I’ll save us a seat at the front of the ballroom. The envelope, when she finally found it, said otherwise. The last time Melissa had been here, she’d been covering the mayor’s victory party for Channel Six. They were virtually stampeding in the direction of the ballroom. Now that she thought about it, the crowd was made up entirely of young women in their twenties and thirties.
Oblivious, a pack of girls streamed past her, a blur of cropped tops and streaked hair. But with Nelly, you never did know.Īs she dug in her jeans pocket for the envelope on which Nelly had scrawled the directions, someone jostled her from behind. Had she misread “Hilton”? What else started with an H? Hooters? That seemed even more unlikely. On Nelly’s birthday, they usually gorged on hot butterscotch sundaes or the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet at the Bombay Deluxe.
She and her grandmother must have gotten their wires crossed. In the crowded lobby of the San Gabriel Hilton, Melissa McGuire stopped dead at the sight of the poster propped on the large easel. The words on the poster were black, the background an orange fireball, and, front and center, a hunky fireman gripped his hose.
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