The Matching Game. Everyone Knew The Answer. Except Me novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Booking

At work Vicki learns Cass booked the Denver send-off in her own hotel and asked for her by name; she says yes, and the deposit turns out to be on Vicki's card with a memo that says she always pays.

Everyone in the Lakefront Grand's staff corridor had watched the video.

I could tell by how carefully they didn't look at me.

The doorman held the service door open and said, "Morning, Vicki," in a voice for a funeral.

A banquet server pressed a hot coffee into my hand and kept walking.

At the end of the hall the front-desk supervisor stopped me by the time clock.

"For what it's worth," she said, "three of us have texted that man's account something ugly."

"Please don't," I said. "I'd like to be the one who does it."

She nodded slowly. "Okay. Noted."

My boss, the director of events, was waiting in her office with the door open.

She told me to close it.

"Corporate saw it before I did," she said. "I told them it's personal."

"It is."

"Is it going to follow you in here?"

"No," I said. "It happened to me. It's not going to happen on the property."

She studied me for a long moment.

"You told me last week you might give notice. Denver."

"I'm not going to Denver."

"Good." She pushed a folder across the desk. "Because a client booked the grand ballroom for October thirty-first yesterday afternoon and asked for you by name."

I opened it.

The Denver Send-Off. A hundred and forty guests. A four-course dinner, open bar, a screen and a microphone.

The contact on the first page read: Cass Lowry.

I closed the folder again.

"She said you'd want to do it for them," my boss said. "I assumed that was a different you."

"No," I said. "That's me."

"Vicki. You can hand it off. Nobody would blame you."

I thought about the long table, and the clapping, and the phone held up to my face.

I thought about the fact that they had planned the final scene of this in my building, where I had the keys.

"I'll take it," I said.

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because it's my ballroom," I said. "And I know exactly how they like their parties."

She didn't ask again.

When I came out, Cass was in the lobby.

She was sitting on the velvet bench under the chandelier, in a camel coat, holding two lattes.

The big walnut panels behind her were half stripped, covered in drop cloths and tape, and she'd picked the one clean spot to sit.

She stood up the second she saw me.

"Oh, Vic."

She held one latte out.

It was an oat flat white, extra hot, no sugar. Exactly mine.

I took it, because my hands wanted something to hold.

"I didn't sleep," Cass said. "I kept thinking about your face."

"You posted my face."

"Ben posted it to the group, and I shared it, and I'm so sorry, I didn't think. It's coming down this afternoon. I promise."

"Is it."

"Vic, I know this is the worst thing I could ask." Her eyes went wet and bright. "But I want you to do the send-off. Nobody else would take care of it like you. It would mean so much to us."

"To us," I said.

"To the group." She grabbed my free hand. "We're still the group. Nine years doesn't just end."

I looked at her fingers around mine.

They were warm, and I knew every ring she wore.

"I'll do it," I said.

Her whole face melted with relief. She hugged me, hard, with the lattes squashed between us.

"I knew you would," she whispered. "You're the best person I know."

I stood still inside the hug and did not hug her back.

When she let go, she was crying properly now. She wiped under both eyes with a thumb.

"I'll send the final guest list," she said. "And the details for the game. We want to play it for everybody. Okay?"

"Send it all," I said.

She kissed my cheek and walked out through the revolving door in her good coat.

I carried the coffee to my office and sat down with the folder.

The payment page was stapled to the back.

Deposit received: $9,000. Paid by credit card, entered by phone, yesterday at 4:31 p.m.

The card ended in 4417.

I knew that card. It was the one in my wallet, the one with my name on it.

Last spring Carson had asked to photograph the front and back, for a travel site he was setting up for us.

Under it the sales agent had typed the caller's name, G. Rooke, and what he had said to put in the memo box.

J pays. Always does.

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