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“We want our customers to feel at home,” Dean explains with a solemn sincerity that is puzzling, given his complete lack of greeting at our arrival.
“He wants you to feel at home,” I say, nudging Tom, enjoying myself a bit despite the fact that I’m cold, wet, and hurting in just about every direction. “Just put it on a key chain.”
“Look. I’m not going to lose the key,” Tom said, reaching for it. “If I do, you can charge me for it. Hell, charge me double.”
Dean is delightfully stubborn because he pulls it out of Tom’s reach yet again. “If you don’t have a key chain of your own, you can buy one at our gift shop.”
Tom and I both look around at the tiny space, which is big enough for the reception desk, us, and a crooked Christmas tree. That’s about it.
“The . . . gift shop?” I ask.
Dean gestures to a spinning rack atop the reception desk, so small and barren I hadn’t noticed it until now, even with the Post-it Note proclaiming “Gift Shoppe.”
“Ah!” I smile widely. “There it is.”
Blue hell mote’s gift shop has what looks to be a used fidget spinner, a couple of ballpoint pens, a lone pack of gum, and eureka! Key chains!
“How will we decide?” I muse, reaching out to touch a felt pickle with googly eyes. “Ooh, this one is nice. Is this meant to look like dentures?”
Dean leans forward. “Could actually be dentures. Some people get this confused with the lost and found.”
I snatch my hand back just in time.
“Look, I’m not buying one of those,” Tom snaps.
Uh-oh. I know that voice. Tom’s about to dig in his heels. For a minute there, I was enjoying this whole thing, but it’s time to wrap it up.
There’s a jolly jingling noise from behind us, and Dean stands to look over our heads at the newcomers. “Be right with you folks.”
“And them, you greet,” Tom says with a sigh.
“Tom, let’s just buy the pickle,” I say. “It can’t be more than a few dollars. How much is this little gem, Dean?”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen dollars?” Tom says, his voice going up a full octave.
“No, Tom, I’m sure he meant rubles. Fourteen rubles. Yes, dollars.”
Dean nods. “Plus tax.”
“Are you kidding me?” Tom says, really getting worked up now. “Not only is it unethical, but it’s bad business. I’m sure the Better Business Bureau would love to hear about your felt pickle.”
I open my mouth, and Tom holds up a hand to me. “Don’t.”
With great pain, I let the dirty joke opportunity pass.
“Sir, if you don’t want the key chain, you don’t want the room. I’m sure this lovely couple behind you—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Tom says, reaching into his pocket.
“Easy now,” Dean says, stepping back. “Nice and slow. Let me see your hands.”
Tom is incredulous. “What? Is this a hostage situation?”
“How I know you’re not getting a gun.”
“I’m not,” Tom snaps. “I was getting a fucking key chain.”
He pulls it out and dangles it at Dean.
I let out a little gasp when I see the key chain he’s holding out. It’s a pair of small blue dice. I recognize it because I have a red version of the same key chain, though mine’s tucked away in a keepsake box in my apartment.
“You kept it,” I say softly.
“Don’t make it a thing,” Tom says as he irritably adds the motel key to the dice chain. “It’s just a sturdy key chain is all.”
“It is not,” I say, though I know I’m on dangerous ground to push the issue. “Our marriage was more sturdy than that keychain, and look how that turned up. That pickle is stronger than that key chain, which broke before we even checked out of the hotel, and you whined until I glued it back together for you.”
“What hotel?” Dean asks.
The woman behind us makes an impatient noise.
“Nowhere,” Tom snaps. “Focus on your hote—motel . . . nope, not even that. Structure.”
“The Bellagio,” I tell Dean as we both ignore Tom. “Vegas. It’s where we got married.
“But now you’re divorced,” Dean says.
“Yes, we are. Which is why it’s so interesting that he kept this key chain,” I say with a grin.
Tom hooks a hand around my arm and drags me toward the door. “Thanks so much, Dean. It’s been an absolute pleasure.”
“You’re welcome!” Dean says, lifting a hand with complete sincerity.
“Tell me the truth. Do you sleep with the key chain under your pillow?” I ask gleefully.
“What key chain?” He shoves it into his pocket. “There’s no key chain. Maybe you have a fever. Go make a snow devil outside to cool down, and don’t come back into the room until you’re ready to drop the whole key chain thing.”
Tom’s hands are full with the bags once more, so I open the door as he maneuvers both suitcases back out into the storm.
