Wishes

St. Pete Beach, Florida
July, 2003

It seems almost too good to be true—the Marriott Vinoy Renaissance is offering a three-night stay at the St. Pete Resort, with rental car and airline ticket, meals, an in-room masseuse, tickets to a Devil Rays game, and use of a stretch limo all for the incredible price of 100,000 Honored Guest points.
            “Say, this looks like a good deal,” I say to Peter over the partition. He suggests I check out the fine print and upon further inspection, I discover that for an additional 25,000 points, I get a wish.
            “Any wish?” asks Peter.
            “I don’t know, I’ll have to call.”
            So I do and a perky voice attached to the name Tina answers. She explains about the wish.
            “It’s being offered for VIP Platinum members only,” she says in the same sort of tone one would explain tax law. “You get a single wish from the Marriott Corporate Genie.” I didn’t know the Marriott had a corporate genie.
            “Anything?” I ask.
            “Anything. Of course, you must be over 18, and the Marriott reserves the right not to grant wishes in conflict with State or Federal law. I read that off the card.”
            “Good work, Tina,” I say and promptly reserve the weekend of July 16, two weeks away.
            I call Jean, and ask her to join me, throwing in the bit about the wish as added enticement. She’s delighted and cooks up some excuse for her latest boyfriend to get away for a few days. And she looks so damn good when she picks me up at Tampa International that we ruin the upholstery in the back seat of the rental car before we ever make it out of the parking lot. Afterwards she licks her fingers with a smile and says, “What’s all this about a wish?”
            An hour or so later we finally make it to our room,  to a two-bedroom suite overlooking the Gulf.
            “Great digs,” says Jean. She unpacks some personal items, strips, and hops into the whirlpool. I follow her lead, grabbing the television remote before I jump in. A click of the remote produces HBO. Another button, and an iced bottle of white wine appears with a heaping plate of raw oysters on ice. I try one more button. At first there is nothing, then the room quivers with a low, droning noise followed by a great cloud of blue and red smoke expelled from jets buried at the bottom of the Jacuzzi  The smoke clears and standing there in a gray business suite and wearing a Marriott name tag that reads “Diane K.” is the guru from Mt. Diablo apparently moonlighting as the Marriott Corporate Genie.
            “So, we meet again,” she says.
            Jean waves the smoke from her face. She looks up at Diane K. then back at me as if I were responsible, and then back at Diane K. “Who the hell are you?” she demands.
            “And you must be Jean,” Diane K. says before I can chime in.
            Jean says, “Don, who is this and why is she in our room?”
            Diane K. snickers as I stammer for an explanation.
            “Never mind,” she says finally, shaking her head. “I don’t want to know.” She jumps out of the spa, grabs a towel and stomps out of the room.
            “Thanks for pissing off my friend. What do you do for an encore?”
            Diane K. strips down to a modest bathing suite and climbs into the Jacuzzi with me.  “You have a single wish,” she tells me while laying back, letting the hot streams of water bubble over her neck.
            “Why are you following me?”
            She ignores the question, “You know the rules. Do something out of character for a change—be smart!”
            “No.”
            “You don’t want to be smart?”
            “That’s not what I meant. You were in London, the sitar player. You murdered three people and tried to kill me and Bernie.”
            “You mean, Bernie and I.”
            “Don’t change the subject. Was that you or not?”
            She ducks under the water and stays there for at least a minute. When she bobs back up, her straight, black hair is plastered on her face like hungry tentacles; the silver streak falls right between her eyes.
            “Of course it was me.”
            “So why’d you try and kill Bernie?”
            Jean’s voice announces, “I gotta hear this.” She lowers herself into the spa between Diane K. and myself. “Don’t let me stop you,” she says.
            I lean over and whisper, “You okay?”
            “We’ll talk later,” she whispers back.
            Diane K. says, “Family time over? Good. I wasn’t trying to kill Bernie. I was trying to get you guys the hell out of that restaurant.”
            “But you killed three people.”
            “Those musicians were suicide bombers. They were each wearing enough explosives to level an entire block. The plan was to detonate when the poet reached zero.”
            Jean and I stare at her, dumbfounded. “No, can’t be. I would have heard something…”
            “Yeah, if you’d read the papers. I’m still on the terrorist most wanted list, even though I saved a thousand lives that night.”
            Jean says, “Sounds like someone has a guardian angel.” She hops out if the spa and throws a towel around her. “I don’t trust her, Don. And as far as the wish thing goes, better count me out.”
            After Jean leaves Diane K. says, “Take care of her, okay?”
            “You’re serious.”
            “I mean it. Now, how about that wish?”
            I lean back myself to consider the possibilities, whatever I want for only twenty-five thousand points. I think back and an obvious answer comes to mind, but before I can tell Diane K. the jets in the whirlpool spin out of control sending out torrents of water and steam. Soon the entire bathroom is enveloped in a dense cloud of steam and smoke. Flashes of lightning bounce off invisible walls and a disembodied ceiling that opens up to a cloudless horizon.
            As the steam and smoke clear, the tile floor beneath me becomes a quiet meadow on a rolling hill. I find myself lying on a cushion of soft grass. The setting sun sends beams of light through delicate clouds. I sit up in a panic and look around for Kathy. I find her in the distance, standing at the top of the hill with her back toward me. Her short, blonde hair and denim skirt sway in the gentle twilight breeze.
            “Kathy, ” I call out as I stand up.
            She turns in my direction for a moment. There’s a small smile on her face, but it vanishes as she turns away. I run to the crest of the hill and take her hands. “Kathy, honey, I’m so sorry.”
            She stares at me with a puzzled look. “Sorry for what?” It takes a moment, then I remember the wish. What I had said to her so many years ago—that never happened.
            “Nothing in particular. I just figured I must have done something to be sorry for.”
            The lame joke falls flat. She turns away abruptly. “Don, don’t.”
            “Hey, you okay?” She nods, but doesn’t turn around. “Love you.”
            “I love you too,” she says slowly. She faces me, takes my hands in hers, and looks into my eyes. “But there’s something you need to know—”

