4. Charlotte
— ? —
Charlotte
The house had been my grandmother’s, and I still hadn’t uncovered half the furniture.
I told myself I would get to them eventually. I told myself a lot of things.
The kitchen was mine. I had uncovered that the first week. Pulled the sheets off the table, scrubbed the counters, stocked the cabinets with enough to feed one person who didn’t cook much.
The rest of the house could wait.
The tax bill was on the counter where I had left it three days ago.
I picked it up and read it again, the numbers swimming in front of my eyes.
Property taxes in Newport weren’t cheap, even for a house that needed work, even for a house that had been sitting empty for two years before I showed up with a suitcase and nowhere else to go.
I set it face-down next to the coffee maker and looked out the window at the water.
I finished my coffee and rinsed the mug and left it in the sink.
The drive to work took fifteen minutes along the water, past the big houses on Ocean Drive, past the tourists already gathering on the sidewalks.
Newport in summer was a different animal than Newport in winter.
The Cove was a sixteen-room boutique hotel on Bellevue Avenue, small enough to feel intimate, expensive enough to attract the kind of guests who expected everything to be perfect.
I had gotten the job three weeks after I arrived, back when I was still telling myself this was temporary, back when I still thought I might go home.
I didn’t think that anymore.
The lobby was quiet when I walked in. Kiera was finishing up the night shift, her eyes tired, her ponytail coming loose.
“Anything I should know?” I asked, setting my bag behind the desk.
“Room 7 called twice about the air conditioning,” Kiera said. “I sent maintenance up, but he’s one of those guys. Nothing’s ever fixed enough.”
“I’ll handle it,” I said.
“Also, Mr. Pierce is checking out at eleven. He wants to talk to someone about his bill.”
“What’s wrong with his bill?”
“Nothing,” Kiera said. “He just likes to talk.”
“Got it,” I said.
Kiera gathered her things and headed for the door. I settled in behind the desk and pulled up the day’s reservations on the computer. Twelve rooms occupied, four checking out, three checking in. A manageable day. I liked manageable days.
The lobby doors opened at nine-fifteen, and a man I didn’t recognize walked in with a face like a storm cloud. He was mid-fifties, silver hair, expensive suit, the kind of person who expected the world to arrange itself around his convenience.
“I need to speak to someone about my reservation,” he said, stopping in front of the desk.
“Of course,” I said. “I’d be happy to help. What’s the name?”
“Richard Hartwell. I booked a suite for this weekend, and apparently it’s been given to someone else.”
I pulled up his name in the system. There was no reservation. No booking history at all.
“Mr. Hartwell,” I said, “I’m not seeing a reservation under that name. Is it possible it was booked under a different name, or through a third party?”
“I booked it myself,” he said, his voice rising. “Three weeks ago. I spoke to someone on the phone. A woman. She confirmed the dates.”
“I understand,” I said. “Let me check our call records and see if I can find the original booking.”
“I don’t want you to check your records,” he said. “I want you to fix it. I have clients coming in from Boston this weekend and I need that suite.”
“Sir, I’m doing everything I can to help you, but I need a moment to locate the reservation so we can sort this out.”
“Is there a problem with my staff?”
The voice came from behind me. Sean Boyle, the hotel manager, had materialized the way he always did. Silently, at exactly the wrong moment. He was a broad man with a flat affect and eyes that cataloged every mistake.
“No problem,” I said quickly. “Mr. Hartwell has a concern about his reservation, and I was just working through the system to locate it.”
“I can see what you were just…” Sean said. He stepped up beside me and turned to the guest. “Mr. Hartwell, I’m the manager here. How can I help you?”
“Your employee was telling me my reservation doesn’t exist,” Hartwell said. “Which is impossible, because I made it three weeks ago.”
“I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding,” Sean said. “Charlotte, why don’t you check our overflow system while I discuss the options with Mr. Hartwell?”
I turned to the computer and started searching, even though I knew what I would find. There was no overflow system. There was just Sean buying time while I figured out how to solve a problem that wasn’t mine to solve.
“Mr. Hartwell,” I said, keeping my voice calm, “I found something. It looks like your reservation was entered under a slightly different spelling. We have you down for the Oceanview Suite, checking in Friday.”
I hadn’t found anything. I had made it up, knowing that Sean would back whatever play I made and we could sort out the actual room situation after the guest calmed down.
“There,” Sean said. “A simple clerical error. These things happen. Charlotte will make sure your suite is ready and waiting.”
“It better be,” Hartwell said, but the storm had passed. He straightened his jacket and nodded once, sharply, then walked out the door.
Sean waited until the door closed behind him.
“You’re good at that,” he said, turning to look at me. “The quick thinking. The smooth recovery.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said. “You’re still on probation for another two months. One real mistake and you’re out.”
“I understand,” I said.
“I took a chance on you because you seemed competent and I was short-staffed. But competence only gets you so far. The guests here expect perfection, and I expect you to deliver it.”
“I will,” I said.
“See that you do,” he said, and walked away toward his office.
I stood behind the desk and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Sean was the kind of manager who saw his employees as problems waiting to happen. I had learned early to stay out of his way, to solve issues before they reached him, to be invisible unless I was being useful.
It was exhausting. But it was also a job, and I needed the job, and I wasn’t going to let a man like Sean Boyle take it from me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the screen.
My mother’s name stared up at me, the phone vibrating in my hand. I watched it ring. One buzz, two, three. I didn’t answer.
The ringing stopped. A moment later, the voicemail notification appeared.
“Not now,” I said to the phone.
I set it face-down on the desk, next to the keyboard, and went back to work.
I wasn’t ready to talk. I didn’t know if I would ever be ready. The life I had left behind in Chicago felt like it belonged to someone else. A woman who had let herself be sold to pay her father’s debts, who had stood in a wedding dress waiting for a man who never came.
That woman was gone. I had my own name back and a life that owed nothing to anyone. I was someone else now.