THE BRIDE WAS BEAUTIFUL, as all brides are. It was, of course, easier when you had unlimited funds at your disposal. The white couture gown, flown in especially for the event from Paris, was a cloud of diamond-white tulle, embroidered with seed pearls and Swarovski crystals. The Belgian lace veil was attached to a diamond tiara that was a duplicate of the one worn by Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
As chief concierge of the butler floor at the Las Vegas Midas Resort Hotel and Casino, Brianna Mannion had arranged for a stylist to ensure perfect hair and nails for the bride and her seven attendants, all in poufy pastel taffeta gowns that would never be worn again.
The groom, while not as flamboyantly attired, nevertheless was handsome in a black tux. His concession to glitz was the crystal-studded bow tie designed to coordinate with the bride’s gown. There’d originally been plans for him to wear a top hat, but when he’d steadfastly objected, the bride’s harried mother had thrown up her hands in defeat.
“Well, I did want our princess to marry an alpha male,” she’d said to the bride’s father. Who, Brianna noted with a bit of trepidation, was pouring his third Scotch since arriving at the wedding preparation suite. Typically the suite was a women-only zone, but this was far from a typical wedding and since the bride’s mother (who had a strong alpha streak herself) had insisted her husband be there for the preparations, he’d apparently caved rather than risk a scene.
Because the Midas prided itself on the extreme level of privacy afforded to its guests, this particular suite had its own high-speed elevator that opened onto the ballroom booked for the event. Although it took four trips, Brianna managed to herd the party down the sixty-five floors to the ballroom, which took some logistics when a trio of bridesmaids, having lost patience during their styling, had begun nipping at each other. Fortunately, she was able to calm things down before the pink, yellow and aqua taffeta started getting ripped apart.
The ceremony, presided over by the top Elvis impersonator in the country—no mere local Elvises (Elvi?) need apply—amazingly went off without a hitch. And although the reception might have gotten a little rowdy, both the wedding party and the guests invited to this special occasion all seemed to enjoy the tiered white wonder of a wedding cake created by the Cordon Bleu–trained top chef. But it was the gilt doggie bags filled with a variety of gourmet dog biscuits dusted with edible twenty-four-karat gold that proved the hit of the party.
After escorting the happy couple up to their honeymoon penthouse suite that adjoined that of the bride’s parents, Brianna finally blew out a long breath of relief.
The good news was that the wedding of the tech mogul and his wife’s award-winning King Charles spaniel to a male belonging to a distant member of the British royal family (the first high-end dog ceremony Brianna had arranged) had gone off without a hitch. The bad news was that if word got out of its success, it might not be her last.
She’d just returned to her desk, which, like everything else in Midas, was heavily gilded, when a guest she recalled from yesterday came marching toward her. Unfortunately, the man’s lobster-red complexion, furious scowl and steam she could practically envision coming from his ears were not encouraging signs.
“I have a complaint,” he bellowed as he approached the desk. Like she couldn’t hear him from three feet away?
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Brianna pasted on her most conciliatory, caring smile. “What can I help you with?”
“The concierge from yesterday was terrible. I want her fired.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because she’s obviously not working up to the standards of this hotel.”
“Sir, I’m the concierge you spoke with yesterday. And again, I’m sorry that you had a less than satisfactory experience. What’s the problem?”
He gave her a long, hard look. Leaned over the desk, and squinted at her gold-plated name tag. Then straightened, and squared his shoulders like a man about to go into battle. “It’s about that restaurant you sent us to last night.”
“Bombay Spice.”
“Yeah. That one.”
“You didn’t care for your meal?” Bombay Spice, located a block off the strip near the Taj Mahal, was one of Brianna’s personal favorites, serving deliciously prepared authentic Indian cuisine.
“It was fucking vegetarian!” His tone rose again with indignation.
Having grown up working on the Mannion family Christmas tree farm, Brianna had learned at an early age how to deal with difficult customers. She’d also discovered, while working her way up the chain of the hotel hospitality business, that in some cases, the higher the income, the more escalated the sense of privilege. Apparently this was going to be one of those cases.
“I believe I mentioned that when you asked about it,” she said with measured calm.
