Katie Melynn

ROMAN PLUNGE POOL

The trouble with vacationing at the Del Monte Lodge was that everyone there was also on vacation. It was exhausting to be surrounded by so many watery women and men, dressed in white sweaters and shorts that never stained, who sipped on gin rickies just because they liked the way the words came fizzing out of their mouths as they ordered and laughed.

Fortunately, Lewis P. Hobart wasn’t on vacation. He walked past the guests queuing in front of the hotel’s six Chrysler Imperial 80s that were set to drive over to the property’s forest. Ladies dressed in pressed khaki trousers and jackets adjusted their cloche hats, while men made every effort not to stare at their scandalous silhouettes, their legs and rears momentarily lifted as they climbed into the cars. Even in 1926, women in trousers was not a sight often seen among the general public. It was only at this playground of the rich and famous that women were bold enough to try and men were rich and powerful enough to let them. Lewis walked past the hunting party, his steps echoing with authority as he trotted up the still pristine white steps, stepped under the shaded cover, and strode towards the heavy brass double doors.

“Mr. Hobart, nice to see you today.” The doorman tipped his hat just enough at the architect without the unnatural and overdone half-bow that Lewis had seen him give to actual guests of the hotel. 

Lewis nodded his approval, grateful that the staff recognized him as a man apart from the vacationing packs. “Yes, nice to see you as well, Martin.” 

Lewis walked inside, his eyes scanning the lobby’s alcoves. The Spanish tile floor gleamed with the welcome of a fresh, new building and wall frescoes showed scenes of the nearby cities of Monterey, Pacific Grove, and Pebble Beach. He walked over to a young man with a straight back standing near the massive 15-foot window overlooking the Roman plunge pool and exquisite green lawn.

“You really are a gem, Hobart,” the man said. 

“Sir?”

“A true gem,” he repeated. The dark velvet curtains that framed the massive window cast a shadow on his lined face. He stood a few inches taller than Hobart but seemed even more so, even with a hand resting casually in his pocket and a sportsman’s hat held at his side.

“I like to think so, Mr. Morse.” 

The two men stood side by side. Presidents had spent the night within the Lodge’s walls. Movie stars walked the grounds alongside business tycoons between rounds of golf and hunting, which Morse had taken great care to cultivate since purchasing the property just seven years before.

“The dedication of the new hotel tomorrow has to be perfect, Hobart. We’re still reeling from the fire, although it may have turned out to be a blessing. This new building you designed is perfect, fella, just absolutely perfect.”

Turning to gaze around the grand foyer, Lewis couldn’t help but agree. The hotel was the playground of the rich and powerful, the crowning jewel of the Del Monte Lodge property. He had designed it to be a beacon on the often foggy peninsula as he drove down from his rented home, from the gleaming white plaster on the exterior to the red tile roof.

Lewis shifted next to Mr. Morse as the older man took a few steps to the center of the window. Side by side, they stared out past the long green lawn, now empty, to the pool. Guests lounged under a white trellis cabana, their cheery faces reflected in the pool’s serene, blue water and their laughter echoing through the roman columns and red brick walls of the patio.

Not bad for a life’s work, thought Lewis. Turning away from Morse, he pulled a handwritten prescription from his pocket. He hadn’t taken it to be filled yet, hadn’t even told his wife that he had been to see the doctor. Lewis had just listened quietly as the doctor described extensive treatments, a strict diet regimen, and even seeing a specialist in San Francisco. Then Lewis had tucked the prescription, jotted down in the illegible hand decipherable only to the pharmacist, into his coat pocket, and followed the familiar lanes that curved towards the hotel he had poured so much of his heart into over the last years.

With the prescription still in hand, Lewis walked onto the terrace by the lawn, stepping aside as a pair of young girls pranced inside. Their wet footprints were already drying from the hot concrete path from the pool. Lewis walked in their disappearing steps, his well-heeled shoes sounding a staccato cadence. The girls had stepped as lightly and soundlessly as the small deer that the others had gone to hunt.

The water of the Roman plunge pool glistened in the unexpected California sun. The fog that rolled across the peninsula from the bay normally kept the air moist and the plants green, but brought little warmth to the faces of the seaside town’s few residents or many guests. Lewis let his hat fall to the ground. With the toes of his right foot, he pushed on the heel of his left shoe until he felt the air reach his foot, now free of the binding leather. He did the same with his right shoe.

Lewis looked back across the velvety green lawn towards the grandeur of the hotel. He could vaguely make out Mr. Morse, standing still as a statue, surveying for all eternity the reality that had been his grand dream. Faceless guests rested on cushioned lawn chairs on the pool’s patio, while others passed their time walking through the Lodge’s gardens. The hunting party had long departed for the forest, the cars full of bustling life.

The architect stared down at the tile and marble body of the pool. Taking a deep breath and still holding the paper in his hand, Lewis jumped and let the sun-warmed salt water wash over him.