Yesterday—Thursday—had started out so nicely, too, a beautiful sunny day in mid-April. I finished court early, ran a couple of errands, and by the time I finally left Dobbs, I knew I was going to be hitting High Point around rush hour, but hey, there are rush hours and then there are rush hours, right?
High Point’s about a hundred miles west of Dobbs. The only time I’d actually driven through it was a few summers back when my friend Kiernan was visiting from California and was suddenly seized by a desire to see Old Salem. We were talking so hard when we got to the I-85/I-40 split at Greensboro that I took the wrong fork and was on my way to Charlotte before Kiernan, who was supposed to be navigating, caught it. To get over to Winston-Salem, I had to cut back through High Point.
I remembered a sleepy main section though, about six blocks wide and four or five blocks deep, with a lot of furniture stores sitting on broad streets that were mostly oneway. (“There aren’t enough cars on these streets to justify stoplights,” Kiernan had said, “so why all the one-ways?”) With a total population of seventy thousand or so, how bad could its rush hour be?
As soon as I exited off of I-85 onto Main Street, I found out.
Ten minutes past five and judging by the way cars and buses were streaming away from midtown, Pharaoh had just said, “I’ll let you people go,” and the children of Israel were rushing toward the Red Sea as if pursued by locusts and serpents.
Where were all these people coming from? Too late for basketball, too early for football, and the Greater Greensboro Open wouldn’t start for another week or two. Besides, from what I could see of the shirts and ties and conservative suit jackets on the people inching past, they weren’t dressed like golf enthusiasts, who tend to favor green blazers or turquoise and coral knits.
At the Atrium Inn, inbound traffic was held up while an outbound bus in the opposite lane disgorged at least a dozen passengers who blithely crossed against the light, heading for the motel. The men mostly wore business suits and wingtips, several of the women wore sneakers with their suits or business dresses. All seemed to carry heavy briefcases and notebook computer bags.
When I got to the Radisson Hotel, the parking attendant tried to wave me off, but I slid into an Unloading Only space near the front entrance.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he began, “but you can’t—”
“It’s Judge,” I said firmly. “And I am unloading just as soon as I register.”
As I headed for the main door, I caught a glimpse of early revelers standing with drinks in hand on a bricked patio that probably connected to a bar. Five-thirty on a Thursday evening? When did sleepy little High Point turn into a party town?
I threaded my way through milling clumps of people to the front desk, where a slender black clerk gave me a slightly frazzled smile when I set my purse on her pink marble counter and told her I wanted to register.
“Your reservation confirmation number, ma’am?”
“Well, actually, I don’t have a reservation,” I admitted.
“No reservation?”
In retrospect, I can appreciate how very well trained the Radisson staff is. Her jaw didn’t drop, she did not tear at her stylish French twist, nor did she break into gales of laughter. Instead, she gave me a look of such commiseration that I almost expected her to pat my hand. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re full. It’s Market Week, you know.”
“Market Week?” I asked blankly, having heard the capital letters in her tone.
“The International Home Furnishings Market.”
Furnishings. As in furniture. As in that large gold-framed drawing on the wall behind her. It showed, in cutaway detail, how a massive credenza of Italian Renaissance origin had been replicated for mass marketing by a local company.
“Ma’am, this week’s been booked solid for months. In fact, most of our rooms were reserved last year.”
I read the gold name tag pinned to her neat navy blue blazer.
“Listen, Marilyn,” I said, using my best just-us-girls-together tone, “I really do need a room. I’m a district court judge and I’m supposed to hold court here tomorrow morning.”
Marilyn was unmoved. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“Perhaps you’ll get a cancellation?”
The gold hoops in Marilyn’s ears swung sympathetically as she shook her head.
“Even if we did, our waiting list is pretty long. Why don’t you try the Chamber of Commerce’s housing bureau? They might could fix you up with something in a private house.” She glanced at the clock. “You’ll have to hurry though. I think they close at five-thirty.”
It was now 5:35, but she said the housing bureau was only a mile or so further along Main Street. “And sometimes they stay open a little later at the beginning of Market.”
She gave me more specific directions, which I took rather reluctantly.
A room in someone’s house? A sofa bed in someone’s living room? Having to make small talk for the next six or eight days?
I didn’t think so.
It was moot anyhow. By the time I got to the housing bureau, it was closed.
No big deal, I thought. So the Radisson was filled. There were other hotels.
“You don’t have a reservation?” the clerk at the Holiday Inn asked incredulously. “In Market Week?”
The receptionist at the turquoise-and-pink Super 8 Motel suggested that I call the housing bureau. “They can usually come up with something.”
I pointed out that the housing bureau was closed for the day.
“Oh, but it’ll be open first thing tomorrow,” she assured me cheerfully as she bustled away to help guests lucky enough to have confirmed reservations.
The Atrium Inn sports faux marble frescoes, a small waterfall, and a wonderfully tacky statue of King Neptune, even though High Point is two hundred miles from the ocean. But I could have been a mermaid with starfish pasties and it wouldn’t have helped me one iota, because guess what?
“It’s Market Week,” said the manager to whom I appealed after the front desk turned me away. He spoke slowly and distinctly, as if I might be four oysters short of a peck. “You’d probably have to go forty miles to find a vacancy this week.”
I co-opted a phone book at a second-story food court down the street and carried it over to an empty table, determined to prove him wrong. Several phone calls later, I realized he’d sadly underestimated. Some of the national chains had rooms available in Durham or Charlotte, both at least seventy miles away. Nothing in Greensboro or Winston.
“They must be having a big convention or something in that area,” the 1-800 Reservations person for Embassy Suites apologized. “We’re showing full occupancy through next Wednesday.”
Now I’m not a complete ignoramus. I do know that High Point is probably the center of the state’s enormous furniture industry—that’s the main reason I took this assignment. I’ve finally decided to get a house of my own and I figured I could spend the weekend browsing stores and pick up some ideas about styles, colors and prices.
And yeah, I’d heard of the Southeastern Furniture Market before it went international and changed its name, but it didn’t affect me or anybody I knew so I never paid it much attention. I certainly had no idea it was so huge that it could take over the whole Triad.
As I slid my new flip phone back into my purse, I was beginning to have second thoughts about that sofa bed in someone’s living room. If there truly was no room at the inn for me, I’d have to scrap the idea of shopping and instead drive back home tomorrow night and see if I could talk Aunt Sister into letting me borrow her RV for the week, assuming I could get away with parking it beside the courthouse for that long.