The Resort (3 page)

“How far
is
Tucson from here?” Lowell asked.

She laughed. “It's only forty miles to civilization. Although if you're planning to drive there, give yourself at least an hour and a half to get to I-10. Those desert roads are tricky if you're not used to them.”

“We found
that
out.”

Rachel and the kids emerged from the gift shop. “It's a rip-off!” Owen announced. “Thirty bucks for a T-shirt!”

“And two-fifty for a can of Coke.” Curtis shook his head.

Lowell smiled. Sensible shoppers already. He and Rachel were doing something right.

He finished checking in, and Tammy gave him two keys for each room—or rather magnetized cards that could be used to open the electronic locks on the doors of the rooms, the hotel industry's modern equivalent of keys.

“Would you like a tour of the facilities?” the clerk asked.

“We'd love it,” Rachel said instantly, obviously knowing after all these years that he would have declined and instead asked for a map of the resort so that they could explore on their own.

“I'll be happy to show you around.”

Another young woman emerged from a room behind the front desk, a section of wall next to the mirror opening to reveal the hidden doorway through which she passed.
Samantha. Juniper, Arizona. Four years,
her name tag read. The two uniformed sentries once again opened the lobby's front doors, and an elderly couple entered the cool lobby from the heat-blasted world outside. Samantha smiled at them as they approached the front desk. “Hello. May I help you?”

Tammy disappeared into the same hidden room from which her coworker had come and a moment later walked out from an unseen hallway to the left of the gift shop. “Let's start out here,” she said, and led them onto the patio. It was like stepping into an oven, and the pool below them suddenly seemed even more inviting than it had before.

“I want to check out the pool,” Curtis announced.

“Yeah,” Ryan seconded.

Tammy laughed. “All right. Let's go.” There were several round tables with umbrellas protruding from center holes and four or five chairs around each, but the patio was empty save for themselves. Tammy explained that while quite a few people came up at dusk to take drinks and watch the sunset, it was a little too hot in the midafternoon for anyone to sit out here. They followed her down a wide flagstone staircase that led past terraces alternating between kinetic metal sculptures and exotic cacti to the enclosed pool area, a space easily the size of two suburban home-sites.

The pool was crowded. Nearly all of the chairs and lounges were taken, and several kids were lying on beach towels spread out on the cement. More children and adults were in the pool itself, yelling, splashing, playing. Top forty music blared from loudspeakers hidden in the palm trees, and waiters wearing western uniforms that looked none too cool could be seen hurrying between relaxing guests and the bar, trays of iced drinks in hand.

“We have two pools,” Tammy explained as she unlocked the gate to let them in. “The big pool, here, and our indoor lap pool, which is adjacent to the weight room and spa facilities for the convenience of our more health-conscious guests. There are whirlpools in both areas—two here by the big pool—and, as you can see, there's a waterfall and slide. Inside the rock, behind the waterfall, are restrooms and a shower area. Towels are on that cart next to the cabana, and rubber rafts and floaties are available free of charge on a first come first served basis.”

“They sell snacks there?” Curtis asked, pointing to the open serving window in the cabana.

“Snacks, soft drinks, cocktails and sandwiches. You can order at the window or from one of our waiters, who are usually pretty conscientious about canvassing the poolside area for hungry and thirsty guests.”

There seemed something comical to Lowell about the overdressed waiters sweating in their tightly buttoned uniforms while catering to bathing-suited tourists, and he chuckled.

“What's so funny?” Tammy asked.

“Nothing. Those waiters. They just look like something out of a Monty Python routine.”

The young woman smiled politely. “Who's Monty Python?”

Lowell shook his head, not wanting to explain. More than his growing children or the appearance of gray strands in his hair or the hardening of laugh lines into wrinkles, what made him realize he was growing old was the passing of his cultural touchstones into irrelevance, the knowledge that his frames of reference were no longer recognized by the younger generation. The other day, he'd been at Tower Records and absently picked up a Ravi Shankar CD, remembering how his older brother used to listen endlessly to
The Concert for Bangla Desh,
and how he'd always hated that droning sitar music. A heavily pierced salesclerk stocking CDs next to him said, “Wow. Ravi Shankar. I didn't know we had that.”