“Well, dammit to hell, I expected them to serve some meat dishes. None of the five-star reviews my wife read online said anything about them not at least having a damn rib eye steak.” His color rose to a hue that had her prepared to call 911 in case he keeled over from a blood pressure spike.
“I suspect the reviews didn’t mention the lack of meat because online diners were reviewing the restaurant’s vegetarian dishes.”
Brianna wished she had a dollar for every time a guest came up to her with a list of restaurants in hand, asking her to recommend one. The problem with online review sites was that they reflected only the experience of the person writing the reviews. She’d spent her first six months in Las Vegas eating at as many restaurants as she could, meeting the owners and managers, in order to get firsthand knowledge. Some guests might like a noisy, busy brasserie, while others might prefer a quiet, romantic dining experience. Some might like bright lights. Others might go for candles on the table. Her job was to ask questions to determine what restaurant might work for that particular guest. Which she’d tried to do with this agitated man yesterday.
“You shouldn’t send people there.”
“I did recommend two steak houses,” she reminded him, practically having to bite her tongue at this point.
“But Bombay Spice had great reviews,” he insisted. “Which is why my wife wanted to go there. She was determined to try the gobhi mattar masala with truffle rice because it had all five stars. But if a restaurant doesn’t have meat, you should warn people! You ruined our anniversary dinner!”
“I’m sorry you had a less than satisfactory experience.” The cauliflower/green peas/cumin/ginger/cashews dish was one of Brianna’s personal favorites. But she did find the truffle rice a bit rich for her taste.
“Less than satisfactory? It sucked! Of course we left the place, but by then it was impossible to get a table anywhere decent, so we just came back to the hotel.”
“We have several fine restaurants in the hotel,” she pointed out in her most cordial, professional voice. “All which have received excellent reviews by both critics and diners alike. I, or the night concierge, would have been more than happy to arrange for you to have dinner on us if you’d only let us know you were dissatisfied.”
“My wife had lost her appetite by the time we got back here and just wanted to go to bed.” He ripped off his black-framed glasses. If fiery glares could kill, Brianna would have burst into flames on the spot. “Which is why you owe me fifty fucking thousand dollars.”
That got Brianna’s full attention. “Excuse me?”
“My wife went to bed. Alone,” he stressed in the event Brianna hadn’t gotten his meaning. “Since our anniversary night was toast, I decided, what the hell, I might as well go down to the tables.”
Where he’d lost fifty thousand dollars. Brianna restrained herself from suggesting he Google the meaning of gambling.
“I’m thinking of reporting this place to the state gambling commission for rigging the games.”
“That’s certainly your right. But I can assure you that nothing at the Midas is rigged.”
Her roots may be Irish, from a many-times-great-grandfather who’d arrived in the Pacific Northwest where he’d gotten the dangerous job of driving the dynamite wagon for the construction of the railroad, but somehow Brianna must have been busy meeting and greeting people when God had handed out tempers, because she hadn’t inherited the trait. Still, this man was beginning to test her limits.
“I’ve never lost that much in any casino in two fucking hours.”
Wow. He’d really been tossing down the high dollar chips. And, from the red veins crisscrossing his eyes like lines on a Nevada roadmap, he hadn’t turned down any of the free drinks handed out to high rollers.
“I’m sorry for your bad luck.” Having never dropped as much as a dollar in a slot machine, Brianna didn’t comprehend why anyone would want to risk hard-earned money when everyone knew that in the end, the house always eventually won, but enough people seemed to feel different to allow her to be paid a very lucrative salary with benefits and generous tips from happy guests. Especially those who’d walked away after a winning streak. “But it certainly wasn’t due to any rigging.”
He shoved the glasses back on his face. “I’m going to report you to the manager.”
“Again, that’s your right.”
Having received not only high marks, but a bonus at her annual review, Brianna wasn’t concerned about her job being in jeopardy. Usually before a guest arrived on the butler’s floor, she’d wade through her files of past likes and dislikes to ensure a stay tailored to that particular party. But because this man and his wife were first-timers, there was no previous record. And unfortunately, he’d added nothing to the comments section in the online reservation form. Such as his intense dislike of vegetarian meals.
