“We were just having a tiny disagreement,” Patrick turns to the blonde. “Weren’t we, sweetie?”
Her pretty—if overly made up—face is set in angry lines.
She glares at Cruise, her would be savior.
“You already said you couldn’t protect me. Not permanently,” she tells him accusingly. “Don’t make this any worse.” She gives Patrick her arm, and they sweep out of the lobby, as if everything about it is beneath them. As if he didn’t just call her a whore and threaten to hit her in a public place.
Everyone is frozen for a moment, then Sheila hurries across the lobby and takes Cruise’s arm, talking quickly while leading him out of the limelight.
I wish I could hear what she’s saying, but the lobby is coming back to life. A woman titters, her laugh high-pitched and echoing.
“Was that a bad man?” a little boy asks his mother.
“Perrier, Ms. Bennett?” The ancient tanned lady reminds me of our interrupted conversation, and I take her bottle and head to the kitchen to inquire about Perrier.
As I’m leaving the kitchens, I nearly run into Sheila.
“You okay, Maya?” she asks. Her concern warms me.
“I’m fine.”
I pause, wondering if she’ll open up about how she knows Cruise, about what was going on out there.
She shakes her head. “Graduates from the local high school. It’s a small community. Some of them think that they can flunk out of everything and still get a job up here. Especially pretty girls.” Still shaking her head, she continues. “That might be the way of things, if Mr. Bancroft was to lower himself to hire the maids and laundry workers. But he only hires management.” She nods to me, Richard Bancroft’s newest hire. “I hire for the entry level jobs, and I only take hard workers. Like you, my dear. We’ve all noticed how many hours you’ve been working. I’m sure Mr. Bancroft will appreciate it, when he returns.”
“Do you have any idea where Adrian is?”
Her expressive brows go up. “Adrian? He’ll slink out from wherever he is fast enough when his father returns. But Adrian Bancroft is better out of our way. We can run the hotel more efficiently without his interference.”
“Sheila, you didn’t want the night manager position, did you?” I ask, suddenly nervous that somehow she was passed over. She obviously knows the ins and outs of the hotel as well as anyone, she should be the one running things.
To my relief, she laughs.
“Me? No. I did my time with the evening shifts back when I started. My evenings are reserved for my grandchildren.” She checks a watch with an elegant gold band. “That reminds me, I have to get home. Take care of yourself, Maya. Have a good evening. Don’t work too hard.”
But I can’t let her go without one last question. “So that guy, Cruise, he went to the local high school?”
She pats my shoulder.
“Don’t you worry about Cruise. He’s not exactly himself these days. He went to a ritzy prep school, but he was kicked out. Ended his high school career playing football and dating practically every girl in Seascape Village.”
And with that, she bustles down the hall taking the sense of comfort and goodwill that she exudes with her. Once she’s gone, all my doubts rush back in.
So Cruise is a local boy? It makes sense -- he obviously knows people from the community. Girls from the community. What did the girl mean, that he wouldn’t protect her permanently? Are they in some sort of relationship? Does my acceptance of his lunch invitation constitute cheating? Of course, the girl left with the guy in the suit, but I don’t want to get involved in some kind of weird relationship. Does someone like Cruise even have relationships, or is he all about one night stands?
Throughout an evening of petty complaints and small emergencies, I can’t stop thinking of the look in Cruise’s eyes. He seemed ready to kill that guy. He’s dangerous, and I don’t need that sort of complication in my life. I should march right down to Villa Seven and tell him I can’t go to lunch with him tomorrow. Except, for some reason I don’t. Possibly because I’m looking forward to going to lunch with him with a weird sick excitement that I can’t explain. It’s just lunch, after all, not like a real date, or an invitation to intimacy.
Chapter 4
Since morning is the one time I’m not in charge of the entire hotel as night manager, I spend the next morning wearing a swimsuit and large sunglasses, hiding from employees and whiny guests alike.
The sun is glorious, and the pool is a sparkling bright blue. Stretched out upon a chaise lounge, I see what looks like guests at a bachelor party stumble out into the morning sunlight. They must’ve enjoyed a hard night of partying last night. Their complexions are sickly, and each and every one of them wears dark sunglasses, flinching away from the sun.