Serious Moonlight(9)

Maybe that was why I was attracted to Daniel in the first place. He didn’t know me. Maybe if he did, he would wonder what he ever saw in me that afternoon.

“Let’s just please put all of this in the past,” I suggested to Daniel. “And pretend it never happened.”

“You’re serious?” An exasperated noise burred in the back of his throat. “I can’t just . . . I mean, why would you . . . ?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Can’t we just talk about it? Not here. Outside of work. We could meet up somewhere. Uh, maybe not the diner. That might be a little weird. What about after work? Before? Name the time and place, and I’ll be there.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. There’s nothing to say.”

Couldn’t he see how embarrassed I was? I should have worn a sign around my neck that said: PLEASE DON’T FEED THE SKITTISH ANIMAL, AS IT IS UNACCUSTOMED TO HUMAN CONTACT, AND WHILE IT MAY HAVE SEEMED FRIENDLY THE LAST TIME YOU VISITED, IT HASN’T QUITE ADJUSTED TO ITS GROWING HABITAT.

After a moment Daniel said, “What about fate?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t you think it’s really strange that we ended up being coworkers?”

“I think it’s random,” I said. “Like life.”

A loud beep startled both of us. Two beeps. They came from our walkie-talkies.

“Uh, guys? We’ve got a problem. I think another pipe busted in the garage,” Joseph’s voice said, crackling over the radio. “It smells like sewage, and it’s dripping on someone’s BMW. Piss and shit everywhere.”

“Not again,” Daniel moaned. He set the rubber band on the counter and slid it toward me. “Please don’t leave. We’ll talk later. Right now I’ve got to find a pair of gloves and a hazmat suit. Who knew driving a hotel van would involve so much feces?”

He jogged away, and I was unsure how I felt about our conversation.

Maybe I should give this fate thing a second look.

Because I was pretty sure karma was doing its best to make me pay for what I’d done.





“The voice of Love seemed to call to me, but it was a wrong number.”

—Bertie Wooster, Very Good, Jeeves! (1930)





4




* * *



The leak in the hotel garage kept everyone busy for hours. I saw Daniel only twice more, briefly, when he logged a couple of trips for the hotel van. And then, before I knew it, the morning-shift people—the “Roosters”—were filing into the hotel to take over. In the shuffle, I locked myself in a restroom stall and stayed there, rereading a dog-eared Elizabeth Peters paperback; I always keep a comfort mystery book in my purse for emergencies.

I know. It was cowardly. But the first ferry back to Bainbridge Island wasn’t for another hour, and no way was I going to do what I’d planned: hole up two blocks away in the Moonlight Diner to wait. Not when Daniel was so eager to talk.

I needed the Moonlight to be my refuge after work. Seattle may be sleepless, but it wasn’t open all night. And downtown was severely lacking in early-morning havens for commuters. I couldn’t hole up in the hotel’s restrooms every morning after work, three days a week, for the rest of the summer.

But that was a problem I’d deal with later. Right now I pinned on my proverbial Coward’s Badge—waiting until I was certain Daniel had gone—before power walking all the way to the ferry terminal and boarding the Wenatchee. Then I collapsed in the first free seat I found, wrapped myself up in my jacket, and promptly fell asleep.

I used to think that was my superpower—being able to fall asleep almost anywhere, anytime. I’ve always needed a lot of naps to get through the day, probably because I have trouble staying asleep at night. But then my grandfather, a retired Coast Guard detective who shares my napping ability, fell asleep while piloting a boat three years ago. He crashed the boat and messed up his leg. That’s when he got diagnosed with narcolepsy.

My grandmother was shocked. She’d always joked that we both had lazy genes and that it didn’t come from her side of the family. Grandpa’s doctor gave her a list of possible symptoms: Always sleepy. Irresistible and frequent bouts of sleep during the day, sometimes in the middle of working, eating, or conversation. Dream imagery and hallucinations before falling asleep or after waking. Temporary paralysis after waking. Occasionally losing muscle tone and seemingly “passing out” for seconds to minutes immediately after experiencing strong emotions, especially laughter.

Knowing that was all well and good, but there isn’t a cure. All you can do is manage it. And if Grandpa could live with narcolepsy for fifty-plus years before it became too bad to handle, then I figured that if I had it too—and maybe I didn’t—I had plenty of time to sort it out. It was only sleep, after all. And I wasn’t piloting boats or even driving a car. What was the worst that could happen? I’d fall asleep at the hotel registration desk? Hopefully not. I just needed to make sure I had plenty of sleep before and after work.

I’d be fine.

Like now. After sleeping through the half-hour ferry ride across the water, I promptly woke when the boat’s melancholy horn blew. We were entering Eagle Harbor.

Home. I’d made it through work, and I’d made it through Daniel.