to me. You're getting a better deal than any of these people."

"I—"

"Which room are you in?"

"The presidential suite, but?—"

"And when are you leaving?"

"We just got here. We?—"

"So you're getting three weeks, no charge, in a five-star resort, all because, what? Someone has a baby? You should be half as grateful as any of those folks. Any of the rest of us who've found ourselves stranded. The staff at the front desk's doing their best. Why don't you go do the same for your husband?"

"Now, you listen here?—"

"He has a bad heart, right? You don't think your tantrum is stressing him out? Why don't you find him and go get some breakfast, go sit on your balcony where you can't hear that baby?"

She gaped at me a moment, then glanced behind her. I caught sight of a frail-looking man peering out from the shadows, face red as the flowers on his Hawaiian shirt. Mrs. Adelford glowered at him.

"Brian, get out here."

Brian slouched back out, pushing back his white hair. "C'mon, hon, I'm hungry. Don't you want pancakes?"

"Give him some sugar, and I swear he's like putty. Doesn't care about anything, as long as he's fed. It's like having a five-year-old…" Mrs. Adelford was still talking too loudly, angling for sympathy, but none was forthcoming. No one would look at her, and she stalked over to Brian.

"Fine," she said. "Let's get you some breakfast."

I watched them go with a shudder. Claire came up beside me.

"If he has a bad heart, I know who I'd blame."

I snorted. "Right? If I was his heart, I'd quit just to be rid of her."

"Some people, I swear…" She shook her head. "I checked with the clerk while she was having her meltdown. We can stay till the airport's up, but…"

I waited for Claire to finish, but she was looking away. Fiddling with her hair like she felt awkward.

"What is it?" I said.

"Well, there are more stranded travelers than they had rooms to spare. It didn't seem right, us hoarding two suites. Not when, y'know…"

Claire wouldn't look at me. I gave her hand a quick squeeze.

"So you gave up your suite. You did the right thing."

Claire blew out a shaky sigh of relief. "So did you, with that woman. I'm truly impressed. You have a way with snobs. The snob touch."

I grimaced at that. "Don't make me touch her."

We both burst out laughing, and my shoulders went loose. The knots in my gut uncurled at last. I'd been one big ball of tension since last night's dinner, since that waiter came out and announced the storm. But as disasters went, this one was bush league. Stranded in paradise, who could complain?

"Was I acting like her?"

Claire stopped laughing. "What?"

"Earlier, yelling at Joe to fix this. To get us out of here, whatever the cost."

Claire's brows went up. "I didn't hear that. But I doubt you were that bad."

"Still, I'll owe him a dinner when we get home." I took Claire's hand and nodded at the big side doors. "Want to step out there and survey the damage?"

We headed out onto the beach-facing terrace and stood looking out at the ocean's calm reach. The sky was that freshly washed, after-rain blue, halfway between robin's-egg and Spanish bluebells. A line of cotton-puff clouds hung along the horizon. Birds wheeled overhead in lazy circles. It was a perfect day from the tide line on out. Above the tide line, the white beach lay cluttered. Plastic furniture lay in bleached, leggy tangles. Seaweed and garbage were strewn all over. On the terrace, a couple of planters had fallen, and two jeans-clad gardeners were sweeping up the dirt. A third was replanting pink and blue flowers.

"It's not as bad as I thought, from the noise last night."

I nodded, watching a tired family pull into the driveway. The valet took their car and they stood looking lost. I took Claire's hand and held it.

"We're lucky," I said. "We should go in and see if we can do anything to help."