Page 6 of So Thirsty

“Hello. Welcome to the Waterfront Collective retreat, resort, and spa. My name is Mary Beth. Do you have a reservation with us?”

“Yes. Should be under Parker.”

She stoops behind a gold MacBook. “Ah! Yes, Ms. Parker.”

Ms. Thank God.

“I see we have you with us for three nights in our Whispering Woods Cottage.”

Heaven help me if Naomi finds out that’s what it’s called.

“If you’ll please give me a moment, I’ll get you your key cards,” Mary Beth says, opening a drawer. “And here we are! Will you be taking advantage of our valet service? We have a heated garage, convenient for winter months. We can escort you to your cottage, and then for your stay we have a shuttle service available as well.”

“Uh, sure.” I drop my Mazda fob on the counter and pick up the small black velvet envelope with two matte crimson key cards. Fancy, fancy.

“Have you stayed with us before or is this your first time?” she asks. She’s using a sort of fitness-instructor voice. Overenthusiastic, with an ever so slight undercurrent of condescension. She’s young, and I can tell that she’s performing her idea of adulthood, using this affectation in an attempt to appear professional. I used to do it, too. You never feel old enough, until the day you don’t feel young enough.

“First time,” I say.

“We’re so glad to have you! I’m delighted to tell you about our amenities….” She chatters on about the spa, the wellness center; about snowshoe rentals, snow tubing, ice-skating, cross-country skiing. She takes out a pamphlet, then proceeds to read me the entire pamphlet. She talks about how the Finger Lakes region rivals Napa when it comes to wine. She lists every restaurant and store on Main Street.

“Matthew will take you to your cottage,” she says, gesturing to the porter, who hovers at my back. “Please let us know if you need anything. Thank you for choosing the Waterfront Collective. We do hope you enjoy your stay!”

“Ready?” Matthew asks me. Something about how he says it gives me the impression that he’s annoyed with me. Completely uninterested in my existence. Or maybe he’s perfectly pleasant, but Mary Beth was so bubbly and saccharine that he seems stoic in comparison. I don’t know. He’s not looking at me.

It pinches a little, that no one really looks at me anymore. Not like they used to.

“Ma’am?”

“Sorry. I’m ready.” I give a thumbs-up for some reason. He grabs my fob off the counter and then opens the lobby door for me. I realize this isn’t an act of chivalry, that I’m probably expected to tip him. I hope I have cash.

I follow him out to my car, where he opens the passenger-side door and gestures to me.

“Oh. Um, okay,” I mutter to myself, climbing in.

He gets in on the driver’s side, adjusts the seat.

He pulls onto a gravel drive behind the main mansion.

“I have a friend meeting me here. She’s taking a car service from Syracuse. Is there…” As he waits for me to finish my question, I begin to feel like it’s a stupid one. “…transportation for her? Should I direct her to the cottage or…?”

“She can check in at the desk. The shuttle will take her to you,” he says, making a left onto a dirt road. Tucked back in the trees, there’s a contemporary cottage, white, with a red arched door. It’s tall, two stories, and oddly narrow. All windows at the front. A stone chimney rises up off the steeply pitched roof.

Matthew puts the car in park and makes quick work of getting my suitcase out of the trunk. I grab my bag, Joel’s mystery gift, the key cards.

The ground here is hard and crunchy, winter frozen. The trees sway, and it really does sound like the woods are whispering.

Matthew drags my suitcase up to the cottage door.

“Thanks,” I say when we reach it. “I can take it from here.”

I fumble around in my bag for my wallet, then gracelessly search for an appropriate bill. I give him a five.

“Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your weekend,” he says. Doesn’t sound like he means it. He bows slightly before getting back into my car and driving it away. Hopefully to that heated garage. It’s a seven-year-old Mazda, though, nothing worth taking for a joyride.

I burrow inside my coat and take a moment to look around, wonder how close the nearest cottage is. Who’s inside it, what they’re doing, and if they’re doing it in matching plaid onesies. It’s too cold to continue to stand here speculating.

Blowing into my hands, I admire the view of the lake—the water dark and eerily still. The sun has gone pale as it sinks behind the trees, steeping the horizon in a tawny haze.