Hotel Vendome, Prescott, Arizona (where your life, and perhaps hairstyle, are never the same once you stay here).
“I can’t find the key,” I told Jerry and dumped the contents of my purse on the Victorian carpet of the hotel’s hallway. My wallet, driver’s license, lip gloss, Tic Tac mints, and receipts hit the floor. Jerry stood silently as I searched for our room key, the only one issued to us. Jerry held a luggage bag strapped to his shoulder and a suitcase propped beside him.
“I’ll tell the lady at the front desk,” I said as Jerry continued to stand silently in front of our locked room, number 26. He had a long-suffering, trying-to-understand-how-this-happened expression.
