VIOLET
Wrightsford Beach, NC August 31, 1991 9:35 p.m.
AS I POUR myself yet another cup of coffee, I try to remember why I’d thought it was such a good idea to add another job to my already jam-packed summer schedule. Today I woke at 9 a.m. in order to work an eight-hour day at my theater camp job, then had just enough time to change out of the T-shirt and shorts I wear as a counselor and into my Rumrunner Hotel attire—golf shirt and khaki skirt—and drive across town to begin my graveyard shift here at the front desk.
I’d hoped to recreate the summers of our early teen years, for my four best friends and I to spend quality time together before we all focused on finding real jobs in the real world. Like, wouldn’t it be so totally awesome to work together at this hotel after college graduation just like we did after junior high graduation?
Back when we were fourteen, we thought we’d hit the jackpot when we all scored summer jobs at Wrightsford Beach’s most popular resort. Just like on our favorite TV show, Beverly Hills, 90210, all we had to worry about was how deep we wanted our tans to be and whether to spend our wages on burgers or ice cream.
Unfortunately, just like Melrose Place vis-a-vis 90210, the spin-off hasn’t exactly lived up to the original. For all kinds of reasons.
No time to dwell on that, however, because duty calls in the form of a very handsome, very worried-looking man.
A number of guests are in tuxes because there’s a wedding reception in the ballroom, but I’m 99 percent sure this particular man in a penguin suit is the groom. Pasting on a professional smile, I ask, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Smith?”
He seems surprised that I know his name, so I hold up the file. “I’ve got your event details right here, and I recognize you from the bridal party photo shoot. I never forget a face.”
“Oh, well, thanks. I mean, yes, I hope you can help. My dog’s gone missing.”
“Dog?” Pets are allowed at the hotel, but I don’t remember seeing anything about one in residence at the moment.
“We decided at the last minute to bring Ribsy to be our ring bearer.” He drags a hand down his face. “I thought it would make my daughter happy, but if he’s lost, we’ll all be heartbroken.”
Batting curiosity aside—not too many grooms his age have kids old enough to participate in their weddings—I pull out a pad of paper. “I totally understand. You wouldn’t happen to have a photo of him, would you?”
He shakes his head. “Back home in Boston I have plenty, but nothing with me.”
“Okay. Why don’t you give me a description and the last place and time you saw him. I’ll radio the staff to keep an eye out.”
“He’s a pretty typical-looking hound dog, mostly black with a brown face and legs and a few white spots. He’s very friendly. Unfortunately, he’ll follow anybody.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. “Uh, what else?”
“He was in the wedding with you?”
“Right. On the beach.”
“And then what?”
“I took him up to the room and gave him his dinner. I just went up to take him out one last time to do his business, and he wasn’t there.”
A woman in a fifties-style blue dress exits the restrooms. When she notices Mr. Smith, she shifts course away from the ballroom doors and toward us. “Is everything okay, Henry?”
“Hey, Lucy. I hope so. Ribsy’s missing.”
“Oh no.”
“Any ideas?” Turning to me, he explains, “Lucy trains dogs. Lucy, Ms.”—he peers at my name tag—“Davenport has very generously agreed to spread the word.”
I grab a marker and sketch out a “Missing Dog” flyer while they talk. They’re halfway to the ballroom by the time I finish, so I quickly lock up my drawer and trot to catch up with them. “Excuse me, Mr. Smith?”
When he turns, his brow is still creased with worry. “Please, call me Henry.”
We’re not supposed to call guests by their first names, so I just hold up the paper in my hands. “It’s a bit late to knock on doors, but if you like, I can make copies of this and we can put them up.”
He looks like he’s going to protest, but his friend intervenes. “That’s actually a great idea,” she says.
“Okay, then. Thank you. But I’m sure it’s not part of your job description.” He holds out a hand. “I’ll make the copies in your business center and put them up.”
“It’s your wedding night, sir. I’m happy to take care of it.”
receive an email from Bookfunnel with your download link
following the email's instructions, send the ebook to your preferred app or ereader
