Must Love Otters (9 page)

“See that up there?”

I sit a little straighter, trying to make myself taller than the plane’s dash. Up ahead are lights. Lots of them. “That’s where we’re going?”

He nods and shuts off his mic to me so he can communicate with the other voice in his ear. We pass over the resort and circle back, so I’m given a 360 view of the resort and surrounding island. It’s far bigger than I expected, a full eighteen-hole golf course along the western side, the greens lit by lanterns that sparkle in the distance. The lodge itself is huge, not at all a wee, quaint little lodge with a dozen or so cozy rooms. This is full-on luxury. I count four chimneys extending from various pitches of the roof, and lights from inside blaze through the expansive windows, lighting the walkways and paths and endless porches around the periphery. A dock extends off the eastern side, tethered small boats and canoes, stacks of kayaks, and the proper charter plane—obviously Miss Lily’s bigger and younger sister.

The mic clicks on in my ear again. “We’re going to circle back and come in along the eastern side, along those docks.”

I give him a thumbs up.

“It’s like landing on a runway at first. A bit bumpy, but then smooth under the pontoons. It’s still gonna be a little wobbly until we slow down. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be!”

“Welcome to Revelation Cove, Hollie Porter.”

Wobbly, my ass. I clenched so hard around that door handle, afraid it would fly open again, my knuckles froze in the four minutes it took us to actually coast to a stop. The mic was on during the descent, and Concierge Ryan talked me down, but
still
… wow. Maybe I should see about taking a boat back to Victoria when this adventure is over.

Ryan repeats the process at takeoff in reverse. Once he’s out and the plane is tethered, only then do I dare move. My ass is asleep. I try to look sturdy and completely in control when I step first onto the pontoon, black water licking the sides like fingers from hell reaching for my ankles, and onto the dock.

“Do you need help carrying this stuff?”

“This? Nah, you’re a guest. Don’t you worry. What you need is to get checked in and hop into a warm tub.” I raise my eyebrows at him.

“Do you say that to all of your guests?”

“Mostly the over-sixty crowd. They’re more my speed. The mature woman knows what she wants.” He leads the way up the lantern-lit wooden docks toward the spectacular lodge.

“I’m not over sixty, though.”

“I’ve made an exception for you. Considering my plane almost kicked you out midflight.”

“So chivalrous, Concierge Ryan.”

“Well, it is my job, being concierge and all.”

He pushes open one of the massive wooden double doors that look straight off a Middle Earth movie set. Inside is everything you’d hope it to be. Not some backwoods hunting lodge, Revelation Cove’s resort is full of raw wood, exposed beams, lush carpets accenting well-polished hardwood floors, modern, comfortable furniture with not a speck of flannel or cheap ’90s-era faux Indian print (my dad bought a whole living room set in the dark woodsy colors. Showed every ice cream stain). The walls are adorned with art, some reflective of local natural environs, some modern. No animal heads stare at me, glassy-eyed and sad their lives were cut short. The ceilings are massive, unreachable. This main entry is like every other fancy downtown hotel, open plan, airy, inviting. The aroma of something delicious wafts through—someone’s baking. Cookies? Bread? My mouth waters. Down one wall leading into undiscovered territory is a series of framed sports memorabilia. Jerseys for an undetermined sport. One looks like the red torn thing Concierge Ryan is wearing.

“You like sports?” Ryan says, nodding at the far wall. He drops my bag in front of what must be the check-in desk.

“Sure. I guess. I’ve been to a few Trailblazers games with my dad.”

“Basketball girl, then.”

“Not really. It’s fun because Bob—my dad—he gets really into it. There aren’t a lot of sports in Portland other than the Jailblazers.”

Concierge Ryan laughs. “Harsh. I’ve heard about that team’s reputation. Ever been to any Winterhawks games?”

“Baseball?”

His mouth drops open. “Oh, Hollie Porter, I’m not sure if you can stay here at Revelation Cove.” He picks up my bag from the floor.

“What? What did I say?”

“It’s hockey, little American girl. Don’t let anyone around here know that you’re not a hockey fan. You’re in Canada, remember?”

“So your jersey—hockey?”

He holds a stretched finger to his lips. “Ssshhh. Yes. Hockey. Detroit Red Wings. Later when you’re settled in, I’ll show you our jersey collection and give you a primer in case someone corners you and asks about your favorite team.” He leans in and lowers his voice behind his hand. “Probably best to be a Canucks fan around here. West Coast fans usually like the Canucks or one of the LA teams. I can give you a primer on the Original Six, in case one of the old-timers wants to talk Bruins or Blackhawks.”

“It’s all Greek to me. But I’ve heard of the Canucks. I can handle that.”

“You should know they have goalie issues. Which is why they can’t win the Stanley Cup.”

