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“No, I’m sorry, sir, there’s still only the one room.” The clerk glances up from the computer screen, her dark eyes apologetic as she glances between Dipsy and me. “I would offer to have a cot sent in for the living space, but we’re all out of cots, too. We’ve had an unusually large number of last-minute guests with large families.”
“It’s fine,” Dipsy says with a dimple-popping smile. But for once it doesn’t make her look cute or wholesome. Maybe it’s all the black she’s wearing. Or the sexy heeled shoes or the eyeliner she smeared on in an airport bathroom on the way to the hotel. I’m not sure what it is, but it makes me want to kiss her even more.
“We’ll figure it out,” Dipsy continues. “Thank you for looking.”
The woman smiles. “Of course, would you like me to call a bellhop to take your bags to your room? It looks like your dinner reservation is in…” She takes another quick glance at the screen. “Five minutes.” She motions behind me, to where I left the scooter parked by the check-in desk sign. “We could take your scooter, as well, if you’re going to be using your crutches, sir.”
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” I say, collecting the key card she passes over and tucking it into my back pocket.
Dipsy and I leave our suitcases in the scooter’s storage area and start back across the lobby toward the understated entrance to The Gateway Grill. It’s just the restaurant’s name carved into a large oak plank that’s part of a larger oak archway, but as soon as we step through into the host area, it’s clear the eatery is going to live up to the hype.
Behind the pale blond hostess, who wears dark green velvet that matches the couches outside, is an open fireplace big enough to fit a Volkswagen Bug. Above it, the equally massive rock chimney stretches up three stories to the glass ceiling. The glass is lit by soft green light that illuminates the snow falling from the dark sky. All around the central dining area, guests tuck into delicious-smelling food at dark wood tables on one of three floors, all open to provide a view of the cozy scene below.
As the hostess leads us to our table on the second floor, right across from the fireplace on the other side, I see the source of the muted classical music filling the room. It’s a woman with a giant golden harp leaned against her shoulder. After we’re seated, I look over to see Dipsy watching the woman with wonder.
“A fan of the harp?” I ask, my heart squeezing again as her gaze connects with mine.
Damn, she’s beautiful in the candlelight, like a ghost from Christmas present, vibrant and alive and promising that these are the glory days. These are the days we’ll look back on and wish we’d relished every hour, every second.
“I’ve actually never seen someone play in person before,” Dipsy says in a hushed voice. “I didn’t realize they were so huge. That thing has got to be bigger than she is, even when she’s standing up. I wonder if it’s crushing her shoulder…”
I glance down at the harpist, whose features are fixed in an expression of peaceful focus. “I don’t know. She looks pretty comfortable.”
Dipsy clucks her tongue softly. “Looks can be deceiving with women. I’m sure I looked comfortable while I was reporting in that elf outfit, and my mom used to smile like nothing was wrong while she was bleeding into her toe shoes on stage.”
I wince. “Ouch.”
She reaches for her water with a nod. “Total ouch. I used to take dance lessons when I was little, but as soon as we reached the toe shoe stage, I was done. I don’t love ballet enough to bleed for it.” She sips the water and sets it down, lips quirking as she collects her menu from the table. “This place is really nice, Bear. Thanks for bringing me here.”
“My pleasure,” I say. “Merry Christmas Eve.”
“Merry Christmas Eve.” She looks like she’s about to say more, but our server appears beside the table. The young man in the crisp white button-down shirt and dark green apron with the restaurant’s fireplace logo emblazoned on the front shares the specials, takes our order for the cranberry walnut salad and chilled lobster claws to start, and leaves us with a few suggestions from the wine list as we turn our attention to the main course.
When I glance back at Dipsy to ask if she might be interested in sharing the tomahawk steak for two—I’m a big man and in all the travel madness, I haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning—she looks shell-shocked.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“The lobster claws are sixty-five dollars, Bear,” she hisses. “That’s more than I usually spend on an entire meal. Even on a special occasion.”
