Haven: Love After the Apocalypse by Imogen Keeper
PROLOGUE| The smell of sadness
TANI FARAZI
…Before anyone knew the mortality curve
of the Australian Flu, before Jimmy died,
when Yorke was still in Germany, and Frankie
was painting her life away…
“TANI, THERE YOU ARE.” Mr. Renquist braces a hand against the concrete basement wall, his face an odd shade of gray. “Where’s your dad?”
“Working on the sump pump with maintenance.” The wheels of the housekeeping cart I’m pushing squeak and scrape along the uncarpeted basement hallway as I pass through a gap in the overhead florescence and into a block of darkness. “You okay, Mr. Renquist? You look sick.”
I park the cart, automatically resting one hand on top of the stack of plush white towels with their spa insignia of three interweaving mountains so they don’t pitch forward and land in a puddle. My other hand finds the spread of magnolia leaves beside them. I braved the rain earlier to cut them for Mom—a little greenery always makes her smile. “You don’t look so good.”
“I get a cold after the holidays every year.” He tugs a handkerchief from his pocket and blots his brow, his eyes fever bright. “Just need to find your dad. It’s the constant rain …” he says, and I get the impression he’s not even talking to me anymore.
He’s the General Manager here at Thornewood Springs, Resort and Spa in the Blue Hills, and I’ve known him my whole life because he’s worked here my whole life, and this is the only home I’ve ever known.
I was practically born here. My mom is head of housekeeping, my dad is chief custodian, and they homeschool me on-site. So, I’m always here, which makes Mr. Renquist practically an uncle. Actually, thanks to my latest book, I know the word for that. Avuncular.
“It’s just a headache.” He shivers. To be fair, it’s cold in the basement. To combat the flooding—the maintenance doors are thrown open to the grizzly January day, and the industrial fans are blowing icy air inside to dry the floor puddles. I have goosebumps, too.
“Maybe you should go home early,” I suggest. People are spooked about this flu that started in Australia. A few cases cropped up in New York and LA a couple days ago. The news says it’s just a flu though, so I don’t get the fuss. So far, only a few people have died in Australia. Which feels like forever away.
Some of the staff are too spooked to come in, though, which means the rest of us work extra since the guests are apparently not too spooked to come. “We can manage,” I say, even though we’re understaffed. “Truly.”
“Maybe I’ll just go sit down for a few minutes.” He rubs his upper arms against the chill. “Will you tell your dad we have a situation in room 3709? And tell the front desk and restaurants to manage without me for an hour?”
“No problem, Mr. Renquist.”
He pats the top of my head like I’m eight. It’s annoying, but I don’t blame him. Everyone here treats me like I’m eight all the time. I’m forever locked in their minds at the age my brother was when our world forever changed.
“Good.” He walks slowly toward the staff stairs.
The door slams behind him, echoing and leaving me alone in the bowels of Thornewood.
Concrete walls, exposed pipes, fluorescent lights, doorways everywhere, and no one as far as the eye can see before me and behind.
A drippy pipe ripples a puddle that spreads across the old, worn linoleum tiles, a checkerboard pattern that was probably sunny yellow and ivory back when Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley came to visit, when senators were all men with fancy wives who spent their summers here.
Now, it’s more of a dingy caramel and old nicotine.
The hall dead ends at the distant freight elevator shaft and a ladder that leads to a valve hatch I don’t think anyone but Dad and I know of.
This place saw many wars over the decades—originally built before the Revolutionary War, it was used as a hospital for Union Soldiers during the Civil War, and later, during the Cold War as a fall out location.
I’m pretty sure what’s back there is classified by the NSA or the CIA or whatever.
For a moment, it’s like I’m the only person in the world.
I resume pushing my housekeeping cart, the squeaky wheels swallowing the eerie silence.
I find Dad, deep in an auxiliary room with pumps running, sweating with Tommy and Manuel, two of the maintenance guys. The fans are blowing louder in here, and Tommy’s coughing so loud I have to shout, but I tell them about 3709. “Some guest probably clogged a toilet. I’ll head up there as soon as I finish here!” Dad shouts haphazardly at me as he and Manuel muscle a pipe wrench to connect a drainage valve to the sump pump.
Tommy hits the switch, and there’s a roar, followed by a great slurpy surge of moving water.
My ears ringing, I deliver the towels to the spa, and the magnolia leaves to our private rooms on the staff floor—Mom will see them when she comes home tonight.
Then, I stop in the noisy, hot main kitchen to let Chef know Mr. Renquist is out for a few hours. He’s in the freezer when I get there, his breath fogging in the blue-tinged light. He shouts in his French accent, but there’s a twinkle hiding in his eyes. He always pretends to be mad—Mr. Renquist always says the best chefs do.
I nab a piece of cornbread as I leave.
Karen’s at the front desk, and Abraham’s on bellhop duty when I get there. The atmosphere here is the opposite of the basement mechanical room. No roaring sump pump or sweaty men in jumpsuits. No nicotine linoleum or leaking pipes. Instead, soaring ceilings with painted coffers, fluted columns, massive windows overlooking the porch and the mountains beyond, roaring fireplaces, a jazz pianist, and chattering guests in the blue-and-ivory seating areas clustered across the main lobby.
Check-in is busy.
Normally, we have three or four people running each post this time of day, but again, we’re short staffed because of the flu.
Karen gestures wearily at the computer beside her when I arrive, and I know what she needs without her telling me.
I snap on my name tag—TANI in serifed black letters on a dignified ivory placard sitting over my winter work uniform of black pants and an ivory turtleneck.
