Chapter 3: The Dinner

An hour later we were walking into the large, gilded lobby of the most luxurious hotel in the whole metropolitan area. Even though we were both still wearing sandals and our picnic shorts and tops, the uniformed doorman directed two attendants to take our bags and collected our keys so the valet could park our cars for us.

I handed the coupon, I had hastily filled out, to the tall man behind the huge, marble reception desk and he smiled warmly and said, "Good evening, Mr. Murtry and welcome to the Ritz-Carleton."

"Thank you," I said, feeling very out of place at the moment as my sister stood beside me and took my arm.

The man turned to a glittering rack of keys behind him and took a set from a brass hook and then he turned back to us and said, "Room 615 is reserved for you, Sir." And he placed a small form in front of me and handed me the ornate pen from the holder, adding, "Just sign here."

I scratched my name on the line as he rang the desk-bell and snapped his fingers at the responding bellboy. "Take Mr. and Mrs. Murtry's luggage to room 615!"

"Yes, Sir! Right this way, to the elevator, please."

Before we could correct the receptionist we were whisked away to a bank of elevators and on our way up to the sixth floor.

"Here we are, Sir," the bellboy said as he led us partway down the hall to the door marked 615 in gold-leaf letters. "This is your accommodation."

He used the key to open the door on a huge suite decorated in golds and whites and beiges to accentuate the deep earth tone shades of the carpets and the upholstered sofa and loveseat where he set our bags. There was also a table and four chairs, a TV and a small refrigerator that he opened to show us that it was stocked with beers, pop and refrigerated snacks.

"There is premium liquors in the side cabinet," he told us, "and mixers and glasses above the refrigerator."

Like a model on a game-show he gestured in as he opened a door on the small bathroom that featured a walk-in shower, sink and counter with coffee host and an ultra-modern toilet. Then he opened the remaining door to the bedroom with two, huge, king-sized beds, an oak dresser and writing table and a picture-window through which you could see all the way to downtown. Walking through, he opened another connecting door to a large bathroom, done in red marble and gold fixtures, that featured a walk-in bathtub/jacuzzi on one side and the sink, counter, toilet and bidet on the other.

"There are complementary terry-robes hanging behind the door," he stated. "Will the suite do, Sir?"

"It will be perfectly satisfactory," I replied, trying to summon some suave, Sean Connery timbre to my voice.

The bellhop smiled at the joke (he didn't get) as I rummaged through my pocket for a tip. Not wanting to seem like the yokel I felt, I gave him a ten and he thanked me and left us standing together, by ourselves, in the huge bedroom.

"God, Danny," Ellen exclaimed, "look at this place!"

"Yeah," I said, looking around the opulent bedroom, "who gets which bed?"

"I'll fight you for the one closest to the bathroom," she said, punching my arm.

"Ow!" I yelled, in mock affliction as I rubbed my shoulder, "you can have it."

"Good," she laughed rubbing her hands together as she looked at the open bathroom door. "Now that that's settled, I need to get out of these sticky clothes and have a long, hot bath."

"Okay. It's nearly six and I need to shave and clean up, myself. Toss me out one of those robes, on your way in, and I'll use the other bathroom's shower, get dressed and then go down and reserve us a table for dinner."

"Dinner?" she said, her blue eyes going wide above her adorable, excited smile. "Oh, Danny! We're going to have such a wonderful time tonight!"

An hour later I was clean, shaved and dressed in my white shirt and black dinner jacket, standing in front of the bathroom mirror and trying to tie a bow in my black, silk, formal tie.

I could hear my sister, using the hair dryer in the other bathroom, as I fumbled with the knot for the fifteenth time, grumbled my frustration and (giving up) walked out and over, through the open bedroom door, to the door of the large bathroom.

It was about four inches ajar as, fumbling with my right cufflink, I tapped on it with my shiny, black shoe and called, "Ellie!"

The sound of the hair dryer stopped and then the door swung open and my sister was standing in front of me in her white, plush, over-size, terrycloth robe, her blonde hair wild about her shoulders in hot-air abandon. "What?" she smiled up at me.

"I need a woman," I said, laughing to myself at the change of expression my statement suddenly brought to her pretty face. Then I took hold of the dangling ends at my chest and added, "to tie this tie."

"Oh," she said, her smile returning as she reached to my neck. "You MEN! You're all so helpless."

As Ellen tied the perfect knot, I told her that I was going to go down and get us a table for dinner.

