STELLA
The rhinestone extravaganza and his new clothes hung from the hook on the back of the bathroom door in the RV. Priscilla gnawed on the top from Nick’s new box of shoes as we drove down the Pacific Coast Highway. Instead of slowing down at the fancy driveway lined with palms that said RITZ-CARLTON LAGUNA NIGUEL on the sandstone wall, Nick zoomed right past and continued south.
“What!” I said as I rubbernecked with my finger following the sign. “You missed it!”
Nick lifted his sunglasses, glanced at me for a second, and put them back down on his nose. At no point did he even hint at slowing down.
In the gap between our captain’s chairs, Priscilla switched gears and gave her stuffed conversation heart a death shake so violent that the seam popped open and a tuft of foamy stuffing popped out. She dropped the heart and made some mouth adjustments, as if to say, Oh my gosh, what is happening in my mouth?
I picked her up and pulled the stuffing from between her lips. I leaned to the right and looked in my side-view mirror. Perched on the bluffs, the hotel looked like a big old-fashioned hacienda, every room with a balcony overlooking the ocean.
“Want me to play Twenty Questions, or are you going to tell me?” I leaned over and gave his leg a squeeze. He grabbed my hand and squeezed right back.
“The Ritz might have hot-rock massages and a Jacuzzi in every room, but you want to know what they don’t have?”
I dropped a few wet threads of stuffing on the floor mats. “Ummm . . . reasonably priced vending machines?”
“RV parking.”
Of course. It was just the sort of thing that Ruth would have accounted for well ahead of time. I’d have realized it eventually, surely, but possibly not before I clipped the top of the entry overhang, sending Spanish tiles skittering off the roof while the valets watched with their hands pressed to their faces like in The Scream.
Just a few miles down the road, he slowed and signaled right, pulling down a newly paved road and past a sign that said SAN CLEMENTE STATE BEACH.
He pulled into the parking area, leaned in to give me a kiss, and then jogged over to the check-in. Through the window, I watched him talking to a woman behind the desk. The lady handed him a clipboard and he signed it, handing it back to her and laughing at something she said. There was joy in that laugh, and I felt it in my heart. I clutched Priscilla to me closely and thought of the advice that Mr. Bozeman had once given me. Find someone who makes you want to saddle up and ride off into the sunset. Find someone who makes you so happy you could just about cry.
Spinning the rings on my finger, I was overcome with the fullness in my chest. This had not been part of the plan, but it was happening. And suddenly, as he jogged back toward me, I felt a sting in my nose, and a sheen of tears welled up in my eyes.
We Ubered from the campsite to the Ritz, and the driver didn’t seem the least bit puzzled to see the two of us with our rolling luggage and a dog in a bag standing on the side of the road. He was seriously, and I mean seriously, engrossed in a conversation in a language I’d never heard before, which he bellowed into his headphones wire, holding it in front of his mouth like people do who are a little bit unclear about how microphones work.
In the back seat, I sat on the passenger side, and Nick sat behind the driver. Priscilla sat between us in her bag, gnawing on her frog again now that I’d made an executive decision to let her stuffed heart stay with the Love Boat. Nick looked remarkably upstanding in a crisp linen shirt I’d picked out for him, along with a pair of khaki shorts and flip-flops. He looked like he could be going yachting. I envisioned mimosas and windswept hair and whole nights spent below decks doing all sorts of . . .
Clearing my throat, I forced myself back to earth. Or shore. I was getting well and truly ahead of myself, and I knew it. North Star first. Mimosas on yachts second.
Along the PCH we cruised. Everything looked like a centerfold spread from a travel magazine; it felt like someone else’s life. But it wasn’t. It was mine. Ours, just for this little slice of time. I reached over Priscilla and gripped Nick’s hand, and he ran his thumb over the inside of my palm. It was as if time both slowed down and sped up when I was with him, and within just a few moments of endless gazes, we had arrived at the Ritz. The doorman opened my door, offering his hand to help me out, as well as a hand with Priscilla.
Nick tipped both the Uber driver and the bellboy in cash, then turned to me, pulling me close. He ran his thumb down my cheek and leaned in for a kiss. For an instant, the whole lobby went still and silent. With a single look, he could make the world fall away.
When he let me go, the noise of the world went back to full volume. “You ready?”
I took a deep breath and looked up at him. “Ready.”
He led me by the hand over to the concierge. A skinny and stylish young guy stood behind the desk and said, “Welcome to the Ritz. What name please?”
“Mike McNamara,” Nick said, and handed over his fake ID.
