Don’t Tell (Our Little Secret #1)

Chapter 1

“You’re late.”

Roger Tate is standing in front of the hotel’s staff entrance, blocking my path. His lips are pressed into a thin line, his dark eyes are narrowed, and his arms are folded across his chest. I glance down at my wristwatch, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

The appropriate term for the accessory would be a brown rope with a clock that’s barely working. And when I see the long hand move, I not only know that it’s working today, but I also know I’m five minutes early.

“Not an excuse.” His frown deepens as he adjusts his glasses. “This is a reputable establishment. You should have been here an hour ago. What would the guests think when…”

My eyes move to his bald, sweaty head. I tilt my head and wonder why it’s always that shiny.

I can literally see the sun's reflection on his head.

Roger has an alarming temper for such a small man.

He always seems to be annoyed about something.

After five years of working here, I quickly realized that letting him ramble off is the quickest way to get him to shut up.

“...and you must be on time. Always.”

I nod. “Okay. Can I go in now?”

He shoots me a dirty look from the corner of his eye, but moves aside. I don’t look at him as I walk into the Cresswell hotel. And just as I expected, the hallway is mostly deserted, except for Carmen, standing just a few feet away with a cup of coffee in each hand.

Bless her.

“Good mor-NING!!!” she says as I approach.

Carmen has a face that announces every thought she has ever had.

Round cheeks, a mouth already smiling before her brain has caught up.

Today, her hair is in a bun held together with what looks like three pins and faith.

She got the day off yesterday, and her whole body says so.

“Did Roger give you a tough time?”

“When has he ever not?”

She hands a cup to me.

“Thank you.”

My phone buzzes in my bag. Probably Renée checking in — or my mother. I start reaching for it, then change my mind and decide to check in the locker room, preferably after Carmen leaves.

Not that I have anything against Carmen. I just like to keep my private life separate from work. It’s better that way. Lines or boundaries remain.

She bumps my hip with hers as we walk into the locker room. I leave my bag in my locker, grab my uniform, and move to a corner of the room to change. I slip into the black pants and blue top. I reach up, pull my curly hair into a knot, and secure it with the band on my wrist.

“Ready?”

I hear Carmen ask. I nod, even though she can’t see me yet, and return to my locker. As I do every morning, I put my clothes into the tiny space, take out my phone and sketchbook from my bag, then close it.

An image has been in my head since last night.

More of a memory than an image. It’s one of my favorite memories of Marguerite.

It was the first time she taught me how to bake cookies.

She mixed the cookie dough with me, and we put it in the oven together.

Then she told me she trusted me with the last bit.

I was so nervous about getting it wrong that I left it in the oven for too long. I ended up baking a plate of hard-as-rock cookies. But Marguerite didn’t mind. She ate them with the biggest smile on her face.

I still remember that smile. And today, when I get the chance, I’m going to sketch her.

“I went to that bar in Yountville.” I turn just in time to catch Carmen’s raised eyebrow. I know what she’s thinking. I don’t say anything yet because I know she’s going to tell me. “I figured I’d check it out myself since you adamantly refused to come.”

“I didn’t refuse, Carmen,” I say as we move to the housekeeping office. “I had some painting to do.”

“And I have kids to take care of — that didn’t stop me.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket again. I want to smack myself. I totally forgot to check it in the locker room. My hand dives for my pocket —

"What are you two doing?"

I snap my hands out. Roger stands by the service desk, eyebrows furrowed deep, clutching the schedule. "Don't you have rooms to clean?"

“Good morning to you, too, Roger. We’ll be on our way as soon as you share the schedule.” Carmen points at the clipboard in his hands. “Unless you want to hog it for whatever reason.”

I smile to myself. Carmen never lets Roger get away with anything. Sometimes I wish I were more like her — that I knew how to defend myself. But I doubt she had to deal with a selfish mother. I doubt she had her self-esteem beaten down and lost her confidence as a result.

Roger huffs. He points a tiny finger at me. “Jenkins. You have the Sonoma suite. It needs a deep clean. Make sure you’re done by 10:00 a.m.”

"Yes, Roger."

"Six-twelve has called twice about his breakfast already."

"Yes, Roger."

“And for me?” I hear Carmen ask.

