4
So when people say Phoenix is a dry heat, they clearly mean that this is what it feels like to be cremated. For the first few feet outside the airport, I’m in denial. It’s not that bad, I keep saying to myself. My sunglasses fog up during the Rental Car Shuttle ride. I can’t take a full breath. The sweat is immediate. And then it’s just basic survival skills as Sasha and I try to find our rental car. We are like two dying rodents stranded in the heat of the desert and all we want is shelter and water.
We find our rental, load our luggage into the nonexistent trunk, and proceed to silently suffocate as the air-conditioning takes its sweet time. Sasha and I just stare dumbly at the vents. Waiting. Unable to think or do anything else.
Then we’re cast out onto various freeways that loop and swing around the sprawl of Phoenix, a city that looks like someone spread out a huge sheet of sandpaper and started setting little Monopoly houses on top of it. We were unable to get into the conference hotel, so I made sure we’re staying at the same place as Preeti Dayal—the Arizona Biltmore. Her husband enjoys playing golf, according to her secretary, with whom I have become friendly. When I see her in the lobby, I’ll feign surprise.
As we drive through the streets of Phoenix I notice immediately that, although the houses look normal enough, it’s as though some giant has come along with his thumb and just smashed them a little bit farther into the ground.
“There aren’t any windows,” Sasha says, dabbing her face with some cosmetics product I would have no idea how to use.
“What?” I ask.
“Look. The buildings. No windows,” she says. She’s right. While there are windows, they’re definitely not the same kind of windows I’m used to. They’re screened and awninged and used sparingly, if at all. It seems as though Phoenix’s entire architectural sensibility is simply “batten down the hatches because it is hot as hell.”
We pull up to the Arizona Biltmore and everything changes. The beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired 1929 resort is right out of a picture postcard. The first thing I notice is the green. As with the windows, I realize I hadn’t really seen any lawns or flora and fauna. Here at the Biltmore? We’re surrounded by golf courses and palm trees and lush gardens. I never knew green was such an extravagance.
The valet takes the keys to the rental and motions for Sasha and me to pull our bags out of the trunk. We fall in behind the so very blond women and their aging husbands.
By the time Sasha and I haul our luggage into the lobby of the hotel, I’ve never been happier to feel the cool whoosh of air-conditioning in my life. And I’ve lived in the South. We check in to the hotel and head to our rooms, blissfully surrounded by air-conditioning.
“The kick-off toast starts in an hour,” Sasha says as we wait for the elevator.
“Kick-off toast?” I ask.
“Sure. It’s right before the Opening Night Bacchanalia.”
There’s just so much wrong with that sentence.
Sasha continues, “It’s all in here.” She hands me a printout of the RomanceCon schedule. “We have to be in the Silver Ballroom in an hour.”
Once the elevator doors close, I scan the schedule Sasha just gave me. The doors ding open and I gather my stuff just enough to walk the few feet out of the elevator and into the hallway of our floor.
“‘Walk the plank at the Pirate Booty Ball’?” I read in a tone that is half wonder, half fear.
“Isn’t it great?” Sasha beams, looking at the arrows posted on the wall, as she gets oriented with where our rooms are.
“‘Get wet down under at the Mermaid Bash,’ and finally, lest we forget: ‘noir it up, gangsta style’ is the theme of this year’s pageant.”
“I can’t wait!” Sasha squeals. All of my belongings are strewn at my feet as I scan the parties over and over.
“That’s gangsta with an a,” I say, finally handing the printout back to Sasha. I collect my things and check my room key, and we continue trudging down the hall to our rooms.
“We’re right across from each other!” Sasha says, gesturing back and forth at our rooms.
“That we are,” I say, sticking my room key into the slot. Green light. “See you in an hour?”
“I’ll be right here,” Sasha says, standing in her now open doorway with a smile that belies what we’ve endured already today. I let my door close behind me and the silence surrounds me like a dream.
What I want to do is flop onto my oversized king bed and sleep like the dead. What I do instead is unpack my clothes and hop in the shower before I can think better of it. In what feels like thirty seconds, I’m trudging back down the long hallway, getting our car from the valet, and driving through the dusky streets of Phoenix on the way to something called the Silver Ballroom somewhere in the bowels of the designated RomanceCon hotel for the kick-off toast. This event apparently comes before the Opening Night Bacchanalia. I haven’t eaten anything since this morning, except the remainder of the peanut M&M’s I found in the bottom of my purse—at which point I sadly reacted as though I’d found a million dollars.