“Mine says Rutherford, but only until I get to the DMV,” I added, and handed over mine.
“Ooh, honeymooners! My favorite,” the concierge cooed, all his vowels long and exaggerated, Valley Girl with a delightful twist. He entered our not-names into the touch screen embedded in the wooden desk. He leaned in closer, conspiratorial almost. “Honeymooners are always in a good mood, see. They’re the best sort of guests. And look at you!” he said, reaching out a perfectly groomed finger for Priscilla to lick like a lollipop. “Aren’t you a cutie!”
Yes, yes, yes, hello! Hi! You’re very nice too! Very nice! Priscilla wiggled and squirmed, trampling her frog tragically under her hind feet as she struggled to get to this new and delightful stranger who knew just how to talk to her. Every day is the best day ever! Priscilla clacked her teeth with some happy bites of the air as she tried desperately to get a better grip on his finger for a loving nibble.
“By the way, we have dinner plans in town,” Nick said to the concierge. He pulled me close, let me feel the warmth of his body against mine. He placed his massive hand on the small of my back. “I saw on your website you guys have pet sitting, yeah?”
I glanced up at Nick. We hadn’t even discussed that, but knowing he’d been thinking about it, doing some behind-the-scenes research? It was very sexy. I loved a man who came prepared. The concierge swayed his shoulders and beamed. “Oh yes, absolutely. We do. Starting at four.” He produced a square business card, fancy and embossed.
RITZ-CARLTON CORDIALLY WELCOMES YOUR PET TO YAPPY HOUR
That was it. It was official. With Nick by my side and Priscilla in my arms and in-house pet sitting, it was indisputable. “This is paradise.”
“Mmmhmmmm!” said the concierge. “And just wait until you feel the sheets! Heaaaaaven!” He beamed. “Now we’re all set.” He stacked up two room keys and placed them in a small paper folder. This he slid over the shiny wood with one fingertip on the cardstock. “There are your keys. We’ll take your bags. You’re in room 311.”
My heart stopped. Room 311 was wrong.
Room 311 was not the plan. We should’ve been in 319, the room next to the guard’s. Room 311 was not OK. What I really wanted to do was grab the poor concierge by his expertly pressed lapels and say, I’ll give you anything for 319! But instead, I did some quick thinking on my toes. We were a couple. Couples had traditions. “But we stayed in 319 before,” I said, and added, “That was where he proposed.”
The concierge put his hand to his chest. “Oh, how sweet!”
“He’s the best,” I said, and put my head on his shoulder as he tightened his grip on my hip. “Is there any chance we can stay there again? It would mean the world to us.”
The concierge winced and sucked some air through his brilliantly whitened teeth. “Hang on, hang on.”
I held my breath. I crossed my fingers behind my purse. I felt Nick stiffen beside me. The concierge typed away furiously, but then he frowned. “Unfortunately not. We had to shift the schedule this morning. I’m so sorry!”
It took everything in my power to keep the smile on my face. Smile, Stella! Keep smiling! Smile harder! Harder!
But Nick pulled me closer. There was something in his possessive squeeze that said, I’ve got you. I focused on that feeling—that support, that certainty. That knowledge that I wasn’t planning this by myself. We would be OK. We would. Together.
“Room 311 is totally fine,” Nick said. “Thanks.”
“Oh good,” said the concierge, letting his shoulders go slack. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll send you some champagne to make up for it. How does that sound? I’ll make sure it’s something nice and . . .” But suddenly the happiness on his face faded away, and he looked like he’d just smelled a terrible fart. His smile did a slow-motion drop into a disapproving and thin-lipped frown. I followed his gaze over my shoulder.
By the fountain, I spotted him. He was wearing madras shorts and a wildly clashing Hawaiian shirt, along with green-rimmed Ray-Bans and a stripe of yellow zinc oxide on his nose.
The Sheikh Dude, in blinding fluorescent living color.
He was, right that instant, taking a photograph of himself in front of the fountain. He typed something into his phone, then made a Tony the Tiger air punch and spun around like Rocky, as if waiting for applause.
My burner phone buzzed in my pocket. I opened it up so that Nick could see it too. It was Instagram, notifying me of a post. The photo was of the sheikh with his mouth open, carefully positioned so he looked like he was catching a tinkle stream from a chubby marble angel.
About to hit the pool. Check me out! Golden showers for real! #SheikhLife
Nick flared his nostrils and shook his head. He turned away from the concierge and gave Priscilla a scratch behind her ears, and said very softly, “This is gonna be so worth it.”