Amber Page 9

  I walk out the door without another word, take a left, and keep on going. Eventually, I find myself in a room full of copy machines. I could’ve sworn this was where the lobby was. “Dammit.”

  “Are you lost?” A young girl wearing jeans and a crop top is standing there looking at me as she snaps her chewing gum.

  Why lie? If I keep walking, I could end up right back in Lister’s office with Ty laughing his butt off at me. “Yes. I am very lost.” This girl doesn’t look like a legal secretary or a lawyer, but she probably knows her way around better than I do.

  She smiles as she tosses her messy ponytail over her shoulder. “Come with me. I’ll show you how to get out of here. I used to get lost aaall the time.”

  I follow behind her, enjoying the way her hair swings back and forth as she bounces her way down the hallway. She looks so young and free. I used to look like that . . . before three old men sent their lawyer into my life to turn it upside down.

  “Do you work here?” I ask.

  “Me? No. Not really. I’m supposed to be filing stuff, but it’s super boring, so I just make photocopies of goofy things and send pictures of them to my friends on Snapchat.”

  I nod. “That sounds like more fun than filing. What’s Snapchat?”

  She spins around. “Ohmygod, you don’t know what Snapchat is? Give me your phone.” She holds out her hand expectantly.

  I dig around in my purse for the small device, handing it over when I finally locate it.

  She looks at it with a funny expression on her face. “What’s this?”

  “That’s my phone.”

  She scoffs. “No, this is not a phone. This is a dinosaur.” She opens it up. “Oh my big butt, it’s a flip phone.” She looks at me with more focus, checking out my threads and my purse. “Are you a total hippie, or what?”

  “I am.” I smile back really big.

  She hands me my phone, nodding. “Respect. I like you.”

  “I like you too. What’s your name?”

  “Linny Lister.” She grins and two dimples sink into her cheeks.

  “Linny Lister.” The name makes me a little ill. “Does that mean Greg Lister is your father?”

  She sighs. “No, he’s my uncle. Do you know him?”

  “I sure do.” I try to smile. I don’t want this girl to know that I think her uncle is a dinkus.

  “He’s pretty much a douche bag, huh?”

  I burst out laughing. “I did not say that.”

  “Don’t worry, you don’t have to. Everyone else does.” She turns around and continues down the hall, taking a left and then another right. “But he can be really cool too. You just have to catch him in the right mood.”

  “And what would that mood be?” I can’t picture it at all, but I’m sure she knows him better than I do. I’ll try to take her word for it.

  “The mood that he’s in when he’s not in this office.” She rolls her eyes as she looks at me over her shoulder. “Which happens very rarely because he pretty much lives here.”

  “Huh.” I file that away in the back of my mind. Where I live, it seems like I get to know who people are right from the beginning . . . who they really are. Nobody hides much out on the farm. But I get the impression that here in the city, nobody is as they seem. It’s all very strange. I feel like I’ve taken an airplane to another planet.

  We turn a corner and I catch a glimpse of the lobby up ahead. “Okay, this looks familiar.”

  “Yep. Those are the elevators.” She points. “They’ll take you down to the lobby.” She stops at the edge of the reception area and gives me a quick hug goodbye. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Amber. My name is Amber Fields.”

  “Okay, Amber Fields, hippie girl . . . I hope you have a really wonderful day.” She flashes me her dimples again.

  “You too, Linny Lister.”

  She walks off with her ponytail swinging, and I turn around to face the elevators. Everyone at the reception desk is being very industrious, paying me no attention. I don’t bother with niceties, since I know they’re wasted here. Instead, I stride across the room with my chin held high, wondering how far the Four Seasons Hotel is from this building. I may just have to walk so I have enough money for that hot dog and a ride to the airport.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It turns out that the Four Seasons Hotel is not that far from the lawyer’s office, after all. I follow the security guard’s instructions and walk for twenty minutes amid the cacophony of blaring horns, yelling construction workers, and quickly accelerating taxicabs, and find myself outside the front doors of another big building. This one looks older in style than Lister’s office. It’s also not as tall. Yes, it’s scraping the sky, but not as much of it. And it’s not all glass either, although the front of it has a very tall section that’s split in half by a fan-shaped overhang. There are three men standing outside in uniform. One of them gives me a funny look as I enter, but the others ignore me as they chat between themselves.

  I enter through the clear doors and make my way across the lobby’s geometrically patterned marble floors and up a short set of stairs to the front desk. I feel like I’ve just entered a palace. I wish I could say I feel like a princess, but when I compare what I’m wearing to everyone around me, I feel more like the court jester.

  A woman who looks to be about my age, wearing a black suit with white piping on the collar, greets me with a smile. “Welcome to the Four Seasons. How may I help you?”

  I lean over the counter and eye her four-inch-high black stilettos that explain why she looks tall enough to dunk a basketball. “I believe I have a room reserved for me here? My name is Amber Fields.” Sweat droplets are popping out on my back, tickling the fine hairs there. I have no idea why I’m so nervous. Maybe because there are more cut flowers in vases around me than I have growing on my entire farm. They must spend a fortune on the arrangements alone. They’re doing a good job of eliminating the stink of car exhaust and city stench, though, so I get why they would create a budget for it.

