Mrs. Harlow asked the manager to bring the reservation records.
He immediately turned toward the reception desk.
"Please get the file."
The clerk began typing.
His fingers moved too quickly.
He made a mistake.
Then another.
Mrs. Harlow watched him.
"Slow down."
He stopped.
"Yes, ma'am."
Dad was standing beside her now.
Mom had moved closer to him.
I noticed that he was still holding the little key card for room 212.
He turned it over in his fingers.
A meaningless piece of plastic.
But I couldn't stop looking at it.
That was what the hotel had decided my parents deserved.
After fifty years of marriage.
After everything they had once meant to this building.
A room beside an ice machine.
Mrs. Harlow looked toward the piano again.
"Frankie, do you still remember the evenings?"
Dad smiled.
"Some of them."
"Three years."
"Almost."
"Six nights a week."
"That sounds about right."
She looked at him with a sadness I couldn't understand.
"You never missed a Friday."
Dad gave a quiet laugh.
"Unless I was sick."
"You played even when you were sick."
Mom shook her head.
"He did."
For a moment, the hotel seemed to disappear around them.
They were talking about something that had happened long before I was born.
I stood nearby, listening.
Mrs. Harlow asked whether Dad still played at home.
"Sometimes."
"Every week?"
"Not anymore."
He looked down at his hands.
"They don't move quite like they used to."
Mrs. Harlow studied his fingers.
"They still know the music."
Dad didn't answer.
Then she turned toward Mom.
"And you were working the lounge?"
Mom nodded.
"Serving tables."
"I remember you."
Mom looked surprised.
"You do?"
"Of course."
Mrs. Harlow smiled.
"You were always carrying too many things at once."
Mom laughed through her tears.
"I thought I was very good at it."
"You were terrible at carrying coffee."
Everyone near us heard that.
Even Dad laughed.
It was the first genuine laugh I had heard since we entered the hotel.
Mrs. Harlow looked toward the reception desk.
The clerk had finished retrieving the reservation information.
He approached with a printed sheet.
She took it.
I couldn't see everything on the paper.
But I could see the dates.
The original reservation.
The room category.
The payment confirmation.
Then she looked at the manager.
"Tell me about the other guests."
He cleared his throat.
"They are frequent visitors."
"That isn't an answer."
"They have stayed here several times."
"And?"
"They requested the suite."
Mrs. Harlow looked at the paper.
"After this reservation had already been confirmed?"
The manager said nothing.
She continued.
"Did they offer you additional money?"
He shifted his feet.
"They expressed their appreciation for our staff."
"With money?"
His silence answered her.
I looked at my sister.
She was no longer trying to hide her anger.
The manager finally spoke.
"They are generous guests. We value long-term relationships."
Mrs. Harlow folded the paper.
"Apparently, you value them more than your confirmed reservations."
He looked embarrassed.
But I didn't see regret.
Not yet.
Mrs. Harlow asked for the name of the employee who had changed the booking.
The manager pointed toward the clerk.
The clerk looked as if he might disappear through the floor.
"He processed it," the manager said.
Mrs. Harlow looked directly at him.
"Did you make the decision?"
The clerk shook his head.
"No, ma'am."
"Who did?"
He looked at the manager.
The manager's jaw tightened.
"I authorized the reassignment."
Mrs. Harlow nodded.
"Good."
The manager looked relieved.
I didn't understand why.
Then she continued.
"Now we know who is responsible."
His expression changed again.
She handed the paper to someone standing behind her.
"Keep that record. Don't change anything."
The employee nodded.
Mrs. Harlow looked back at Dad.
"Frankie, I owe you an apology."
Dad shook his head.
"You don't owe me anything."
"Yes, I do."
She looked around the lobby.
"I should have known what was happening here."
Dad glanced at the piano.
Then at her.
"People get old. Buildings change."
Mrs. Harlow's eyes filled.
"Some things shouldn't change."
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: My Mother Finally Told Me Why That Song Had Been Banned, and I Realized the Piano Was Carrying a Memory None of Us Had Known How to Ask About
I Thought Our Parents Deserved One Perfect Anniversary, Until We Found Them Sitting Beside Their Suitcases in the Hotel Lobby
Part 6 of 20