“This kick-off toast better have something to eat on par with this little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place I found online,” I say, waiting at a red light. “I haven’t had good Mexican food since we lived in San Diego.”
“You lived in San Diego?” Sasha asks, her neck damp with sweat after only two minutes in the 112-degree heat.
“We lived everywhere. My dad is in the military,” I say.
“Like how many places?” Another red light.
“Seventeen before I graduated from high school,” I say.
“Eesh,” Sasha says, propelling me back into the land of now, where sharing isn’t something I usually do. I was lulled into it from starvation and the thought of good Mexican food.
“It was fine,” I say, wanting to stop this line of questioning immediately.
“Brothers or sisters?”
“Ferdie. A brother.”
“Ferdie?”
“Ferdinand. My mother’s French Canadian.”
“Younger or older?” Is this the world’s longest car ride?
“Nine years younger.”
“That’s a lot of time to be on your own before he came along.”
The GPS robotically tells me that the RomanceCon hotel—thank God—is just up on the right. With all the excitement, I act like I don’t hear that last comment. Sasha is right, of course, but she doesn’t need to know that. We valet and then run into the hotel so as not to get all sweaty again.
And then all hell breaks loose.
RomanceCon explodes all around us. Romance novel covers are everywhere: on people’s room key cards, on the doors to the elevators, and hanging high above the hotel lobby. It’s almost shocking to see a man with a shirt on at this point. Packs of women swirl and detonate all around us. Laughter, hugs, and happy reunions inject every inch of the hotel with an air of excitement.
“Ms. Wyatt?” A round woman dressed in full Roman garb approaches me, although she looks like the version of a Roman woman who would festoon a jar of jam.
“Yes?” I ask, startled yet somehow comforted.
“I’m Ginny Barton. I’m the president of the League of Romance Novelists.” She looks like she could just as soon offer to help me with my math homework than tell me the lovely story of her heroine’s “mossy grotto” and how it “burns from want.”
“Of course! Thank you so much for everything you’ve done to make this possible. We so appreciate it,” I say.
“We stuck out that much, did we?” Sasha says with a smile.
“Just a bit,” Ginny says.
“Such a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Anna Wyatt and this is Sasha Merchant. We are looking forward to working with you,” I say, switching into work mode. Sasha is breathlessly taking it all in, flashing a huge smile for Mrs. Barton.
“Ginny Barton,” she repeats, shaking hands with both Sasha and me. “We at the LRN couldn’t be more excited about the prospect
of Lumineux soap using one of our heroes. It’s just all so thrilling.” Ginny has led us to a series of escalators and we follow her up, up, and up.
“We hope it works out. It’s an exciting campaign,” I say. We come to an upper floor and . . .
“Welcome to RomanceCon, ladies,” Ginny says.
All I can do is stand there with my mouth hanging open.
In just one short escalator ride, I’ve entered an alternate universe that makes Wonderland look sedate.
Hundreds of women thread and weave through this upper lobby area, their salon-ready hair now coiffed with olive branches, togas draped with precision, while historically accurate costumes parade past us. The volume is hovering at near-deafening levels. We are propelled into the thick of it.
“I’ve just died and gone to heaven,” Sasha squeals. I say nothing. There are no words. “Take your time. Breathe. I’m here and I won’t leave you.” Sasha is throwing my own words back at me. She gives me a wide smile and we enter the fray. As we are herded into the Silver Ballroom, Sasha continues to point out famous author after famous author. They are part of it all, bedecked in their Roman best and taking pictures with fans. I tell her she should go up to them. Say something.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t! What would I say?” Sasha asks, as we take flutes of champagne off a silver tray now that we’re safely inside. We settle ourselves near the back of the Silver Ballroom—a dimly lit, soon-to-be-unveiled masterpiece, I’m sure. The chandeliers twinkle above us, but I can barely make out the Roman columns on either side of the large stage that anchors the entire ballroom. “Should we have dressed up?” Sasha asks, tugging at her tailored blazer, deciding to unbutton it in a moment of pure abandon.