“Hello, and welcome to Thornewood.” I offer my most welcoming smile to the next guest in the line.
It’s a blond man with a weary look on his face.
I smile brighter.
A trim woman with red hair in a fancy, shiny bob saunters from the direction of the shops and joins him. Diamonds glitter in her earlobes. “God, we still don’t have a room?”
“No,” he says glumly.
“It’s been twenty minutes.”
“I know.” Up close, his eyes are the strangest color.
I imagine he wrote blue on his driver’s license, but they’re too gray to be blue, too brown to be gray, and too blue to be brown. His hair is cut in what I think of as a ‘dad’ cut, with longer side-swept bangs. He’s dressed like a dad, too, in jeans and a button-down with a pullover sweater on top.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am, sir. Between the rain and worries about … well …” I make a face. Mr. Renquist asked us not to mention the flu in the morning briefing. “You know … we’re a bit understaffed.”
“Well, that’s not our problem, is it?” she snaps, looking around the lobby with an unimpressed expression on her face.
“No,” I say. “Of course, it’s not. I am sorry.”
“This place could use a fresh coat of paint,” she says in a falsely quiet tone, clearly wanting me to hear. “Don’t even get me started on the carpet.”
I ignore that.
There’s nothing wrong with the carpet. It was replaced just a couple of years ago, and it’s beautiful. A rich cobalt covered in suns and stars like an old-time astronomer might have drawn.
And my dad’s crew never quits painting. Thornewood is massive. It has hundreds of guest rooms, four restaurants, two bars, two outdoor swimming pools, the indoor or the outdoor hot spring, a fitness center, and multiple ballrooms.
“You’re a lawyer, for Christ’s sake.” She pats her hair.
“Sorry, dear.” His face turns vaguely red at that.
“Pathetic.”
A vein in his forehead bulges. “It’s the best hotel we could afford, given the medical expenses.”
“I don’t want to hear about that. You’d think you could spring for our anniversary.” She dumps her purse on the counter between us, the Louis Vuitton label facing me, more diamonds, and fake nails covering her fingers. “So damned cheap. Always. Lily and Tom are going to Switzerland for their anniversary next month. You should have seen her face when I said we were going to Thornewood.”
“I’ll be happy to check you in as quickly as I can. What’s the name on the reservation?”
“Benjamin Kurtz. K-U-R-T-Z.”
“Thank you.” I enter the name into the system, and the reservation pops up.
“Of course, they may not end up going with this flu crap. I saw on my phone during the drive, that man in France died. Guy Duchard, or whatever he was called.”
I try to ignore her, focusing on their reservation history instead.
They stayed at a sister resort a few years ago—three people on that reservation. Benjamin, Sarah, and Priscilla Kurtz. They requested a rollaway bed. But not this time.
I smile blandly. “I have you in a standard room, king-sized bed, garden view.”
She pulls a golden tube of lip gloss from her purse. “Standard?”
“I was told an upgrade might be possible,” he says. “It’s our anniversary.” His sentence tips up at the end, almost a plea.
“And after this long wait, you owe us.” She swipes scarlet gloss across her lower lip and sniffs. “It smells in here.”
“Let me see what I can do.” I grab a couple glasses of champagne from under the counter. Karen already has the bottle open, and I pour two flutes and slide them across the heavy oak counter. “Have some champagne while you wait.”
“I doubt it’s actually champagne,” she says, lifting a flute, but the sneer on her face dims. Guest love getting things for free.
Sometimes, however, I don’t think they deserve free anything.
But I like to think I can read people. I create a picture in my mind of a hardworking dad with a daughter named Priscilla, trying to make his wife happy.
It strikes close to home. Mom is never happy now. Not since my brother’s accident.
This redhead may not deserve the champagne.
But he does.
“You know, I do see the note here—I missed it before. Anniversary suite request. Is that preferable?”
His tired eyes lift, and he flashes me a smile, pulling a stick of gum from his pocket. “Who’d say no to a suite?” He tucks the wrapper into his pants pocket and leaves his hand there.
“Good,” she says.
“This is one of my favorite rooms. It has a view of the valley facing west and a large terrace. If the rain quits, you should get a good sunset up there.”
She rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her champagne, leaving a red lip print on the rim.
His gaze drops to my name tag. “Thank you, Tan-ee?” He says it like it rhymes with ran. Ran-ee. “Did I say that right?
“It’s pronounced TAHN-ee, but close. And you’re very welcome. You’ll be in room 4301.” I duck under the checkout counter to grab their calibrated key fobs.
“God, Ben, are you hitting on her?” she hisses while I’m out of sight.
“She looks like she’s sixteen, Sarah. Please. That’s how old Priss would be.” His voice is so quiet I can barely hear it. “She reminds me of her. Her eyes.”
“Don’t you say her name,” she hisses, and it catches on a sob. “Don’t you ever say her name to me again.”
I straighten from behind the counter in time to see an expression I know well.
She’s blinking fast, her eyes shining brighter than her diamonds, and a brittle, unmistakable set to her lips. Like she’s just refusing to allow the sadness to rise up through gritted teeth.
There’s a word for children who lose their parents. We call them orphans. But what do you call parents who lose a child?
I’ve never come across a word for that in my books.
I hand over a stiff envelope with their keys, my eyes burning.
My brother’s name was Asa.
Neither of my parents ever says his name either.
Sometimes the dead are louder than the living. It doesn’t matter if you want to hear them or not.
“Enjoy your stay,” I whisper, “Mr. and Mrs. Kurtz.”
But they’re already gone, taking her expensive purse and his odd-colored eyes with them, but leaving their empty champagne flutes and the smell of their sadness behind.