“You like him?” Lowell asked, surprised.

“I read about him. He's the father of this female singer.”

“Norah Jones,” Lowell said to show that he wasn't completely unhip.

“Yeah.” The clerk motioned toward the CD. “So what does he play? Jazz?”

Lowell realized that the boy knew nothing about Ravi Shankar other than the fact that he was Norah Jones's father. Any joke he might have made about interminable sitar solos or Indian music would have gone right over the kid's head.

Mick was right. What a drag it is getting old.

Tammy led them around the side of the pool, past one of the spas, past the waterfall, to a long low Santa Fe-style building that faced the upsloping mountain rather than the resort buildings situated down the hillside and winding toward the flat desert below. They walked inside. There was a maitre d's station next to the entrance, and round tables with white linen tablecloths took up the center of the large room. Plush comfortable-looking booths lined both the windowed wall facing the pool area and the series of glass alcoves that backed against the brown rocky mountainside.

“This is the Saguaro Room, our five-star restaurant. It was recently featured on the Food Network's
Best of the West
and specializes in gourmet Southwest cuisine. Our chef, Roland Acuna, has won numerous awards and apprenticed with Bobby Flay in New York. He's really amazing, and we're very lucky to have him. On Saturday mornings, he gives tours of his Gourmet Garden, which is located just behind Building Five—your building, actually—and they're really a lot of fun. If you'd like to sign up, just let me know or call the front desk before Friday night.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Rachel said.

“It is, it is.”

They walked through a side door next to the maitre d's station and into a darker adjacent restaurant dominated by a large bar. “The Grille offers a more informal dining experience,” Tammy explained. “It can get a little loud late on weekend nights, but before ten and during the weekdays, it's a great place to take the family. Oh, and room service can be ordered from either of our restaurants.”

After exiting through another door, Tammy led them outside. “We'll drive the rest of the way,” she told them. An electric golf cart, its white sides emblazoned with the resort's logo, was waiting under the shade of a cottonwood tree in a small parking lot on the side of the restaurants. Tammy got into the driver's seat, Lowell and Rachel climbed into the seat behind her, and the kids crammed into a backward-facing bench that hung over the rear of the vehicle.

Tammy pulled out of the parking lot and drove at a steady speed down a single-lane road that wound past the metal fence that enclosed the pool area before passing through an empty stretch between buildings. She pointed toward a narrow dirt pathway that led past a copse of desert brush. “That's one of our numerous nature trails. We have a birding trail, a cactus trail, a rock trail and assorted other jogging and hiking trails that traverse the desert within The Reata's boundaries. There's even the Antelope Canyon trail, which goes over two miles into the Santa Claras to a beautiful picnic spot and natural hot spring. Maps are in the welcome pack in your rooms and additional copies can be obtained at the front desk. A word of caution, though: the desert is dangerous. There are snakes, poisonous plants and insects, and slippery unstable slopes. So if you do decide to go hiking, always stay on the marked trails. And always carry water with you wherever you go. It's hot out here.”

Rachel laughed. “We noticed.”

“There's a helicopter?” Ryan exclaimed from the back.

Lowell looked to the right, saw a small section of concrete square and part of a chopper blade behind what looked like a service building.

“Very observant!” Tammy said appreciatively. “Yes, indeed, we do have our own heliport in case of emergencies.”

“What kind of emergencies do you get out here?” Lowell asked.

“You'd be surprised,” she said cheerfully but did not answer the question. “Behind Building One up ahead is our driving range. By next summer, we expect to have our new eighteen-hole golf course in place. By the way, let me know if you want to stop anywhere.”

