— Dizzy Dean, pitcher “I don’t think James liked you,” Suzanna said as Tim shoved the key card in the door of their suite ninety minutes later. “Who?” “James, Tim. The guy who sold you this rock I didn’t ask for but am very happy to be wearing.” “Oh, you mean Jim. I didn’t notice,” he said, pushing open the door. “Wow! Would you look at this, Suze. You could bowl in here.” Suzanna stayed where she was, entertaining thoughts of Tim carrying her over the threshold, then gave it up as another girlish dream that had bitten the dust. “Let’s see,” she said, walking past him, through the massive foyer, and into a huge round room with raised platforms, marble pillars, enough gilt to redo the dome at Notre Dame, and a sea of white couches. “You’re right. Wow.” “The manager told me it’s usually reserved for high rollers,” Tim said, walking around, opening doors, peeking down hallways. “And how about that view?” he commented, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city, all the way to the mountains.
