KNOT: A Wake Family Novel (5 page)

Nora—Saturday, February 9, 2008

W
hat time was it anyway?

Hell if I knew. It didn’t matter, it was well past midnight.

I sat in the posh suite I’d booked myself into while I sorted the final plans, tweaked the last few table changes, and made notes for reminder calls the next morning. The Harbor Hotel-Los Angeles was hosting the Smithson/Andrews wedding, and I was overseeing the event.

This particular job had been endless. A bride who could never make up her mind. A groom’s mother coming to terms with her last son being married off. Everyone had a vested interest, including the groom who insisted on being copied on every single email—down to the chair covers.

Controlling prick.

However, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. All I had to do was get through this weekend, then I was headed to Chicago. I was going to blow the socks off the manager there, and hopefully, swoop in and snag their open position.

The Los Angeles location of the Harbor Hotel chain was where I’d presently been working, but each hotel was in charge of their hiring, respectively. The Chicago branch was without an event coordinator, and while it only looked like I was volunteering to help them in their time of need, from a corporate standpoint, I was really hoping I’d be a good, permanent solution to their needs.

I’d liked Los Angeles for what it was, a city where anything was possible. A city where every lifestyle had a club. Where a woman like me, who was firm in her beliefs, could find other like-minded people to associate with.

But, fuck, it was hot. It barely ever changed and they didn’t have real seasons.

Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall.

Kind of hot. Hot. Hell. Hot rain.

I could handle summer, warm weather, but I craved the bite of a cold snap. The crunch of snow under my feet. Boots. Wearing a scarf because I needed one, not because it was trendy and ironic, like in Hollywood.

So while I did a good job, and loved the hospitality business, I’d secretly been pining away for a colder location to transfer to.

It could be downright frigid in Chicago, but hopefully I’d already spent my last balmy Christmas on the Pacific Coast. I was ready for the change. I’d been in one place long enough.

Time to move on.

Chicago wasn’t much different from L.A. I could buy anything I wanted. I could eat the best foods money could offer. I knew a few people in the area, and since Janel and Ives were already relocated there, I could tag along with them socially. Another reason I was so dead set on Illinois.

Janel had been my best friend since our first year in college, and I’d introduced her to Ives when she’d come with me to Zurich, where my father lived. I loved them both, and I was happy they found happiness with each other.

They’d even be at the Harbor in Chicago on Friday for the party. Coincidentally, Ives worked for the corporation who was throwing it.

I welcomed the change of pace. New places to see and faces to learn. Janel and Ives—newlyweds, but still active in
the lifestyle
—knew firsthand what I was into. Soon, I’d find company to keep in the middle of the country, just as I’d done on the Pacific Coast when I moved from Aspen, where I grew up for the most part.

It would take some patience, but what hurry was I in? And since when had I even had the time to socialize, in any capacity, anyway? I’d been too focused on work.

I checked off the last item on my to-do list and decided to relax for the last few minutes of my night. After all of my work things were put away, I slipped into my pajamas, grabbed the extra blanket I’d had sent up and a pillow off the bed, and then settled down in the chair.

The hotel bed was huge, and no doubt more spacious, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get any viable sleep there.

I was a chair kind of girl when staying in a hotel. Any hotel. Even one of mine.

I’d never slept well in a bed that big. The world was lonely enough without all the extra leg room and empty mattress.

I picked up my book from the table where I’d left it the night before, slid out the bookmark and started reading.

Appetizers.
That made me happy.

I’d never gotten into fiction. It was too much of a commitment. Demanded too much emotion. Horror books freaked me out—I’ll die having never watched a scary movie. Romance was too predictable and unrealistic. Crime? No thanks.

Cookbooks were my chosen guilty pleasure. The decadence without any of the guilt. The variety made appetizers, in particular, my favorite. There were no rules with that type of food, and even things you wouldn’t think to pair together made something unique and different. Something unexpected and delicious, at least in the perfectly proportioned amount.

A little of this. A little of that.
A lot
like my sex life.

I suppose it’s no surprise, small bite-sized teasers and samples excited me. I could try anything; whatever my heart desired. Have a taste of it all.