“Is that bad?”

“Don’t you remember the riots a few years back?”

“Yeahhhh … I think so. We talked about it at work—everyone making jokes about the Canadians rioting. We figured they threw beer and doughnuts at each other.”

“Ryan, you’re back,” interrupts an older woman scooting in behind the counter. “Who have you dragged in with you?”

“Miss Betty, this is Hollie Porter. She’ll be staying with us for a few days.”

I stretch an arm across the gleaming marble counter and shake hands with Miss Betty. Her skin is soft, the lavender of her lotion floating toward me. When she smiles, her whole face smiles, the lines deep from a good life lived. “Welcome to Revelation Cove. Let’s get you checked in and on your way to relaxing and away from this brute of a man. He smells like grease.”

“Hollie Porter, I look forward to seeing you soon.” Ryan bows again. “You’re in good hands here. Find me tomorrow and I’ll give you a personalized tour of the grounds.” He winks and walks away. Before he reaches the door, he turns back toward us. “Miss Betty, can you send a few of the guys down to the dock? Lil’s belly is full.”

Miss Betty smiles as Ryan pushes the door open with his rear and disappears into the night. She checks me in and shows me to my room, asking me about the flight, how I fared, if Ryan was well behaved.

“Perfect gentleman,” I say. She smiles and slides the cardkey into the door lock. The room’s interior is even more breathtaking than the website photos promised. The queen-sized bed with the rough-hewn timber headboard, a round wooden soaker hot tub on the patio, windows that look out across a green lawn and manicured beds and blossoming trees sloping down toward the blackness of the water. I can see the dock. Ryan is down there, much smaller from this far away. Three other guys, one pulling a cart not unlike the one left behind in Victoria, move down the dock and greet him, handshakes and shoulder slaps all around. Friends.

What are those like?

“Are you hungry, Miss Porter?” I’m starved, actually. “We have room service, or the dining room is open until midnight. Come on down when you’re ready, or we can send something up. Whichever you prefer.”

Miss Betty opens an antique armoire and places my bag inside. “We have fresh terry robes here if you decide you want to take a swim. The outdoor pool is heated year-round. It also closes at midnight. We don’t allow the little ones in after 9 p.m., so you don’t have to worry about getting splashed.” She opens another cupboard in the bathroom next to the tub and calls out. “Fresh towels here. And if you run out, there are plenty more at the front desk. And of course, be sure to help yourself to the soaker tub. Only thing is, remember to take your cardkey. The door to the patio has a lock, so once you’re out there, you’ll need your cardkey to get back inside.”

“Okay, thank you, Miss Betty.”

“Come down to the front desk anytime and one of our staff can show you all the wonderful activities we offer. Enjoy your stay, dear.” She slides out of the room, her movements no louder than the footfalls of a cloud-walking cat.

I flop onto the bed, and despite the slight minibottle buzz pulsing through my veins, I feel awake. Tired, but awake. I should order room service. I don’t want to sit in the dining room and look like a dork because I’m alone. That’s a hurdle I can tackle tomorrow.

I order the cheapest thing the menu offers—club sandwich on focaccia, extra pickles, sweet potato fries. The minifridge in the room has soda and more of those blasted little bottles. I crack one open. What the hell. I’m on vacation.

I’m on vacation!

And there are no Yorkies and no stethoscopes and no possessed goats or frizzy-haired troll dolls or wide-hipped, power-hungry supervisors.

Mona and Herb would be so proud of me. I’m not rotting in the soul-sucking 911 dungeon listening to people die on the phone. I’m living. Letting it go. That’s what the emergency dispatcher employee assistance liaison told us to do—when we walk out the door, we leave the sadness, the tragedy, the suffering and heartache behind us. Like a coat we check at the door.

I like the idea of leaving it all behind. In fact, looking through the gauzy curtains at the sprawling, moon-kissed mountains across the water, I don’t know if I ever need to go back. If this is living, I think I might like it.

Maybe I can get a job here. I know how to answer phones. I can clean toilets and change beds. If it means I don’t have to go back to an empty life …

This is avoidance behavior. The liaison talked about this too. Some people use alcohol or drugs or even sex to avoid dealing with the skeletons prancing about in their closets. Thing is, my skeletons are dressed in feather boas and expensive heels and they won’t share. Even my skeletons have more fun than me.

God, what a whiny bitch. Seriously, Hollie, there are people with real problems. Pretty sure you know that clean water will flow through the tap when you turn the spigot and no one is going to sneak in during the night to steal you as a plaything for their pillaging army.

Self-pity is a fickle cow. She makes you feel worse about feeling worse.

This calls for more spirits of the liquid variety.

