The awning at the main entrance to the hotel leads us down a narrow outdoor passageway.
The rock walls close in around us as we pass hotel rooms, winding us toward the hotel restaurant. One way in, the only way back out.
The sole thing to signify our arrival is a small sign with a golden goat, the restaurant name beneath it, Le Café du Jardin—a garden suspended in the sky.
Two people stand beside that sign, by that goat: a hostess with a clipboard in her hands, and a lone security guard in a black suit. An earpiece in his ear.
I don’t know what I expect when we get there, but I certainly thought there would be more security than this. More than two people who are more welcoming than frightening, a smile breaking out on the hostess’s face.
“Bonjour,” the hostess says. “Nous sommes fermés pour une soirée privée…”
Soirée privée. A private party.
“Oui…” Nicholas says.That’s what we are here for.“Nicholas Bell.”
“Ah…” She looks down at her list, searching until she lands on his name. She checks it off.
“Welcome,” she says. “Monsieur Bell.”
The security guard steps forward. He puts his hand out and points to my messenger bag.
“I’ll need to check your bag first, miss,” he says, his American accent thick, the Texas lilt rising up from behind it.
“Of course,” I say.
I sound casual, but I feel my stomach roll as I hand him the bag, knowing what’s inside. What he will certainly find inside. This security guard that Frank has brought all the way from home with him.
The guard reaches in and moves my things around. Then he pulls out exactly what I don’t want him to pull out. What I’m carrying for us—what Nicholas and I need to give to Frank. The tablet.
The tablet is turned off, but the guard turns it over in his hands and I worry that he is going to turn it on—demand the passcode to inspect what’s on there. If he does, if he sees what is on there, this will all end here.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m a bit of an overprotective mom, if I’m being honest, and that feeds to my kid’s room. Please don’t judge me for it. I get enough grief from my husband about letting our son live his life.”
I force a laugh. Then I point to Nicholas, trying to sell it.
“It’s his grandkid and he’s always making fun of me too. I wish I could tell you that he’s still a baby and that was my excuse, but he’s eight now…”
He is still looking at the tablet, as if trying to decide whether to turn it on—whether to just take it away. I can hear the words he is toying with—the decision he is toying with.You can pick this up after the party. No devices allowed.
I jump in to stop it. To stop him.
“Do you have kids?” I say.
He doesn’t look up. But he answers. He does answer.
“Three,” he says. “Older than yours.”
“Tell me when it gets easier.”
“Not so far…” he says.
And then, like a miracle, he hands me back the tablet. “This has got to stay off, understood?” he says. “Can’t be used for recording anything on the veranda.”
“Of course,” I say.
But it’s like the guard doesn’t hear me, or at least he doesn’t care. He turns toward Nicholas—as if he will be the one to enforce it, to enforce me.
“We’ll keep it off,” Nicholas says.