            Then I wake up.
            A twilight breeze flutters across my face and with it a familiar perfume, and standing in the distance, overlooking the West Wind Bed and Breakfast, is Wendy.
            I call out, “Wendy!”
            She turns around only briefly. I run to the crest of the hill where she is standing and take both her hands in mine. Wendy looks up and smiles; her eyes are moist, and I can hear her rapid breath beneath a weak, trembling voice.
            “I love you, Don.” she says looking into my eyes. She is about to say more, but I raise a finger to her lips.
            “I love you too,” I say and kiss her deeply.
            Her body enfolds around me, drawing me inside her. Wendy pulls me closer, but abruptly draws away. She takes my hands, and in a voice laced with emotion says, “But there is something you need to know—”
            Not again. A wave of panic passes through me.

            Then I wake up, alone in the spa.
            I jump out, grab a towel and head back to the bedroom where Jean lies naked, face down, and sound asleep. I cover her and notice the flashing voice mail light on the hotel phone. Karen’s recorded voice is hollow and tense, fighting each word.
            “I heard you and Jean were in town. It took a while to track you down, but I want to invite you to dinner tonight. We have a place on Madeira Beach. Please call if you can make it.” She leaves an unfamiliar address and telephone number. I can’t believe the luck—she must have rung Peter. I glance at Jean’s shivering figure, think of a likely excuse, and quickly dial Karen’s number. Her voice mail answers.
            “I’ll be there at seven.” I hang up before I say something stupid.
            Jean stirs and rolls over; her face looks sallow and sad. She asks in a weak voice, “Is your friend gone?”
            “Yeah.”
            “Some guardian angel. Who was on the phone?”
            I can hear myself saying, “Just an old friend,” but something in Jean’s eyes stops me from doing so. She smiles and takes my hand. “Here’s to wishes coming true.” She kisses my hand and then lays back down and pulls the covers over her head.
            “To wishes coming true,” I whisper.
            I quickly change and leave without saying good-bye.