Roger huffs again. “You have seven-fourteen and then seven-fifteen. Both need to be deep-cleaned.”

“Gotcha.”

Across the lobby, Frank Delaney is at the concierge desk with a stack of overnight notes and the same posture he has every morning — hands flat on the wood, shoulders square, gray hair combed straight back. He looks up. He nods. It is the warmest greeting I will get today.

"Jenkins." Roger again, louder than he needs to be. "Are we listening?"

"Sonoma Suite, six-twelve, eight-fourteen."

He smiles like he has won a bet.

I take the sheet. Down the corridor, I stop at the supply closet and load the cart — bleach, microfiber, fresh linens stacked in their tissue, two bottles of the lavender spray the management thinks the guests can smell.

I slip my sketchbook into the bottom of the cart, under the spare cleaning rags, wedged against the side rail so it won't slide.

My phone buzzes for a third time in the elevator to the Sonoma suite. Finally alone, I pull it out of my pocket. I tap the screen, and instantly my fingers freeze as I see the numerous calls and missed calls from that one familiar number — my mother.

I had it saved once. I deleted it after my college funds went missing, but I know it’s her number. I don’t always hear from her, but when I do, it’s never anything good.

The messages stare up at me. I’m not quite sure what to do with them. Delete them, probably. But against my better judgment, I click on one of the messages and read.

Unknown Number

I know you have the money, Suzanne. Don’t you dare ignore your mother.

My hands jerk as I shut my phone. I slip the device into my pocket. She’s not getting a single dime from me. The last time I gave her money, I thought she was dying. She came to me with a sob story and told me she had a lump in her breast and needed money for some tests.

I scraped all my earnings for that month, including tips, and handed them to her.

Only to find out she spent it on a trip to Mexico with her boyfriend.

But what do I expect from her anyway? That mom will love me after all these years?

Fool. She doesn’t love you. She doesn’t even like you.

You’re a means to an end to her. That’s all you are.

It doesn’t take me long to finish cleaning the Sonoma suite.

There was vomit on the grand piano, but honestly, I’ve seen a lot worse.

You see a lot of things when you work at a hotel.

Men cheating on their wives under the guise of a business meeting.

Wives cheating on their husbands with the pool boy or just coming here to hide the mountain of shoes they bought.

I think of myself as a secret keeper. I see things, but I never speak about them. It’s what I’m paid to do.

I stop in front of six-twelve and knock. The door opens to reveal a man who’s red in the face. He’s wearing a robe, and he looks less than pleased to see me. I don't blame him. I can only imagine what I look like after cleaning vomit.

"You're late."

"I apologize, sir."

He folds his arms. "My breakfast is cold and disgusting. How will you fix it?"

"I'll have a fresh order sent up immediately."

"My wife is very upset."

"I'm so sorry, sir."

He looks at me from up to down. "You could smile more."

I smile and think about slamming my cart into his ribs. That makes me feel a lot better. I let out a breath just as he slams the door in my face.

In the elevator, I let the smile go. The doors are brushed steel. The woman looking back is in a housekeeping uniform with her dark hair in a low knot and her hands wrapped around a tray she does not remember picking up. She stares right through me.

Eight-fourteen is a different humiliation.

The woman who answers is on her phone and stays on it.

She waves me in without looking. She paces from the window to the bar and back again, narrating someone else's failure to a person on the other end of the line. For fifteen minutes, I’m stripping her bed and replacing her towels.

She does not look at my face. Six days of cleaning the suite, and she never has.

When I finish, I stand by the door.

"Anything else, ma'am?"

She waves a hand without turning.

Back at the service desk, Roger has his arms folded across his chest and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Six-twelve called again. The replacement breakfast was late.

You will go back personally. You will apologize again.

We don't have careless girls on this floor.

We don't keep replaceable staff. You should be grateful you have this position. "

He says it loud enough that two passing housekeepers turn their heads and immediately turn them back. Carmen, restocking her cart 5 ft. away, makes a small sound through her nose. Roger does not catch it.

I take the second tray.

When I knock on six-twelve again, the man who opens the door is mid-sentence to his wife. He does not stop. He takes the tray. As I'm turning away, he says, "I'll be reviewing your service on the website."

"Of course, sir."