“I think we'd just like to see our rooms,” Lowell said, and was glad when Rachel didn't disagree.

“Okay then. We'll take the short tour. Tennis courts to the left. Spa, weight room, lap pool in the building to your right. More information? All in the welcome pack.” She maneuvered past a parked pickup truck filled with grounds-keeping tools and stopped to allow a heavyset housekeeper pushing a cleaning cart cross the lane. Finally, Tammy turned left at one of the two-story structures housing the hotel rooms. “Here we are. Building Five.” The cart slowed to a stop, pulled into a parking space. “This will be yours. After I take you back to the lobby, just drive your own car down the same way we came and park right here.” She clapped her hands enthusiastically. “All right! Everybody out!”

The kids leaped off the back of the cart onto the hot asphalt and Lowell awkwardly climbed down from his seat before helping Rachel out. The heat was scorching, and all of their faces were red. Despite the breeze generated by the movement of the open-air vehicle, Lowell was sweating, and he wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve and followed Tammy down an outside corridor past several room doors, past an ice machine, to room 522, their room. Room 523, the kids' room, was right next door.

Tammy stepped aside. “After you,” she said.

Lowell used the magnetic card to open the door. There was a split-second of hesitation, an almost unconscious flinching at the unoccupied space in front of him. He was not sure what instinct caused him to freeze, but it snapped when Rachel walked past him into the cool air-conditioned room. He followed, and any trace of trepidation was forgotten as he looked up at the frosted skylight in the center of the high vaulted ceiling, saw the large picture window overlooking a gorgeous desert landscape. There was a couch, chair and coffee table with tastefully arranged magazines in the sitting area, a wide-screen television within a customized armoire, and a bathroom that was nearly as big as their bedroom at home. In the open closet he could see complimentary bathrobes and slippers. The coffeemaker on the vanity next to the small built-in refrigerator, was an espresso machine.

Nice, Lowell thought. He could get used to this.

Curtis and Owen opened the door to the adjoining room and rushed in. He heard shouts of “Cool!” and “Killer!” and “Our own TV!!”

“Where am I staying?” Ryan asked.

“With your brothers,” Rachel explained.

“No! They're going to scare me!”

“They won't,” Lowell promised. “Don't worry. Now why don't you go check out your room.”

Ryan ran next door.

Tammy smiled. “How do you like it?” she asked.

“It's perfect,” he said.

This place was off the hook, Curtis thought. It was like the secret hideout of some James Bond villain, a fancy palace way out in the middle of nowhere with all of the best babes and food and technological luxuries money could buy.

Curtis loved James Bond. Especially the old movies from the 1960s, the ones with Sean Connery. They were way before his time, but there was something about their clean happy view of the world that appealed to him, something about the simple purity of the villains that spoke to him. He'd tried to read a few of the books—his dad was a big fan and told him they were great—but they seemed so boring compared to the movies, and no matter how hard he tried he could never seem to get into them.

Owen, he could tell, was not quite as impressed by the hotel. He liked the girls hanging out by the pool, liked the fact that they had their own room and their own satellite TV, but he didn't like the fact that the resort was so isolated, so far from any city. He hadn't said anything about it—Owen never did—but Curtis could tell that the remoteness made his brother uncomfortable. That was one of the things that
he
thought was so cool. It was the contrast between the no man's land around them and this posh resort with its pools and waterfalls and tennis courts and golf course and fancy restaurant that was so fresh.

He and Owen were nothing like each other when you came right down to it. They should have been as alike as two peas in a pod, as their grandmother would say, but even physically they were light years apart. Curtis was tall and thin with thick wavy black hair and a dark complexion. Owen had black hair as well, but his was straight, and he was a good head shorter and a good ten pounds heavier. He was also, like their brother Ryan, extremely pale. Curtis wasn't sure either of his two brothers had ever had a tan. Burns, yes. Tans, no. They were like their dad that way. Curtis was more like his mom.