  The woman types some things into her computer before responding. “Yes, we have you right here in one of our one-bedroom Manhattan suites. May I have a credit card, please?” She holds out her hand.

  “Manhattan suite? Sounds interesting.” I’m stalling because I don’t have a card, and this is already starting to get embarrassing. I haven’t even been here for two minutes yet.

  “Yes, the suite is very popular. It offers views of the Chrysler Building, the East River, and the Atlantic Ocean. You also have a great view of the downtown skyline. You can take some great pictures from inside the suite.” She pauses. “May I have your credit card, please?”

  I frown, nerves making my hands tremble and my heart race. I don’t want to have to turn around and beat feet out of here. Talk about a walk of shame. “I thought this room was being taken care of by Mr. Lister’s law firm.”

  She smiles patiently at me. “It is. But we take a credit card impression for incidentals.”

  I shrug, feeling both slightly relieved and freaked out at the same time. I’ve never been so confused in my own head before. “Sorry, I can’t help you. I don’t have a credit card.”

  The woman gives me a funny look. “We aren’t going to charge you anything if you don’t eat or drink items from the room’s bar.”

  I’m losing patience quickly. Can’t she see this is making me really uncomfortable? “That’s really nice, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t have a card.”

  She pulls her hand back and stiffens her spine. “What do you mean you don’t have a card?”

  I want to stomp my foot with frustration, but I don’t. I force myself to smile instead, trying to heed my mothers’ advice to rein in my temper and reactive nature. It probably looks like I’m suffering from indigestion, which isn’t too far off the mark; I’m feeling sicker by the second.

  “I don’t think I can be any clearer than I’m being,” I say. “I do not own a credit card of any type. I pay
cash or I don’t pay at all.” I wait for her to digest the information, something that appears to be proving very difficult for her. I hate that my face is burning. I know it’s beet red, while hers is taking on a nice shade of pink.

  “One moment, please, Ms. Fields.” She picks up the telephone and rests it on her shoulder as she types some things into her computer. She sighs, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I’m being a royal pain in the ass. I hate that she’s able to make me feel both guilty and scummy without a single word being spoken.

  When the person on the other end picks up, she speaks very softly. “We have a little issue here. Someone booked in the Lister suite does not have a credit card.” She nods a few times and then slides the phone off her shoulder, catching it in her hand and hanging it up.

  Her expression changes lightning fast from irritated to easygoing, like she hasn’t a care in the world. The difference is no less than stunning. She gives me a cheery smile as she shifts her attention from the keyboard to my face. “Okay, that won’t be a problem at all. If you could just fill out this form here.” She places a piece of paper and a pen on the counter between us.

  I’m shocked at the transformation. Here I thought we were about to roll up our sleeves and throw down, yet now she’s acting as though I’ve handed her eight credit cards instead of just the one she was asking for. She’s pretending like not having a credit card is no big deal when before I was some kind of degenerate. I wish I could brush it off, but I can’t. I feel . . . bad. Like a person who doesn’t deserve to be here. How ridiculous is this place?

  I shake my head to get my brain back to square one. If she can play this game, so can I. But for the record, New Yorkers are weird. I’m so glad I don’t live here. I could never fit in and I wouldn’t want to. The choice I made two years ago to stay on the farm and live out my life there with my family instead of going out into the world and getting a job is looking really good right now.

  I lose myself in the standard formality of the check-in process. The form she gave me is asking for all the normal stuff . . . name, address, phone number. I fill it in slowly, making sure my handwriting is neat and legible, and slide it back to her. The couple minutes it takes me to complete the task helps me calm down.

  “Here is your key,” she says, slipping a plastic card into a paper folder and writing on it. “The elevators are to your right.” She gestures like the flight attendant did when indicating the location of the exits on the plane. “If you have any problems, just give me a call or stop by at the desk here.” She puts the little card holder on the counter, folds her hands at her waist, and smiles.

  I wish I had a camera because I would take a picture of her right now so I could show my sisters what I’m seeing. She looks like a model on a poster for the hotel. Not a hair is out of place, her makeup is flawless, and her expression is so professionally bland, it makes her look as though she’s been molded out of plastic. More New York City craziness. Did we or did we not just go toe-to-toe over a credit card? I say yes, but her face says no. Weird, weird, weird. It’s like you can be rude here, and it doesn’t count.

  I begin to walk away, but then I stop and turn around and go back. If she can let bygones be bygones, so can I. The girl lifts an eyebrow, waiting for whatever it is I’m going to say.

  “Do you know where I can get a good hot dog around here?”

  She hesitates, as though she doesn’t quite understand the question. “Hot dog?”

  “Yes. A hot dog. You know . . . elongated, phallic-shaped meat byproduct in a bun?” I grin.

  Her responding smile is tight. “Any particular type of hot dog?”

  I shrug. “A New Yorker hot dog. The kind people talk about.”

  She nods sagely. “You can get a New Yorker hot dog at any of those carts you see outside on the sidewalk. I believe there’s one a few blocks down that way.” She points to her right, again like a flight attendant.