“We can’t be the only ones not dressed up,” I say, scanning the ballroom filled with everyone dressed up and not one person—
“What do you think?” Ginny Barton asks.
“We’re feeling a tad underdressed,” I say.
“Not to worry, the editors and agents don’t dress up, either,” Ginny says, pointing out the sleek-looking women dressed all in black peppering the otherwise debaucherous festivities. “People will just think you two are in publishing.” I see a woman in a beautiful tailored suit approaching us. She’s probably trying to flock with her own kind. Then I recognize her. I hear Sasha let out an involuntary gasp as the woman—and the two assistants who trail her—nears.
“Helen! So good to see you,” Ginny says, extending her hand to the woman.
“Oh, please.” Helen Brubaker pulls Ginny in for a hug. They separate from each other and Ginny resituates her toga.
“This heat is killing me, Barton. You guys ever think about having this thing somewhere other than Phoenix?” Helen Brubaker’s smoky rasp harkens back to every diner waitress who called you honey and kept your coffee topped off. Her rough-edged accent contrasts with her designer clothes, and I can’t help but gawk at the tasteful yet very expensive jewelry that accessorizes her lithe, yoga-ready figure. Even though Helen Brubaker is clearly in her late sixties, she just looks . . . vital. Alive. Polished. Wildly intimidating. And now I’m staring.
“You know we love it here,” Ginny says.
“That’s ridiculous. No one has a strong opinion on Phoenix. Although maybe that’s its allure.” Helen laughs.
“Helen Brubaker, this is Anna Wyatt and Sasha Merchant from that ad agency I was talking to you about,” Ginny says. The entire crowd begins to notice that Helen Brubaker is among them. The side-glances, the gossiping behind cupped hands, the selfies that just happen to be standing in front of Helen. She is unfazed.
“Oh sure. You guys are coattailing my book, right?” Helen takes a flute of champagne from a passing tray and downs it.
“I assure you—”
“I’m messing with you, hon. You need to loosen up,” Helen says, hitting me on the back as if we’re longtime friends at some beerfest.
“I’m a huge fan,” Sasha ekes out, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“Aren’t you cute. Thank you, sweetheart,” Helen says, ruffling Sasha’s perfect black ringlets.
The room falls into darkness.
The entire crowd erupts in applause as my fingers tighten around my flute of champagne.
A single spotlight illuminates a huge banner high above the Silver Ballroom. The man pictured is muscular and bedecked in a pair of jeans, cowboy boots, and a worn-in cowboy hat. According to the western typeface emblazoned across the top of the banner, his name is COLT. The crowd goes wild. Another spotlight and this time it’s BILLY and he’s a gladiator in the arena—a hot gladiator in an oddly sexual arena. Another spotlight and now we’ve got JAKE, the come-hither fireman. LANTZ, with his tangle of reddish-blond hair and scruff, stands on what looks like a moody moor in just a kilt. He’s shirtless, of course. TRISTAN is done up in his steampunk best: top hat, goggles, a tweed vest, and pinstripe pants. JOSH, with his tousle of black hair and piercing blue eyes, is perfect as any woman’s Austenian fantasy in his historically accurate garb. And finally, my personal favorite, BLAISE. Blaise’s blond hair is swept up and he appears to be sporting some kind of sparkly lotion, vampire fangs, and a brooding stare. The spotlights fall from their banners and circle as the electro music builds and builds. The crowd goes wild.
“Welcome to RomanceCon!” a voice booms over the loudspeaker. The music kicks in and a flood of silver confetti falls from the ceiling as the stage comes to life—all seven men posed like Grecian statues in various stages of undress.
Each man comes forward as the announcer calls his name to applause and catcalls.
“This must seem so strange to you,” Helen says, noticing that I have yet to close my mouth, choosing just to let it hang open.
“Every community has their own . . . their own standard of norma—” I say as Tristan steps forward in nothing but a well-placed fig leaf.
“Oh, that’s bullshit and you know it, Ms. Wyatt,” Helen interrupts.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m not trying to be mean.”
“No, of course. I’ve always thought the word bullshit was an underutilized term of endearment,” I say.
