Chapter 17
The art is gone. The collectors are gone. The Davies have left in a town car. The press have packed their bags and gone to the hotel bar across the street, where drinks are cheaper. The ballroom is an empty square floor, with a tired catering company breaking down folding tables at one end.
I’m at the bar station collecting flutes onto my cart.
My phone buzzes in the apron pocket.
Cade
Are you almost done?
I wipe my hand on the apron. I tap a one-handed reply.
Suzanne
Fifteen min. I'll come up.
I drop the phone back. I stack the flutes — six in a row, three rows deep. I haven’t broken one yet.
A man steps up beside me.
He wears a charcoal suit with good shoes, looking to be in his late 20s. His hands are at his sides. I didn't see him during the event.
"Sorry to interrupt your cleanup."
"It's fine."
"My name is Adrian."
"Oh…hi."
"You're the artist?"
I look at him. The artist? No one in this hotel calls me an artist. Only the housekeeper from floor eight, the girl who works the penthouse rotation.
"Why do you say that?"
"I saw you talking with Eli Brandt and Cade Nightingale earlier. I drew the obvious conclusion."
"Mmm…"
"Are you?"
I shrug. "Not officially. I make some sketches and paint when I can."
He smiles. "Perfect."
"Perfect?"
He nods. "Yes. I scout for emerging talent. I run a small representation arm. I'd love to look at your portfolio when you have a moment."
He hands me a card.
I take it. It is a heavy card of cream paper with black type, listing Adrian, a phone number, and an email address at a domain I don't recognize, but there is no company name, no title, and no address.
"Did Cade send you?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"He doesn't know I'm here. He doesn't know I've spoken to you."
"And you don't want him to?"
"I'd prefer to start a conversation with you on its own terms. If there's a conversation to be had at all. The number is good. Call when you've made up your mind."
I look at the card, then back at him. I put the card in my apron pocket.
"Thank you."
He nods once and walks away.
I watch him cross the ballroom and disappear through the door at the far end, and I keep my hand against the apron pocket where the card is until the door has closed behind him.
I take my hand off the pocket, and I go back to the flutes.
That was strange.
The side door opens, and Roger comes in.
He is not alone.
He has the assistant manager from the front desk with him. Devon wears a navy blazer with a gold pin on the lapel and has a tense, uncomfortable expression as if he doesn’t want to be a witness and wishes he were home.
Roger is moving fast, holding a clipboard.
He stops 3 ft. from me and pitches his voice loud enough for Devon to hear.
"Ms. Jenkins, there are concerns about your conduct at tonight's event."
"What? What are you talking about? What concerns?"
"A guest has reported inappropriate contact with one of the guests tonight. Hallway cameras have been reviewed. The Cresswell takes fraternization with guests extremely seriously."
"That doesn’t make any sense."
"I’m terminating your employment effective immediately."
The roaring in my ears starts at the back of my skull and works forward.
The catering staff at the other end of the room stop what they're doing. Carmen is in the doorway behind Roger. Carmen has a cleaning rag in one hand. Carmen's mouth is open.
Frank comes around the corner from the lobby and crosses the floor faster than I have ever seen Frank move. He stops at Roger's elbow.
"Roger."
"Frank."
"This is not the time for this."
"This is precisely the time for this. I'm terminating — "
"Roger, step out of the ballroom with me. Now."
"You will step away from me, Frank, or I will be terminating you tonight as well."
Frank's mouth closes and he looks at me.
He tries to do something about this, and I see him register the calculation, but he takes one step back.
It is not his fault.
He has worked in this hotel longer than anyone. He has a wife and a granddaughter. He has a pension that will not survive a termination for cause.
I look down at the floor.
Roger is talking again.
"I'll need your ID badge. You will collect your personal belongings from your locker. Security will escort you off the premises."
I don’t move or speak.
The door to the ballroom opens.
Cade walks in.
He is in the same suit he was in earlier. He doesn’t hurry.
Roger sees him. He straightens, and his mouth opens.
Cade crosses the floor. He doesn’t look at Roger and doesn’t acknowledge that Roger is in the room. He stops in front of me, reaches out, and takes my hand.
He doesn’t say anything.
He turns and walks me toward the door.
Devon steps aside. Roger doesn’t know what to do with his face.
I’m still holding the champagne flute. I set it down on the corner of a folding table as we pass it. The small chime of the base on the wood is the only sound in the room.
Carmen looks up from the table, and Frank is behind us somewhere.
We are in the lobby.
