The Resort (2 page)

But at least they were away from California.

It was the weekend of his twentieth high school reunion, and that was one of the reasons they were out here. They'd been planning this vacation anyway, but when he learned that the reunion was going to be taking place at the same time, he made
sure
that they were going to be out of state.

It was not that he was ashamed of his job or anything, it was just that . . . well, he
was
ashamed of his job. He liked it, the pay was good, and truth be told there was nothing he'd rather be doing, but whenever someone from his youth wandered into the supermarket and saw him behind the register with his name tag that touted his fifteen years of service, he cringed inwardly, praying that he would not be recognized.

That didn't happen too often these days. He'd remained in his hometown of Fountain Valley after graduating from college and getting married, but five years later Ralphs transferred him to a new store in Brea, twenty miles away. While a few of his former classmates had moved to or worked in the northern part of Orange County, they seldom if ever dropped by the store or the shopping center it anchored. Of course, there were a few friends from both high school and college whom he still saw on a regular basis and they knew exactly what he did for a living, but that was different. They understood him, and with them he didn't feel like the abject underachiever he did when meeting people he'd known only peripherally.

Divorced from his past, taken on its own terms, his work was both enjoyable and surprisingly fulfilling. No, he wasn't finding a cure for cancer or writing the great American novel, but neither was he sitting in a cubicle looking at a computer screen all day, juggling meaningless numbers as were so many of his fellow business majors. By his own reckoning, he performed a practical and valuable service as assistant manager of Orange County's highest grossing Ralphs supermarket, making sure that the people of Brea and surrounding communities had fresh meat and produce, guaranteeing that customers wanting ethnic foods or health-conscious products would find the goods they desired on the store's well-stocked shelves. He was friendly with his clientele, knew many of his customers by name, and he took pains to ensure that the supermarket's checkers, boxboys and stock clerks had a pleasant environment in which to work.

Still, he didn't relish the thought of meeting ex-friends and ex-girlfriends and old acquaintances and comparing lifetime achievements.

If he was embarrassed about his job, though, he was proud of his family. Rachel and the kids were far and away the best things that had ever happened to him—much better than he deserved, truth be told—and there was no way he could be anything but happy, content and eternally grateful when it came to his personal life.

Ahead, the road wound around a small hill of white limestone that was dotted with innumerable ocotillos, nearly all of them blooming, their long octopus branches green with leaves and tipped with red flowers.

“Dad?” Ryan whined from the backseat, echoing a phrase he'd heard on a commercial. “Are we there yet?”

Lowell smiled. “Very funny.”

Although they were far too old for it, the twins took up the chant. “Dad? Are we there yet? Dad? Are we there yet? Dad?”

“We're there,” Lowell said. “We're in our hotel room and you're asleep. You're just
dreaming
that you're still in the car.”

That threw them.

“Are you just joking?” Ryan asked tentatively.

“Of course he's just joking,” Rachel said, giving Lowell a poke in the side.

The twins ran with it. “Don't listen to Mom,” Curtis said. “She's part of the dream. You can't believe a word she says.”

“We're all part of the dream,” Owen elaborated. “Our whole family. You don't really have a family at all. You're not even a boy. You're just a stray pup at the pound who's dreaming that you're a human.”

“Mom!” Ryan cried.

“Knock it off you two,” Rachel ordered. “If I catch you torturing your brother on this trip . . .”

Lowell smiled.

Hot air blew in from the window as he drove, causing his hair to whip around wildly, and he found himself wondering why cars didn't have wings anymore. When he was a kid and they'd go on family vacations, the station wagon had had no air conditioning, and his dad used to open the wings, two small triangular windows in front of and adjacent to the driver's and passenger windows, to direct the outside air where he wanted and to create a flow through the car.

Ahead, Lowell could see that the road passed between two hills, and he vowed to himself that if he didn't see the resort or a sign for it, he would turn around on the other side of those hills and backtrack until he found a street that actually had a name and could be identified on a published map.

They'd learned about The Reata from Rachel's sister Pam, whose family had spent a week last summer at Tucson's Westward Look resort. Ordinarily, a hotel in the middle of the desert would not have been their first choice for a summer vacation destination, but Pam had learned that many of Arizona's best resorts, which in the winter catered to wealthy Easterners looking to escape the snow, dropped their rates considerably during the summer months, when very few Easterners dared brave the heat, in order to attract locals and others who could not usually afford to stay at such luxury accommodations. Westward Look had been wonderful, Pam said, but she'd heard from a fellow guest about another, even more exclusive resort with rates during the summer a full seventy-five percent cheaper than those at peak season. The only drawback was that it was way out in the desert, all by itself, and far away from Tucson's nightlife and shopping. To Lowell and Rachel, that made it seem even more attractive, and Rachel had immediately gotten online and looked up the Web site for The Reata.

They were sold instantly. Photos of The Reata showed a gigantic lagoon-shaped pool ringed with tall palm trees, around which bathing-suited guests reclined on lounge chairs under shady umbrellas, their drinks set on adjacent small tables. At one end of the pool was a snack bar cabana. At the other was a small, patently fake Disneyish cliff from which a waterfall fell into the pool. Next to the waterfall, built into the fake cliff, was a long winding slide. Photos of the rooms showed expensive Santa Fe décor and spectacular desert views through floor-to-ceiling windows. The restaurants looked luxurious, the displayed Sunday brunch was a smorgasbord, and the elegant high-ceilinged lobby resembled nothing so much as the great hall of a southwest San Simeon.

All for little more than the price of a Motel 6.

They made reservations online, and a few days later an acknowledgement arrived in the mail in the form of a confirmation letter and two full-color brochures.

The brochures were where they'd gotten their directions to the resort—which was what had led them way out here, miles from nowhere.