Why anyone ever tried to live a satisfied life having the same thing for dinner every night made no sense to me. It sounded so depressing.

There was no question where my thoughts on commitment, whether it be food or relationships, came from.

Vivian Suzanne Maxwell-Stout-Jennings-Howe-Potter-Davis.
My mother.

She and I were alike, I’ll give her that. It must have been genetic, but unlike her, I was aware of the truth. Aware of our tendencies. She knew but tried to hide it.

Whatever. She had to live her life.

What did I know about wearing someone else’s shoes?

If she was happy with the choices she made, then I could be happy with mine. Where she paired off with everyone, knowing there was no exclusive soulmate out there, I paired with no one. Pairing off wasn’t my thing.

She insisted that she could fall in love over and over, but I think we both knew it was never about love. It was about what her man of the moment could buy her. Where he could take her. Who she could rub elbows with, and eventually find the next man up for grabs.

I didn’t subscribe to her methods, but her logic was true enough. There wasn’t one person for everyone. There were many, and for me, fighting that reality was foolish.

I only made it four pages—
quiches and tarts
—then my eyes started to water, and exhaustion started petting me to sleep.

With the bookmark replaced, I set the book next to me, scooted down into the club chair and fell off into nowhere particular.

Smile.

“Of course I’ll take the picture.”

Check the seats, the flowers, the cake, the kitchen. It was my job—and I was on.

“Nora, the band is here.”

Smile.

Check the servers and bartenders. The photographer showed. No announcer.

I stepped up and spoke into the microphone. “I’d like to congratulate the happy couple…”

Smile.

Go to the bathroom. Look at email.

Check-in for my morning flight.

Get through tonight, Nora.

Smile. Take three more photos.

Where’s that photog at anyway?

Tell the bartender to stop serving the dude with the camera. Make a note for his file. Don’t use him again.

I need a drink.

Announce the first dance.

“Yes, she’s stunning.”

“Yes, the cake is magnificent.”

“Yes, the hotel is happy to accommodate any of your future event needs.”

Midnight snacks are a hit.

The cab service is here.

My feet hurt.

Smile.

Dole out the checks. Take the business card of a photographer who’s interested in referrals. Make a note to look him up, possibly add him to the contractor directory replacing the lush working for us now.

Cleaning crew showed up on time.
Perfect
.

Take shoes off in the elevator.

Take a shower.

Take a minute to look over wrap-up checklist.

Smile for real
. I did it.

Fall asleep and dream of the cold lake wind on my face and the sound of it as it rushes past my ears.

“The Harbor,” I told the taxi driver as I got into the cab at O’Hare, headed downtown.

I hadn’t been to Chicago in a few years, and as we pulled out into traffic, the skyline appeared before me. I said a silent prayer that they’d ask me to stay after the event.

It had been an early flight, and my feet still hurt from the long day and night before. I was glad for the slip on flats I’d chosen to wear for my flight. I’d packed enough clothes to wear last week, not even bothering to leave the hotel—even in the city where I lived—and came straight from L.A. to Chicago without even going home to water my probably-dead-by-now plants.

Don’t buy me plants. I’m herbicide.

I couldn’t be responsible for the survival of foliage. I didn’t even like dead flowers, why would I want a terminal plant to nurse? I couldn’t be held accountable for their well-being. It was too much pressure.

We rode through the city, and I fell in love with it all over again, even if there wasn’t any fresh snow.

The Harbor-Chicago’s previous planner had left them high and dry, but I hoped I’d find she also left a lot of the information and plans. Otherwise, I’d be starting from scratch, which I didn’t mind, but it was a new town for me. I didn’t have too many contacts yet, and the fact was I had less than a week to perform a miracle.

I was staying at the Harbor while I worked for them that week. If I was lucky, I’d prove to them why they needed me on their team. I’d show management how efficient I could be. How decisive and easy to work with I was. I’d take extra care to learn the existing staff and utilize them, making it a team effort—and therefore someone they’d
want
to work with, side-by-side going forward.

Adrenaline coursed through me as I paid the driver and pulled my two giant bags behind me into the lobby.

It was showtime.