“I like you,” Helen says, with another blow to my back, spilling my champagne. “What I mean is there’s something about this place that forces you to drop the act.” Billy comes forward and drops his toga to unveil an even smaller toga as if he’s some kind of risqué Russian nesting doll. I raise an eyebrow and look from Helen to Billy and back to Helen. “I know it seems antithetical, but there you are,” Helen says.
“Oh, come on. This is all just . . . I mean, you guys are selling a fantasy world,” I say, watching the women go crazy as the men hop down from the stage and the party really gets started.
“Takes one to know one, dear,” Helen says. “You gonna drink that?” I pass her my flute of champagne and she downs it in one go. She hands me back the empty flute with a wink. A snap of her fingers to her assistants and just like that . . . Helen Brubaker is gone.
“I think I’m in love,” I say to Sasha once Helen is out of earshot. Sasha just stands there shaking her head, trying to form some kind of word or sentence, but . . . nothing. I scan the ballroom and notice a table at the very back that looks like it has some kind of food on it. “Food.” I point to the table, apparently only able to speak in single-word sentences.
“I’m going to head back to the hotel, if that’s okay?” Sasha asks.
“I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to see if Preeti is here yet,” I say.
“I’ll cab it back,” Sasha says, pulling her phone from her purse.
“Is that the guy from the date the other night?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. I’m waiting for something more . . . but nothing.
“Nice. Okay, I’ll see you back at the hotel,” I say, making my way back to the food. I order a club soda with lime from the bartender and start to dig into the tiny cubes of cheese that are stacked high on a decorative platter.
As I s
tuff several tiny cheese cubes into my mouth, I see Colt, a blond titan of a man. He’s almost as big in person as he appeared on the banner. He’s decided to attend tonight’s party almost nude and holding a discus, rather than appearing as the shirtless cowboy from the banner. He’s an Olympian. An ancient Olympian in designer underpants and a yellow Livestrong rubber bracelet.
And, as if on cue, Colt ambles over to me.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, swallowing the tiny cubes of cheese.
He doesn’t even look real. He’s everything women desire. And he knows it. Broad shoulders, blond hair, tanned skin, ice-blue eyes, and a body that looks like it could have been chiseled out of marble. A body that I’m seeing pretty much all of right now because his designer underpants are hardly covering much of his six-foot-four-inch frame.
“So, you want to take a picture of me?” Colt asks, posing.
“Oh, no thank you,” I say as politely as I can manage now that Colt stands frozen into place as Myron’s famous sculpture, Discobolus. He waits expectantly, so I wipe my hands of any cheese remnants and pull out my phone and begin to fumble with the camera settings.
“You want to get in here with me?” he asks, still posing.
“Oh, um . . .”
“We’ll take it for you!” a very excited group of women say from just behind me. I thank them and hand over the phone. I walk the few steps over to Colt and stand next to him, my face flushing, hands clasped in front of me, purse still on my shoulder.
“Touch him! Act like you’re kissing him! Feel his biceps!” the women chirp and shout. I shuffle closer to Colt with a muttered “okay” and awkwardly hover my arm just above his huge extended discus arm. I want to crack a joke to cut the growing tension that’s floating all around Colt and me, but all I can manage is muttering and half-starting sentences like I’m some hapless person meandering down the street with a tinfoil helmet atop my head.
I stand next to Colt and it takes all of my energy not to look at anything below his waist and nope, not the chest, either, and Jesus, the shoulders on this guy could—my face is getting hotter and hotter—I’ve never seen biceps that big in person. In the fantasy version of this I’d be the cool cucumber who swanned over and made some hilarious joke and the women would snap a photo and they’d all see the chemistry and swap knowing glances as oh, do you want my phone number, Colt? Oh, you’re really a philosophy professor over at the local university? No, I didn’t even notice you were wildly attractive, you know, I don’t objectify people like that. Yes, I do think that’s noble of me to love you for your mind, Colt. And I’d throw my head back and my long brown hair would waft behind me as I’d finally hit that pose where you look over your shoulder in photographs and it looks mysterious and sexy instead of bewildered and bloated. Then the music kicks in aaaaand cut to a slow-motion shot of Colt and me dancing at our wedding reception, the haze of lanterns in the distance and all we can see is each other and Colt whispers, “You were always my Isabeau,” and I nuzzle him as the camera catches the look in his eye of a besotted adoration he thought he’d never find.