Lowell sped down the road, between the two hills, fully prepared to turn around at the next wide spot in the road.

And there it was.

If anything, The Reata exceeded the expectations raised by the brochures and Web site. Nestled at the foot of the Santa Clara Mountains, a low-slung range of rocky desert peaks, the collection of two-story adobe and ranch-style buildings was terraced over several acres of land and looked like a small city. Palm trees and cottonwoods lined the lanes and the parking lots that connected the various sections of the resort, and deep green lawns gave the landscaped grounds the appearance of an oasis in this rough and rugged country.

The bumpy sun-faded road segued into smooth fresh pavement, and a few yards beyond that, a western-style guardhouse with an attached iron gate marked the entrance of The Reata. Lowell slowed the car as they approached. “Exclusive,” he said.

Rachel nodded. “To keep out the riffraff.”

“The hoi polloi,” he countered.

“The rabble.”

“The masses.”

Curtis groaned. “Knock it off, you guys. You think you're cute, but you're not. You're just annoying.”

Lowell laughed and stopped before the gate. A uniformed young man stepped out of the guardhouse, clipboard in hand. “May I help you?”

“We have reservations,” Lowell explained. “Under ‘Thurman.' ”

The guard glanced down at the sheet of paper on his clipboard. “Lowell Thurman?”

“Yeah.”

“Welcome to The Reata.” The guard handed him a green parking pass the size of a postcard. On it was printed a number and the logo of the resort: a sun setting behind a stylized saguaro cactus. “Hang this from your rearview mirror or keep it on your dashboard at all times. Vehicles that do not display a parking pass will be towed at the owner's expense. Enjoy your stay.” He stepped back inside, and a second later the gate swung open.

Lowell drove through and headed up the road toward the cluster of buildings on the hillside. “Cheery greeting. Threatening your customers.”

“Don't start,” Rachel groaned.

“I'm just saying.”

“We're having fun now!” Owen piped up from the back.

“We
are
having fun,” Rachel told him. “We're all going to get along and have a good time on this trip. Okay?”

Lowell grinned.
“Jawohl!”

The road wound through a veritable cactus forest landscaped with the prettiest plants Arizona had to offer, an idealized version of the desert southwest, before passing between two sentrylike boulders that stood at the entrance to the lower parking lot.

“Cool,” Curtis said admiringly. It
was
cool, Lowell thought as he pulled the car into a parking space close to the lobby entrance. He unfolded a cardboard sunscreen, and placed it inside the windshield as the rest of the family got out and stretched.

The lobby was housed in what looked like an adobe mansion, the main building on a Mexican millionaire's cattle spread perhaps. The Reata had started out as a dude ranch in the early 1920s, and Lowell assumed that this had been the structure originally used to house guests. A stone walkway covered by a spreading bougainvillea with bright magenta flowers led to a pair of double doors that looked like they had come from an old Spanish mission. On either side, planters made from native rock boasted the desert's flashiest flowers, a rainbow array of succulents and cacti that seemed even more arresting against the dull brown adobe.

The lobby doors were opened from the inside by two clean-cut young men wearing vaguely western uniforms consisting of black pants, white shirt and turquoise bolo tie. The one on the right smiled at them as they passed by. “Welcome to The Reata.”

“Thanks, dude,” Curtis said, and Rachel pinched his shoulder. “Knock it off.”

The air conditioning in the lobby felt wonderful after the dry heat outside. Though he hadn't noticed it until now, Lowell was sweating, and he used a finger to wipe away the drops of suddenly cold perspiration that were dripping down the sides of his face from under his hairline. The lobby was huge, much larger than the outside of the building would indicate, larger even than it appeared on the Web site photos and in the brochure. A tinted skylight in the center of the thirty-foot ceiling provided discreet illumination to an expansive sitting area consisting of several leather chairs and two long couches that looked as though they had been lifted from Ethan Edwards's ranch. To the left was a long mahogany front desk that, down to the ornate mirror on the wall behind it, resembled nothing so much as the saloon bar in an old western movie. To the right, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and glass double doors overlooked a broad flagstone patio. Below the patio, afternoon sun glinted off the water in the enormous pool, where quite a few people appeared to be swimming. Straight ahead was a rough-hewn fireplace, obviously not in use at the moment, and, next to that, an open doorway that led into a gift shop.

“I'll check in,” Lowell said. “You guys can look around.”

Rachel and the kids headed straight for the gift shop, and he walked up to the front desk. The pretty, happy-faced clerk behind the counter was named Tammy, and according to her name tag she was originally from New Haven, Connecticut, and had been working at The Reata for six years. Lowell found it odd that the resort's name tags contained such detailed information about employees, but it was strangely comforting as well, knowing that people from all over the United States worked here. It made the place seem less provincial and less inbred than would be expected from its remote location.

“Reservations for Thurman,” he told her.

“Are you with a group or convention?” she asked.

“No.”

The young woman typed something on a keyboard below the counter in front of her and then looked at the connected computer screen. “Lowell Thurman?”

“Yes.”

“You'll be staying with us for five nights, departing on Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

“Two connecting rooms, one with a king-sized bed, one with two full-sized and a foldout?”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent. May I see your driver's license and a major credit card, Mr. Thurman?”

He handed both to her.

She smiled as she ran the Visa card through a scanner. “So, is this your first time at The Reata?”

He nodded.

“You're really going to enjoy your stay. Southern Arizona has so many wonderful places to visit. In fact, here's something you might find helpful.” She reached under the counter and handed him a folded, slickly printed map. “It has everything from Tombstone to Tubac, and lists mileage from The Reata. You'll also find several magazines in your room that detail day-trip destinations. Should you desire reservations for any of Tucson's many cultural events or fine restaurants, our concierge desk is open twenty-four hours a day. It's number two on your room phone.”