4
I had just entered my room with the daisy-print wallpaper and started travel ritual number one{note 5} when someone banged on my door. Not wanting to talk to anyone, I ignored the knock. If the hotel needed me, they could shove a note under the door. The knocking changed to pounding, a rhythmic thud, like some overworked drum circle reject. My irritation magnified with each drum beat. “Okay, I’m coming,” I said. I turned the knob, preparing an irate statement, but smiled when I saw Michael.
“Took you long enough,” he said, pushing past me, followed by two men and a woman, all of whom I thought I recognized from around town. “Train ride okay? Should’ve let me know what time so I could meet you.”
“I figured you would be pretty busy with the wedding.”
“Well, we’re out to have some fun. Not exactly a bachelor party. Drinks with some guys. And not even all guys.” He pointed to the woman.
“I’m Sherrie–you handled my divorce,” she said.
I nodded, although I didn’t remember her. “I have to phone my office,” I said, lying. “Then go over some notes on a case. I’ll meet you later.”
“Too much work,” Michael said. “That’s not the Patrick Travis I remember.” They left. I waited half an hour, then went out to eat mall food, one of those stupid chain restaurants that make you feel as if you haven’t traveled. Springdale has excellent dining, but that was enough reunions for the day. I drifted around the shopping mall till closing. The anonymity of the place comforted me.