Hotel Ruby Read Free

music drifts in, soft piano playing and lounge singing. There is a gold stand with a sign that reads ANNIVERSARY PARTY—1937 set out in front. Must be a rager, because I don’t know who would be up at this ungodly hour for an anniversary party, or why the hotel would allow it to go this late. Aren’t the other guests sleeping?
    â€œI’ll see you later,” Daniel says, tugging on my sleeve.Before I can ask where he’s going, he crosses the lobby, turning back once to wave to me. My father calls my name from the golden doors of the elevator, waiting.
    We ride without a word. It’s rare to spend any alone time with my father. Even these few minutes pass awkwardly, as if he were a complete stranger. The bell for the sixth floor dings. My father murmurs his good night and then walks out. He pauses and turns to me. In his eyes is the beginning of an apology, and I open my mouth to ask him what’s wrong. But the doors close, leaving me all alone in the elevator.
    A nagging starts in the back of my mind like something I’ve forgotten, but then the elevator doors slide open, revealing the thirteenth floor. I step out.
    The hallway, long and ominous, has a burgundy-patterned floor, dark wood paneling on the walls. It’s beautiful, but at the same time it feels . . . heavy. Like the air is too thick. At the end of the hallway, above a glass table, is an oversize gilded mirror. I catch my reflection—my light ginger hair tied in a knot, frizzy along the crown from travel, my long-sleeved T-shirt casual and worn; I’m completely out of place among the old-fashioned decor. The familiar image comforts me, I realize, and I battle back the chills that are trickling over my spine.
    Room 1303 is at the beginning of the hallway, and I take one more glance around before unlocking the door and going inside. When I flip on the lights, I gasp andcover my mouth. I think I’ve just won the hotel room lottery. It’s gorgeous. There is an elaborate sitting area (is that a fainting sofa?), with vintage furniture in bold patterns, stained-glass lamps, and an intricately carved wood table. The bed in the corner has a fluffy white comforter and large, overstuffed pillows; the posts frame the mattress and curve over the top. I wander around the room, struck again by how incredible this entire hotel is.
    When we traveled as a family, before , we were thrifty. The only time I’ve ever stayed in a nice hotel was when Ryan took me away for the weekend. I still loved him then, still thought we’d end up married, high school sweethearts just like my parents. I lost my virginity on the twenty-second floor of a Marriott. This is so much better.
    I drop my bag next to the bed and find a single rose lying across my pillow with a wrapped chocolate. The red of the flower is lush against the starched white fabric, and I pick it up and smell the petals. They’re sweet and powdery. I wonder momentarily if I’m still in the car, dreaming. After the obligatory bounce on the bed and check of the bathroom, I decide that despite the late hour, I can’t sleep. Not when there’s so much to explore. I quickly brush my teeth, take down my hair, and reapply deodorant. There was music downstairs—familiar music. There has to be people. I put on some gloss and slip my keycard into the back pocket of my jeans and head to the lobby.

    The lobby is deserted when I walk through, but the bored desk attendant has returned to his computer duty. I wonder if he was reprimanded for ignoring us earlier. By his lack of attention now, I guess not. The music leads me forward until I’m at the entrance of the grand ballroom. It sounds like a serious after-party on the other side of these doors. I look around, my heart racing, and then push my way inside.
    There is, indeed, a party. And not a few drunken late-night castoffs, either. I spin, trying to take in all the sights at once. The room is three