Chapter 153 - The Last Soak (1/2)
Dale graciously walks with her back to her suite, and even offers to listen to what she has to say. But after all is said and done, Claire realizes what she needs is time alone. Time for herself.
”Are you sure, Miss Claire?” Dale stands uncertainly by the threshold, waiting on her.
And yet, she knows there's nothing that anyone else in the world can do. She can talk to everybody. She can vent out all her feelings. But in the end, there's only one solution to her woes, and it's something she doesn't feel like facing now.
”Thank you, Dale,” she says. ”Really. You've been nothing but an angel.”
Dale smiles. ”Anything for you. Shall I call up Sir Gabriel?”
Gabriel is currently being subjected to the Spanish Inquisition, Claire wryly thinks. ”Gabriel is busy. He will be here when he can.”
”Alright,” Dale says. He leaves, but not after reassuring her that he will be there at the Concierge Desk, at her beck and call, regardless of the hour.
These are the things she will miss, Claire thinks as she closes the door. Not the material things, although she can't deny that these conveniences—this lavishly appointed ”living quarters,” for instance, located at a breathtaking vantage point that overlooks the city—are irresistible, especially for someone like her who grew up without luxury. She only had the bȧrė necessities growing up, that was why she had to fight with all her cunning and intellect to finish college, on account of a hard-won full scholarship. The companionship of honest people is what she means—she'll miss Dale, Lucille, Miss Cassandra, even Mary at the office. She would miss their warmth and extraordinary receptiveness. They treated her like family, and for someone who lives far away from her real family, that meant the whole world to her.
But at times she wonders if their niceness is only due to the fact that she's supposedly the fiancée of their boss—would they have treated her with the same grace and niceness if she were an ordinary girl, a lowly employee?
In any case, regardless of the truth, Claire Monteverde is at a crossroads of her life: face the music, as Gabriel said only a day earlier. Face the music. She never thought she'd be in a situation where that phrase would bear so much weight, so much pain.
She walks into the rooms of the suite, as if committing even the smallest details to memory. She touches the walls, the exquisite furniture, gazes at the relaxing interplay of dimmable lighting. She used to live in a small apartment with three roomies—all her belongings could fit a single battered suitcase. She mentally takes note of where she'd kept her old suitcase—it must be tucked away in the walk-in wardrobe. She might need it later.
She enters the bedroom and gazes at the bed for a long time. She imagines those few days when Gabriel stayed here, sleeping beside her. No monkey business, just love and happiness. The memory tugs at her heartstrings—how could she have known that it would all end so soon. That the dream would simply vanish like a mirage in the desert.
There's this unnamable sense of direction that she feels she must take. But for now, her head is just filled with confusion, if that makes sense. As she steps out of the bedroom, she thinks of taking a dip in the jetted tub because why not? Thankfully, the bathroom is newly stocked with all the usual toiletries, including her favorite bubble bath—you can always rely on Lucille. Oh, she will miss Lucille!