was still waiting.

He had moved toward an umbrella like plant with speckled stems and large pink flowers when he heard a voice from behind him.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

He turned and came face to face with a woman who could only be described as elegant. Somewhere in her fifties, he guessed. Cheekbones that could cut glass and a full head of silver hair pulled back in a tight twist. She was wearing a plain black dress that reached down to just above her ankles but her carriage made it seem like it could've been a couture gown.

"It's called amorphophallus bulbifer," she said, her warm voice trailing as she passed him to carefully inspect the blooms. "Otherwise known as the voodoo lily. They aren't really indigenous, I don't think. They were brought here from the Himalayas." She pointed to some cream colored flowers. "These are brunfelsia Americana or Lady of the Night from the West Indies. And that one over there," she continued, "with the long whiskers is from India, the very rare tacca integrifolia or the White Bat."

"Yes," he concurred. "They are beautiful."

"She had these shipped from all over."

"She?" he asked.

"The reclusive owner of this hotel of course," she replied glancing up to one of the windows on the upper floor before looking straight at him. "She had been a great opera singer in Europe, you know, although her career was rather short lived. But in that all too brief moment she was known to make grown men and women weep loudly in theaters with her vocal color and unique timbre. Her signature role was Lucia di Lamermoor although she didn't have the traditional high soprano sound most often associated with the role."

"That explains the name of the hotel," he exclaimed.

She looked at him with an arched brow. "Very clever. Yes, that's why the hotel is thus named."

"What happened to her? I mean, why was her career short lived?"

"A man," she replied.

"Isn't it always?" he countered with a none too subtle sigh.

"Yes," she smiled broadly. "Isn't it?" Marc followed her move to another pot with a profusion of crimson flowers. "She had many suitors though, among them Giovanni Boldini."

"The society portraitist?" he inquired.

She gave him an odd look before continuing, "You must forgive me for underestimating you. It's unusual to find sophistication in one so young."

"It's I who should be sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."

She waved his apology aside and settled down on a wicker chair he hadn't noticed earlier. "Boldini actually painted her. So did others, Augustus John, Federico Beltran y Masses. I believe the Boldini is the only piece remaining and it's said to be still up there on a wall in her room. But no matter the number of paintings, the adoring fans, she had eyes for but one man."

Marc felt a twinge from the distinctly familiar sentiment. He recalled the few fleeting moments he had spent with Josh, conversations of things safe and inconsequential, each one serving only to fuel his callow yearning, a yearning that had yet to truly abate.

"He was the son of a Count. A breathtakingly beautiful male specimen, he was. On that everyone agreed."

Marc thought about seeing Josh on campus, casting surreptitious glances his way if they happened to be