Always Is Not Forever
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"Ferral," she said briskly, offering me her outstretched hand, "Natalie Ferral." Her handshake was firm but she was distant and cold. Her honey-blond hair was combed back into a severe French twist. She wasn’t wearing any makeup or jewelry. Natalie was wearing the same Biltmore suit as the clerk at the front desk; however, hers was perfectly tailored, flattering her slender boyish figure. Only her nametag acknowledged her superior status. "I'm going to be very direct, Ms. Wilson. I don't like surprises, and I don't like complications. The reason your key-card didn’t fit is because you are not a guest in this hotel. I’ve double-checked our August reservations as well as today's roster. No one by the name of Wilson or Hanover made prior reservations for any room in this hotel and particularly not for the Everglades Suite. It is a specialty suite that’s booked months in advance and commands a minimum of $2,000 a night." "But Maggie checked us in . . ." She cut me off, abruptly. "I don't know how I can make this any plainer; you are not registered in this hotel. I'm sorry, Ms. Wilson, but I'm late for a meeting. My advice to you is to give up this stupid game you're playing, and either check in or get out." One thing I learned a long time ago: "Free advice cost too much," and right now, I couldn’t afford to lose. It took a supreme battle of wills and a missed meeting, but I finally convinced "miss No-nonsense Natalie" to let me at least see the inside of the Everglades Suite. She finally acquiesced by waving me over to the Concierge, who in turn, foisted me off on an unsuspecting bellman. He gave me a weak smile as we rode the elevator to the well-guarded tower. After so many trips to the tower, I was beginning to feel like most of the wives of King Henry the VIII. ********** "But Madame, as you can plainly see, there is nothing of yours to be found in either bedroom. In fact, the Everglades Suite has not been occupied for two months." The rooms were barren, empty of everything except the traditional furniture. The bellman modulated his words as if I were an infant in diapers. I wanted to slap him. "Of course, I can see the rooms are empty!" I replied, my temper flaring. "But I was in this suite earlier this afternoon. There were orchids everywhere and champagne and chocolates and luggage . . . Oh, my God! Where is my luggage?" The bellman coughed nervously. "Please calm yourself, Miss, ah . . . Miss, ah . . ." We hadn't been formally introduced and I wasn't wearing one of those handy name tags. "Wilson," I snapped. A My name is Allison Wilson." "Eduardo, is it?" I said, checking his name tag, "now tell me Eduardo, would you be calm if your luggage had disappeared? And Maggie Hanover; where the hell is Maggie?" "Quien esta Maggie?" "Who is Maggie?" I repeated venomously. Eduardo obviously reverted back to his native tongue when he was subjected to someone behaving as ill tempered and irrational as I appeared to be. A terrible sorrow and a hideous rage threatened to consume me; no matter how I pushed, I was unable to move past it. "Maggie is Mary-Margaret Hanover, that's who! She checked in with me." That name he knew. He must have been briefed. "I assure you, Madam, we have no one by that name registered in this hotel." He sounded so much like Natalie Ferrall, I wanted to scratch his eyes out. "Yes you do, God damn it, you most certainly do! Maggie and I were married today and this is my wedding ring." I waved the fingers of my left hand in front of his astonished face. "And this is my honeymoon suite!" Bitter tears were beginning to fall. His jaw dropped open while his eyes widened in amazement. "Never mind." I said morosely, "If I repeated my story in Castilian Spanish, you still wouldn’t understand." I sat down on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, sobbing uncontrollably. After what seemed like only a few minutes, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. In my wretched state, I had lost all track of time. "Please madame," he said, backing away, "I am so sorry to intrude, but I must, with great respect, ask you to vacate these rooms. This suite is reserved for the Clara Perez wedding. The bridal party is due to arrive momentarily. Clara Elsa is to be married in the Granada Ballroom this evening and the reception will be held in the Alhambra. It has a wonderfully coffered ceiling." Did I need to hear architectural details at a time like this? Or was Eduardo, in his simple way, just trying to comfort me? Whichever it was, I was in no mood for nice. "You've got to be kidding," I said, incredulously, "Another bride reserved this suite? Another bride will sleep in this bed tonight? My wedding bed? At that split second in time, everything I had ever believed in turned dark and distorted.
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About the Book
Always Is Not Forever
Following the death of her husband in another woman's bed, Allison finds herself with a large inheritance, angry in-laws and a desire to find the woman of her dreams. Onto the scene, in front of Allison's seaside cottage, gallops Maggie Hanover on a majestic steed. And Maggie Hanover wants Allison.
The seductive Maggie sweeps Allison into a whirlwind courtship that easily sways her into a Holy Union with a honeymoon stay at the famous Everglades Suite on the thirteenth floor of the Biltmore Hotel in wealthy Coral Gables, Florida. But the nuptial bliss is suddenly interrupted by Maggie' s sudden disappearance. Dismayed and distrusting, Allison sets out to find Maggie. Has she been had or has Maggie been kidnapped? Will her riches disappear with the woman who calls herself Mary-Margaret Hanover?
A naive but desperate Allison finds solace in consulting with her spirit guides "Pops" and "Grandfeathers" who have been advising her since childhood. She finds comfort and subtle clues in their riddles and musings. But when "Pops" tells her that "Maggie stinks," because "If your mother is an onion and your father is a garlic, how could you possibly smell good?", Allison refuses to believe him.
Whom can she trust? Finally Allison confides in BJ MacPhearson, a hotel guest she surmises to be a savvy dyke. As the story unravels, Allison consults with a "tough tomatoes" Latin private investigator and befriends Kenji, a handsome hotel concierge. And what clue does the magical Justin Jones hold as he repeatedly appears in the most unlikely places? And what about the legend of the Biltmore hotel with its many ghosts? Should Allison pay more attention to their interventions?
As Allison sheds her naive perspective after several death attempts, clues appear to fall in her lap. Why does a woman whom she meets in a bar look like Maggie's double until she turns up dead? And why does the real Mary-Margaret Hanover, a psychiatrist on the west coast of Florida, look nothing like Maggie? Exactly who is Maggie and what would she gain by Allison's death?
The author has an uncanny skill for manipulating the reader down blind alleys and maze-like pathways to the point where the reader becomes totally enmeshed in the suspense. She leads the reader to believe that they have solved the mystery early on until the ending arrives with mind-boggling surprise. A brisk and sexy read, Always Is Not Forever is a tantalizing, well-researched mystery of deception and new love.
About the Author
Patti Peal is an award-winning writer and photographer who brings a strong dose of reality to her full-length novel. Her insights were gleaned from her experiences as a psychotherapist in private practice and a consultant to psychiatric hospitals. Through these first hand experiences, she has created a psychologically intricate, haunting, and perverse work of modern fiction. Dr. Peal resides in southern Florida with a ponytail palm and a gecko she can’t get rid of. She is currently working on her second suspense thriller, You and No Other.