  “Do you eat hot dogs?” I ask, wondering if she knows what she’s talking about.

  The girl shakes her head. “No. I’m vegan.”

  My suspicions are confirmed; she wouldn’t know a good hot dog if it jumped down her throat and digested itself. “Okay. Good to know. Thanks. And congratulations on your . . . uh . . . vegan status.” I find it ironic that this proud vegan is wearing what looks like leather shoes, but I’m going to let it go. She already seems like she’s having a bad enough day.

  “My pleasure,” she says with a tight smile.

  I leave the reception area, hitching my purse higher on my shoulder as I walk over to the elevators. A man in uniform is waiting. They sure do like their gold buttons around here. He holds the door open for me when I get in and then steps inside with me.

  “What floor would you like, ma’am?”

  I open up the little folder the woman at reception gave me. “Forty-ninth floor, I guess.” I show him her neat handwriting.

  “Yes, forty-ninth it is. Thank you.” We ride the elevator up together. After the fifth floor, I can’t stand the silence any longer.

  “So, what’s your name?”

  He looks startled. “Jeremy.” He smiles awkwardly at me before going back to staring at the buttons.

  “Hi, Jeremy. I’m Amber.” I hold out my hand.

  He shakes my hand, smiling. “Nice to meet you.” He looks like he wants to laugh.

  “Where are you from?” I ask him.

  “Michigan.”

  “That’s a long way from here,” I say. “In more ways than one.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” He doesn’t say it, but I think he gets me.

  “What brought you to New York City?”

  “A girl.” He sighs, looking at the ceiling, losing his happy face.

  “How’d that work out?”

  “Not so great.” He looks embarrassed, shifting his gaze to the buttons. We’re on floor fifteen now.

  “That’s too bad. But there are other fish in the sea, right? And the sea is deep here in Manhattan, I’ll bet.”

  “Yeah. Right. Sure.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

  “How is the dating scene here?”

  He looks at me funny. “Okay, I guess.”

  I sigh wistfully. “I’m only here for a day. Probably not enough time to date anyone.”

  He pauses before answering. “You could go on Tinder.”

  I frown. “Go on it?”

  “Yeah. The app. Tinder.” He waits for me to respond, but I’m not sure what to say. “On your phone.”

  “Oh.” I pull out my phone and hold it up for him to see. “This phone?”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “No, that’s not a smartphone.”

  I look at it disappointedly. “No, it’s not very smart at all. It doesn’t even do Slapchats.”

  “Do you mean Snapchat?”

  I have to think about it a few seconds. I could have sworn Linny said slap, but perhaps she said snap. “Maybe.”

  He shrugs, trying not to smile. “Don’t worry about it. Tinder kind of sucks anyway.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s an app on the phone where you can find dates. Like one-night stands or whatever you’re looking for, really.”

  “Oh my god.” I try to figure out if he’s serious, but he sure seems like he is. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No.” He laughs. “You seriously don’t know about Tinder or Snapchat?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “Where are you from?”

  The bell to the elevator rings and it slows down. “I’m from central Maine. I live on a hippie commune there.”

  “No shit.” His smile drops away in an instant. “Oh, man. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I reach out and pat him on the arm. “Don’t worry about it. We say shit on the farm all the time. I may not know about smartphones and apps, but I do know how to cuss up a storm when necessary.”

  The doors to the elevator open. “Okay, well, have a nice day, Miss Fields.”

&nb
sp; “I will. You do the same, Jeremy.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will.”

  As the doors start to close, I put my hand out and make the elevator open again. I hate leaving him thinking about his bad luck with the girl who brought him to New York. “And don’t worry about the dating thing. One of these days the right girl will come along, and she’ll see you for who you really are. Wait for her. She’ll be worth it.”

  His face goes red. “Okay. I will. Thanks.”

  I back up and let the doors close. The last thing I see is Jeremy the elevator man staring at the floor. Poor kid. I can tell he’s had his heart broken. It’s funny . . . we sometimes get people like that out at the farm. They come for a few days, weeks, or months, trying to figure out where they went wrong. So far every single one of them has left with some idea of what they want next in life. Glenhollow brings peace in a sometimes crazy world. That’s what our last visitor said. I think I’ve already met several New Yorkers who could use a few weeks at the farm.

  The hallway leading to my room is not overly ornate, but it’s still obvious they spent a lot of money making it look classy. It’s nothing compared to the elegance of my room, though. It almost takes my breath away. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  First of all, it’s big for Manhattan. My sisters and I did some research; the apartments here can be just a single studio with barely enough space to turn around in and still cost thousands of dollars a month in rent. There are floor-to-ceiling windows in the hotel room’s living space and bedroom. The carpet is soft and thick. Everything is brand new and modern without looking cold. Whoever designed this place could teach the people over at Lister’s office a few things about making a place seem more welcoming.

  I check out the bathroom and then walk over to the windows, pushing the gauzy curtain aside. The view is pretty spectacular, maybe even better than the one Lister has. It makes me wonder how much this room is costing his firm. I don’t like the idea of owing him something after staying here. I have money in savings, but I have a feeling one night here would cost as much as I make in six months of selling honey at the farmers’ market.