Page 30 of Maid of Dishonor
Not just orange, though—while the thick carpet is that burnt orange color, there are also avocado-green accents here and there, primarily in the clusters of retro furniture that dot the space. A few very square chairs are lumped together in one corner of the room to form a little sitting area, and several long, green velvet couches line another wall. The couches are low to the ground and look horribly uncomfortable; I’m tempted to try them out just to see. Two shorter couches are placed to either side of the fireplace, too, but these sofas aren’t green; they’re brown.
I drift in the direction of these couches; partly because I want to see if they’re as uncomfortable as I suspect but also because I want to take a look at the gallery wall above each one.
“The walls,” Carter whispers, and I understand what he means immediately. The walls are paneled with wood, lending a claustrophobic darkness to the space despite the overhead lights and the floor lamps placed intermittently here and there.
“Do you see now?” I say over my shoulder as I make my way to the brown sofas. “Do you see why we had to come see this place?” It’s so delightfully outrageous, in all the best ways.
He just nods, speechless. The corners of his lips hitch into a grin when I smile at him, though, and it’s so beautiful that my heart hurts.
Carter remains pretty much silent for the rest of our sixties exploration, more dumbstruck than anything else. I can’t blame him; it’s a lot to take in.
After the sixties room is what looks like some sort of Moroccan theme, or maybe more fantastical Middle Eastern; I get major Aladdin vibes from the rich purples and golds as well as the not-quite-Taj-Mahal-but-close silhouette painted on one wall. There’s a false ceiling of draped purple fabric with gold tassels. It’s not my thing, but it’s honestly pretty cool. There are large, plush cushions arranged in two corners of the room—clearly a sitting area—and there’s no actual furniture in the entire place.
“Oh!” Carter says, nudging my arm as we both just stare around, our jaws hanging open. “Arabian Nights, maybe. That might be the theme.”
I nod vigorously, realizing he could be right.
The third themed room—and the room where our guide finally catches up with us— undeniably portrays the four seasons. Each corner depicts one of them, and I find myself in awe of the elaborate murals on each wall. Spring is easily my favorite, because it’s colorful and whimsical, but honestly, they’re all beautiful.
Carter has gravitated toward the winter/fall half of the room when the doors bang open, and we both whirl around.
The lady approaching us couldn’t possibly smile any wider than she already is; I would normally think a smile that big is faked, but incredibly it looks genuine. She might just be one of those perpetually happy people.
I wish I were one of those.
“Hello,” she says, shaking each of our hands in turn. “I’m Bethany; it’s nice to meet you both.”
We smile politely and introduce ourselves, and then I link my elbow through Carter’s again, maybe because being next to someone so effusive is intimidating. So I stand there next to him, resting my head on his shoulder, while Bethany jumps right in and starts telling us both about the history of this place as well as each of the rooms.
Bethany is a talker. Eventually, though, she does take a breath before asking us a question.
“When’s the big day?” she says, beaming.
“Uh, we’re not sure yet,” Carter says with a sigh, and I’m glad he holds off on telling this very bubbly woman that his goal is to stop the wedding completely.
“Well, our waiting list only goes out about three weeks—we get a lot of retirement parties here—so you have plenty of open space after that. You might need to move more quickly if you’d like to book any of our entertainers, though.”
“Entertainers?” I say, because that shows promise.
Bethany nods. “We contract out with several different entertainers. There’s a lovely string quartet we use, often for events like weddings”—she nods at us—“but we also contract with a princess company, which allows us to bring princess lookalikes to kids’ fundraisers and things. There’s also an Elvis impersonator,” she says with a big smile. “He’s wonderful.”
My eyes widen as I squeeze Carter’s arm. “An Elvis impersonator,” I say—perfectly in tandem with him saying the exact same thing.
Bethany’s nose scrunches a little as she smiles, looking at us. “You two are just precious together.”
Silence.
Then—oh.Oh. She thinks—oh.
Because our arms are linked and my head is resting on his shoulder. Right. I can see where she got that.
“Oh, no,” Carter and I both say at the same time. We move in unison, unlinking our arms and putting a bit of space between us.
“We’re not—” I begin.
“It’s not for—” he says at the same time.
“Not us,” I say, my voice just above an embarrassed, strangled whisper.