“And after I report you, I’m going to write the worst goddamn review ever published on Yelp.” He spun on a heel and stomped off toward the gold-embossed elevator.
“I hope you have a safe and uneventful trip back home, sir,” she called after him. It was the same thing she told all the guests as they’d leave.
“I intend to, since you won’t be the one doing the planning. And quit calling me sir, bitch,” he roared back over his shoulder. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon, dammit!”
“Doctor Dick,” Brianna murmured under her breath, reminding herself that although this might not be her most fulfilling day, she was exactly where she’d always dreamed of being.
Working at the family tree farm had taught her she enjoyed working with people, helping each family find the perfect tree just for them. Watching Gilmore Girls, she’d always identified with Lorelai’s dream of creating a warm and caring environment in her very own inn, rather than working for someone else. And she’d even had a specific house in mind.
Then, while earning her degree in hospitality and hotel management, classmates and professors had tried to convince her that she’d be wasting her talents on a small town of seven thousand plus, stuck out on the Washington peninsula, where guests would have to travel by ferry or a long car ride over twisting mountain roads to visit. No, she’d been born for more important things, she’d been told. All she needed to do was give up those childish dreams of creating a life in the Pacific Northwest’s version of Star Hollow, and dream bigger. Bolder. Brighter.
It was during summer break between her sophomore and junior years, with more time to watch TV, that she’d become hooked on the Travel Channel, drinking in the splendor of the world’s grand hotels. By the time she returned to UW, she’d changed her focus, and after graduation and playing maid of honor at her best friend Zoe’s wedding to Seth Harper, she’d begun her gypsy life of traveling the country, working her way up to this gilded desk.
Dealing with demanding high rollers who expected their needs dealt with immediately, if not before they even realized they were going to want something, she’d honed her skills at making the impossible possible.
But while she might be near the pinnacle of her specialized hospitality world, there were times Brianna found herself missing those early days when she worked in less luxurious surroundings, dealing with more cordial families. Parents who’d appreciate a bowl of chicken noodle soup sent up to the room for a sick child, or honeymooners excited about something as simple as a bottle of house-labeled champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries in their room. And later showing her that they’d put a photo on their wedding Facebook and Instagram pages.
Be careful what you wish for, she thought as she cleared the desk of her planner and files to make room for the night-shift concierge to take her place.
Although she’d been offered housing in a wing of the sprawling resort away from the casino, Brianna had opted to rent a studio apartment away from the noise and bustle of the strip. Along with the rise in income, each step up the hospitality ladder had brought additional responsibility and increased stress, but whenever she drove into the quiet, green environs of The Sanctuary with its sparkling blue pools and xeriscape, drought-resistant gardens that appealed to her inner environmentalist, the stress of her workday began to flow away.
But not tonight. She’d always been a positive person. Anyone who had a flash fire temper, or was even easily annoyed, would never succeed in her career. But as she reran the conversation with the doctor who wore his privilege the same way he undoubtedly wore his white hospital coat, a low, simmering irritation flowed through her. And had her thinking, yet again, of those happier early days. She considered going to the resort’s exercise room and working it off on the treadmill and elliptical, but opted instead for take-out pizza, a glass of wine and streaming a movie.
Another reason she’d chosen this apartment was that its white walls offered a blank canvas. As did the white furniture and white kitchen. A person could do anything they wanted to make it their own. But, she realized now, though it was a respite from the overexcessive gilt of Midas, it didn’t offer a single clue to the person who lived here. She hadn’t bought any posters, or paintings, or even colorful throw pillows. And although she’d practically grown up in her mother’s farm kitchen, she owned one frying pan, two pots, a teakettle, a coffee maker and a set of four white dishes and bowls she’d bought online. A nun’s room at a convent would undoubtedly have more personality.
Then again, she reminded herself as she kicked off her sensible black pumps, changed into yoga pants and an oversize Gotham Knights football jersey her brother Burke had sent her, she didn’t exactly live here. She ate takeout and slept. Her life was at Midas. Same as it had been at every other hotel she’d worked at over the years. Which was fine with her. Dedication to her career had paid off in escalating achievements and money. And although she experienced a sense of satisfaction when she waved her magic concierge wand and provided a magical happy outcome for guests, when was the last time she’d felt happy?