"Okay," she said, brushing off my shoulders and admiring her handiwork with the tie, "Bring in my bags and I'll finish getting dressed and meet you down at the bar in half an hour."

Downstairs was a sea of people, all in formalwear, milling about in the lobby, walking the large hallways, queued at the maitre d' podium (in the enterence to the restaurant) or walking through the large, arched door that led to the chandeliered ballroom.

I saved myself a stand in line by making my reservation with the desk clerk and strode into the bar to wait for my sister.

I ordered a Heineken to pass the time and looked up on the television, above the bar, to see that the Tigers were ahead of Oakland 7-3.

By my second beer, I had made friends with the genial man who was sitting on the stool to my left and enjoying a Scotch. His name was Jim and he lived out on the West Coast with his pretty wife Brett (he showed me her photo), two daughters and a son. He drove a BMW (he called a Beemer) and a Saab and was in some kind of computer consultant business.

Looking at my watch, I was glad I had the foresight to make our dinner reservations for eight because Ellen was taking a lot more time than a half-hour to get herself down here.

That's when I noticed the two, young tuxedoed men, at the end of the bar, nudging each other excitedly as they gestured toward the bar enterence.

At the same time Jim, to my left, looked past me and said, "Holy shit! Look at what just came in!"

Turning my head casually to the right, I was absolutely dumbfounded by what had taken their attention.

My sister Ellen was walking through the bar, toward us, in that stately, model-like gait of hers. She appeared tall and resplendent now in a short, very curve-hugging, silky lavender dress that was covered in a second layer of gossamer material, adorned with a flower print. Her matching pumps had high heels that accented her bare but very shapely, smooth-looking, tanned legs which were exposed to just above her knees. My sister's naturally pretty face was now alluringly made up with the perfect shades of blush, eye-shadow and lipstick to accentuate a face that could easily be that of any super-model. Her blonde hair was slightly styled back and diamond earrings dangled brightly from her lobes as she strode right to where I was sitting, my mouth agape.

Setting her small, black handbag on the bar, she sat on the stool beside me, slowly crossing her sexy legs as she swiveled to me, smiled directly into my astonished face, batted her beautiful, blue eyes at me and said, "Buy me a drink?"

"Buy you a DRINK?" I exclaimed, as my nose detected the alluring scent of the light cologne she was wearing. "My God, Ellie! Looking like that, I'd buy you the whole, God damn BAR!"

Ellen laughed as Jim loudly cleared his throat on the other side of me.

"Oh," I said, "Ellen this is Jim and Jim this is my sister Ellen."

"Sister?" he said loudly, as he reached across me to shake her offered hand. "She's breathtaking! I see the resemblance." Then, in my ear, he added, "Too bad, my friend. For a second I thought you'd hit the jackpot."

"What did he say?" Ellen asked.

"Oh," Jim stated, picking up his Scotch and standing, "here comes that man from General Motors I'm supposed to meet. Have to go. Nice meeting you both," he added as he shook my hand, gave my sister one last look up-and-down and walked off toward a lost-looking, gray haired man in a dark suit.

"Mr. Murtry," the bartender announced as he took my empty bottle from the coaster in front of me, "your table in the dining room is ready."

"Thank you," I said, standing and offering my arm to Ellen.

I escorted her to the dining room where the maitre d' took us to a corner table covered in both a wine-red and then a white tablecloth and elegantly set with heavy flatware, gold-rimmed plates, stemmed tumblers and wine glasses and a red rose in a bud vase. Helping Ellen to be seated, the maitre d' then snapped his fingers for the tuxedoed waiter, bowed curtly at us and said, "Enjoy your dinner," before he walked away.

"This is so lovely," Ellen said across from me as she looked around the resplendent room.

"Isn't it," I agreed, as the white-uniformed busboy came, brought us hard rolls and cold butter pats and poured icy water into our goblets from a silver carafe.

Then the waiter sauntered to our table and asked, in a bit of a British accent, "Would you enjoy a cocktail?"

"Yes," Ellen said. "Order me something, will you Danny?"

"Well," I said to the waiter, "I want a martini... made with two parts Absolut vodka and one part French vermouth. I want the bartender to shake it hard with ice and the juice of a generous wedge of lemon, until the ice is all cracked, and then pour it (ice and all) into a martini glass with a twist."

"That sounds good," Ellen stated. "That's what I want too."

"Very good," the waiter stated as he handed us oversized menus and walked staunchly away.