The sandwich arrives quick-quick. I tip the delivery guy and chomp it down—the sandwich, not the bellhop—to soak up the wee bottles of avoidance I’ve sucked back. Belly full, it’s time to carry on with this whole living theme and check out the soaker tub on the patio.

And in the spirit of being awesome and brave, I’m going in the buff. My old swimsuit I didn’t have time to replace is baggy and gross, and it makes me itch. No one can see me, I’m sure—the patio is protected on all sides by tall potted greenery and the frosted glass railing, plus it’s a mere four steps from the outer door.

I smile in the bathroom mirror while piling my hair atop my head. I feel so … dangerous. Except my teeth need whitening. Like the commercials say, I might not get a man if my teeth are yellow.

“You don’t need a man, Hollie. That’s what batteries are for.” My reflection is talking to me. Or else I’m talking to myself. Yeah, probably that.

Tiptoe, tiptoe, out on-to the pat-i-o.

Mmmm, the water steams when I pull the lid back. I’m hunched over, one arm over the boobage in case someone actually
can
see me. With my luck, security cameras are going to pick this up. I should’ve asked about security cameras, but then that might have made Miss Betty nervous that I was a bad guy. She seems sweet. Maybe she’s not the suspicious type.

One leg over the side. “Ohhhhh, that is delicious.” Both legs in. Body submerging, inch by inch. It’s hot but not too hot. The outside air goosebumps my exposed skin until I’m immersed to my chin.

I could clean toilets for a living to have this life. Although I’m guessing the staff doesn’t get access to such luxuries. Then again, Concierge Ryan doesn’t look like an abused resort worker, not like the folks we hear about on the news subjected to indentured servitude with endless shifts and meager pay and roach-infested, leaky cabins with bed bugs. Ryan and his very crooked nose look well fed and well adjusted, though maybe in need of a date with a razor.

I should seriously see if they’re hiring. I need a calmer, death-free job. And this soaker tub. Forever.

Eyes closed, I practice reflective breathing. Concentrate on the sounds around me. A distant owl. The muffled laughs of people down the way. (Man, I hope they can’t see me. Maybe I’m the reason they’re laughing.) Eyes open again. Pretty sure they can’t see me.

Another attempt at tub-aided meditation.

The water lapping at the sides of docked vessels. No seabirds—it’s too dark. Crickets. Frogs. The whiny buzz of an early mosquito in my ear, close enough for him to try to tell me a secret before I drown him with the swipe of a hand. The slight smell of chlorine from the tub’s water. Not too heady like in a swimming pool, but enough to know that creepy crawlies from prior soakers have been chemically eradicated.

I need to text my dad. Thank him times eleventy million for this great gift. My dad. What a guy. My eyes burn a little thinking about what an awesome father I have, that he gave me this present at the perfect time and now I’m here instead of sitting at home, feeling sorry for myself.

I need to do better. I need to be a better daughter and do something to make him proud, to show him that I am as amazing as he raised me to be. When he was my age and found himself strapped with a mewling infant and a vanishing wife who left nothing but a lipstick-smeared note written on a cigarette pack, “Sorry, I can’t do it. You’ll be great,” with no phone number or forwarding address, he didn’t cave. He dropped out of medical school and reenrolled in nursing courses. During a time when men were laughed at for becoming nurses. But he knew he could rely on good pay. Good benefits. Good retirement.

A good life for his motherless daughter.

This is why I suck at meditation. I have the attention span of a flea that forgot to take his ADHD meds.

I soak until my fingertips are pruned and my nails are bendy. Dummy me, in my excitement to hop naked as a babe into the tub, I failed to grab a towel. It’s okay. I’m a woman of action. I’ll jump out and run into the bathroom for a quick shower to scrub my hair of its travel grime.

One. Two. Three!

“Shit! Cold!”

I twist the doorknob. It’s locked.
It’s locked.

In that moment, the warmth of panic settles into my stomach, Miss Betty’s kind warning replaying in my ears: “Remember to take your cardkey. The door to the patio has a lock.”

Oh my God, no way. No bleeding way. I’m out on the patio. Naked. No towel. No fluffy white complimentary bathrobe plucked from the antique armoire. No cell phone.

No cardkey.

To prevent hypothermia while I work this out, I splash back into the tub to consider my options. I’m on the second floor, so I can’t exactly jump. I don’t want to scream for help because it has to be pushing 11 p.m. The lanterns along the docks and pathways out front are dimmed. A quiet hush is settling over the place. Folks are turning in, their warm, cozy beds swallowing them in pillowy, down goodness. Those same people have clothes.

Whereas I have none.

Because I’m a goddamned genius.

I stand on the shelf inside the tub, hands squished across my boobs, squeeze in between the tall plants, and stretch over to see how far it is to the ground.