Summertime Guests - Wendy Francis Page 0,67

remember to grab some Tylenol from the concierge desk when he gets off the phone. That and one of the Milky Ways staring at him from the vending machine. When was the last time he had anything to eat? he wonders. This morning? “Anyway, I’m not really supposed to talk about it. The police are handling everything now.”

“Of course. I’m so, so sorry, love. I wish I could give you a hug. It’s...it’s just unspeakably awful.” He can hear Isabella gurgling in the background. Incomprehensible baby syllables, wonderfully oblivious to the world.

Unspeakably awful. Those are the words that have eluded him. And again the compulsion to race home to his family and bolt all the doors washes over him. Because it is unspeakably awful. If only they could start the day over! Would it have made any difference? What if he’d been walking the grounds at the precise moment when the woman was up on her balcony? Would he have seen her? Would he have been able to radio for help in time? There’s no way of knowing, and yet, how he wishes there was something he could have done to prevent it. Finally, his voice breaking, he manages to say, “It is. You’re right. Unspeakably awful.” He’s struggling to regain his composure. His stomach rumbles. He needs food. “But I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I know more.”

“Yes, do,” she says before clicking off.

He fishes in his wallet for a crisp dollar bill and smooths it out before sticking it into the vending machine. If it shoots back out, so help him God, he will lose it. But, mercifully, the machine sucks his dollar up, and Jean-Paul punches in the coordinates: D,3. He waits, watching the coil spin around, working to push out the candy bar from the fourth row down. It inches forward to be released—and then snags on the coil, suspended in midair.

“Merde!” Jean-Paul says under his breath and kicks the machine, completely forgetting his station for a moment, losing his mind. He spins around, afraid someone has witnessed his outburst, but it’s only Jean-Paul here in the snack alcove.

When he turns back, he begins to laugh, a slightly maniacal laugh. Because there, in the slot at the bottom, sits his Milky Way, dislodged by his angry, vicious kick to the machine’s side. He reaches in and grabs it, practically biting off the wrapper and devouring it in a few solid, famished bites.

Earlier that week

TWENTY-TWO

What has she done? Oh no, oh no! is what passes through her mind as she stabs the elevator button to get back to her room on Thursday night. There’s no one riding up with her, thankfully, but she wants desperately to get back to her room before she breaks down completely. “How stupid can you be?” Claire angry-whispers into the air. To think she actually believed Marty would wrap her in his arms and tell her he wanted her back, that he couldn’t wait to spend the next years of his life with her. Outrageous! Verging on insane. For the first time, she wonders if maybe since Walt’s death she has been living in some kind of alternate universe, only her children have been too afraid to tell her. To tether her back to earth, to the here and now. To reality.

For God’s sake, Claire, she chides herself. Why would you expect a man you haven’t seen in thirty years to still be carrying a torch for you? “Idiot!” she scolds herself when she steps off the elevator and strides fitfully toward her room.

The door shut behind her, she throws herself down on the fluffy white comforter and allows herself a good, long cry. She has been so stupid, so utterly foolish. Like a schoolgirl with a crush. When she’d stumbled upon Audrey’s obituary months ago, she’d taken it as a sign. Martin was free, too! And the compulsion to find him had grown into a near obsession. Her heartbreak is gigantic, the floodgates breaking open. If she were home, she’d run into the woods behind the house and scream as loudly and as long as she could. She’d kick something hard, maybe hard enough to break a toe. She’d hurl a dish against the wall, throw an entire shelfful of books across the room. But she’s in a hotel. That won’t work. Still, she manages to sob into her pillow a bitter, crestfallen Fuck you, Martin!

Eventually, when she’s pretty certain there are no tears left—at least not for