“You’re just in the dumps because of Doctor Dick,” she assured herself as she poured a glass of chardonnay. After calling in her take-out order, she sat down on the hard, snowy white couch, turned on her iPad and logged into the Honeymoon Harbor website, which she’d been doing more and more often since moving to the desert two years ago.
Clicking on the link to the town’s newspaper, the Honeymoon Harbor Herald, she scrolled through announcements of births, weddings, anniversaries and deaths, recognizing the names of people she’d known all of her life. People she’d grown up with. Harper Construction had renovated the old library, which had earned a national award for innovative green historical renovation. Seeing the photo of Seth Harper, appearing uncomfortable in a suit and tie, caused a twinge in Brianna’s heart.
She’d had a crush on him going back to first grade, when he’d shared his lunch box Ding Dong with her. Her mother was a farm-to-table cook who hadn’t allowed processed food in their home. Even now, looking back, Brianna wasn’t sure whether it was Seth’s dark-chocolate-brown eyes with their ridiculously long lashes or the sudden burst of sugar on her tongue that had caused her to fall.
Despite being a Harper, he’d been friends with her brothers, which had him around the farm a lot. During her elementary school years, whenever she’d play with her Barbies, she’d be bridal Barbie, and groom Ken had been renamed Seth. Unfortunately, he’d always viewed her as either his friend’s sister who’d insist on tagging along with them, or worse, one of the guys. By middle school, she still hadn’t caught his attention, but Brianna knew, with every fiber of her young, not-yet-budding body, that once they got to high school and her breasts grew larger than the puny little bumps sticking out from her chest and she got curves in other places—like maybe some hips that didn’t look like a boy’s?—Seth Harper would finally look up and notice that the girl of his dreams had been in front of him all along.
Maybe she’d even get a locker next to his. Those things could happen, right? After all, all those book writers and movie makers had to get the “meet cute” idea from somewhere. And one day, while he was taking out his book for their shared first-period English class, their eyes would meet, bells would chime, Disney bluebirds would sing and, forever and ever afterward, they’d be known to one and all as “Sethanna.”
Unfortunately, when they’d returned to school after the Christmas break their last year of middle school, he’d looked up, all right. But instead of being blinded by her not-yet-achieved perfection, instead he’d noticed Zoe Robinson, a new girl from Astoria, Oregon, whose father had brought the family across the Columbia River back to his hometown. From the moment Zoe had walked into that first-period homeroom, Seth’s swoony brown eyes had locked on to her. And Zoe had tumbled just as fast.
Brianna could have hated her. At first, she’d wanted to hate her. But the petite girl with the long dark curls turned out to be as friendly as she was pretty. With Seth seeming destined to forever stay in brother mode, and unable to ignore the little sparkly hearts that appeared to follow the couple around like fairy dust, by the summer of their sophomore year of high school, Brianna had resigned herself to the fact that the two were, in fact, the perfect couple. And over that time, Zoe had become like the sister Brianna had always dreamed of.
Not that any of that had stopped her from dreaming of Seth. Mature Audience Only dreams (she hadn’t had the experience to imagine the R-rated yet) that had her feeling guilty when she woke up, and making it hard to face either one of them the next day.
After graduation, Zoe had joined the Army, something she’d been talking about all through school, but Brianna hadn’t really believed she’d go through with. And, from what she could tell, her visit to the Port Angeles recruiting center had surprised even Seth. She’d always wanted to be a nurse, but loggers didn’t make that much money, and even with her part-time job waiting tables at the diner, her family hadn’t had the money for nursing school. Beginning with a descendant who’d first arrived on the peninsula from Seattle to serve at Port Townsend’s Fort Worden in the early 1900s—theoretically to thwart any invasion from the sea—every succeeding generation of Robinsons had had at least one military family member. Which was why Zoe, an only child without any brothers to carry on the tradition, had decided that letting the Army pay for college only made sense.