On the private elevator, he swipes his card, and the doors open. He pulls me inside. The doors close. He hasn’t spoken once since he walked in. Things move so quickly.
The numbers go up.
I’m shaking, and it’s not because of the temperature.
He takes me to the suite and unlocks the door. He walks me to the couch, sits me down, and kneels in front of me.
"Suzanne, are you okay?"
I don’t answer. It all goes by in a blur.
"Look at me."
I look at him.
"I’m going to handle it. Just sit here and breathe. It's going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it. I’m going to make a few phone calls. Do you understand?"
I nod.
He stands and takes out his phone.
The next forty minutes are the worst of my life, and I'm barely in them.
I sit on the couch and watch him pace. He paces from one end of the suite to the other and back again with the phone at his ear.
He’s speaking in a tone I don’t recognize.
It’s clipped. It’s specific. He says a name I think is an investment bank.
He's throwing out phrases like "term sheet," "close of business tomorrow," and "I don't care what it costs.
" Then he demands the controlling interest tonight and the owner's contact now.
My hands are in my lap. The shaking has moved to my knees.
I’ve been fired and now have no income starting tomorrow morning.
I have some savings in a credit union account, but I can’t think clearly.
"Henry." I hear him say.
I don’t know who Henry is. I watch his face. His mouth softens, and his jaw loosens at the same time. For one second, the combination makes him look unrecognizable.
He walks to the window, and his voice goes low.
I hear pieces of their conversation.
"Appreciate that… No, I know… How is she?"
There was a long pause. His hand comes up and rests flat against the glass.
"Alright. Yes, I'll be there."
He stays at the window for three seconds after the call ends and puts the phone in his pocket.
He turns back to me. He does not explain.
He makes two more calls. The last one is shorter. He tells the person on the other end, "It is done." He tells them to process the transition first thing in the morning. He tells them he wants Roger Tate out of the building by the start of the morning shift. No severance. No negotiation.
He ends the call and sits down beside me.
"It's done."
He takes my hand, pulls me up off the couch, and walks me back through the private elevator, through the lobby, to the ballroom.
Roger is still there.
He is standing by the cart I left with the half-broken-down bar. Carmen is at the far end with the catering staff. Frank is at the corner of the room. The whole staff has somehow found a reason to be in this room in the last forty minutes.
I don’t know how to look at any of them, but I keep my eyes on Roger.
Cade doesn’t raise his voice.
"Roger."
"Mr. Nightingale."
"As of approximately three minutes ago, the Cresswell's controlling ownership was transferred. Your employment is terminated."
"You can't…"
"You have until the end of the shift to collect your personal belongings. If you contact any member of this staff directly or indirectly, the new ownership will pursue you for breach of nondisclosure."
Roger's face has gone a color I've never seen on a person before.
He opens his mouth.
"Roger." Cade does not look away. "This is the third strike. I told you it would require more than an apology."
He turns and walks me out of the ballroom.
I don’t look back.
We are in the suite.
I sit on the couch, and Cade is on the armchair across from me. The shaking has stopped, but my hands are cold.
"You don't need to worry. I have you — rent, bills, whatever the gap is — until you decide what you want to do."
"No, Cade. I'm going to figure it out."
"Suzanne…"
"I'm not going to let you pay my rent. I’ve been taking care of myself since I was eighteen, and I didn’t need anyone’s help then. I’m not starting now."
He looks at me for a long second and doesn’t push.
"Okay."
He is quiet for a long moment.
"One of the calls I took earlier. That was Henry, my stepfather."
I wait.
"My father's funeral is this week. I wasn't going, but Henry asked me to come. He never asks me for anything ever, but he has that voice — the kind of father you can't say no to. So I'm going to go, and I want you to come with me."
I look at him and sit with it.
His eyes are tired, like he's been carrying my burdens as his own, refusing to let me see the weight of it.
I put my hand on his.
"Yes."
He breathes out and brings my hand up to his mouth. He presses his lips against the back of my knuckles and keeps it there for a second.
Then slowly, I see what I have just agreed to.
I’m going to a funeral with him, to be on his arm in a row of people who knew his father, who know his mother, who know his brother, who will look at me and ask who I am.
I’m going to be his in public — in front of his family.
We are no longer a secret, the two of us.
But what has been growing in my chest all this time is not what I expected. It is not fear, though I have known fear like a second skin, and it is not panic. This is something else entirely, softer and far steadier, a gentle warmth.
Against every odd in front of me, I'm somehow happy.