She and Seth had continued to date while she’d gone to school at UW, returning home on the weekends and for holidays. Although everyone in Honeymoon Harbor knew they were destined to spend their lives together, Seth had officially proposed on New Year’s Eve of Zoe’s final year, and after her graduation, once she’d been commissioned as a second lieutenant, they’d married in a simple ceremony held in the Moments in Time meadow at Lake Crescent Lodge in Olympic National Park.
Because Seth was a civilian, rather than wear her dress uniform, Zoe had chosen to be married in a simple white silk shantung sheath, while Brianna, who’d returned home from her job at the Winfield Palace Hotel in Atlanta to serve as one of Zoe’s two attendants, had worn a sleeveless dress with a flared skirt in a soft, dusty pink that mirrored the mountains’ icy glaciers at sunrise. The other bridesmaid, Kylee Campbell, had gone with a matching style in a kelly green that echoed the bright new needles on the fir trees surrounding the town.
After a weekend honeymoon at the lodge where President Franklin Roosevelt had once slept, Seth had stayed behind on the peninsula while Zoe headed off to San Antonio for more training. Afterward she’d gotten her choice assignment to serve at Joint Base Lewis-McChord’s Madigan Army Medical Center north of Olympia. So they’d moved into a rental near the base and considered themselves even more fortunate when she’d gotten to stay there for all four years of her active duty.
Although Brianna was busy moving from town to town, hotel to hotel, Zoe had kept her up to date with phone calls and texts. After finishing her active duty, the couple had returned to Honeymoon Harbor, where they moved into a house Seth got busy renovating. Zoe had been so excited about the house, texting pictures of the progress and links to Pinterest pages of ideas she had for making the small cottage perfect. She still owed the Army four years of Individual Ready Reserves, which apparently hadn’t seemed any big deal because it only involved mustering once a year, which she could even do online.
Tragically, just as her IRR time was coming to an end, she’d been deployed to Afghanistan, only to be killed in a suicide bombing at the hospital while on duty.
In the midst of transitioning from the Ritz-Carlton, Kapalua on Maui to the soon-to-be opened Midas, Brianna had flown home across the Pacific for her BFF’s burial in the veterans’ section of the Harborview Cemetery, where generations of Robinsons were buried. At the time, Seth had appeared numb. Now, looking more closely at his face on her iPad’s screen, his face appeared haggard, his dark eyes haunted.
Brianna sighed at the painful memory, swiped at a tear, checked her watch and saw that she still had another ten minutes before the pizza delivery. While Vegas might be a 24/7 city, when it came to takeout, weekend nights were especially heavy. So rather than have to interrupt her movie when the delivery guy finally arrived, she took another sip of wine and impulsively clicked on the link to the town’s real estate listings.
When she saw the Victorian on the bluff overlooking the harbor at the top of the For Sale column, Brianna’s heart, which had been hurting for her lifelong friend and former crush, took a leap.
Despite the unfortunate color choice someone had chosen for the exterior, it was her house! Growing up Catholic, with a high school principal for a mother, Brianna had tended to be a rule follower. One exception had been all those times she’d sneak into the abandoned three-story house with her brothers and Seth. Her brothers had claimed the house was haunted. Brianna hadn’t believed in ghosts, but even if it did have a resident wandering spirit or two, she wouldn’t have cared. The creaky old Victorian spoke to her in some elemental way. Much as that first amazing taste of a Ding Dong had done.
Even in those days, as she’d wandered through the dusty, cobweb-strewn rooms, she’d pictured it as it must have once been. And could be again. All it had needed, she’d believed, was some love and tender care. The house, named Herons Landing by its original timber baron owner for the many great blue herons that would roost in nests in the property’s towering Douglas fir trees, was, quite literally, Brianna’s dream home. But, like her youthful dreams of Seth Harper, it would remain someone else’s reality.
The doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of her spicy buffalo chicken pizza with Greek yogurt dressing. She logged out of the computer, paid for the meal and settled down to watch the opening of the Dragonfly Inn Gilmore Girls episode, which had inspired her to get into the hotel business. By the time all the first guests had arrived, Brianna had managed to put her encounter with the rude, gambling doctor behind her.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t going to prove that easy.