“I was hoping you’d tell me a little about the hotel, about why you return each year,” I say. Mrs. Poole tops off my pineapple juice, and for the next hour they regale me with stories of the days when Seascape Village was a hotspot for meetings and social events.
“Everyone who was anyone came for at least a week, but most of us rented rooms or villas for the entire summers. The children would play on the beach. Husbands would go back to the city for work, and return on weekends. Summer was pastel paint, and cocktails, and soft white sand stretching for miles.” Mrs. Poole takes a long pull on her martini, as if this reminiscing has made her thirsty.
“Now our friends are going to all inclusive resorts in Costa Rica, or cruising the lower Virgin Islands. Those with children, who aren’t retired, can’t take off for the entire summer, and everyone wants to go somewhere with good wi-fi, as if that’s what vacation is about.” Mrs. Charleston sniffs.
“What is vacation about?” I ask quietly, wanting to know what the experience means to these ladies.
As if on cue, Cruise throws his door open.
Once again, the ladies sigh in unison. He’s wearing board shorts, and nothing else. He’s wet. His dripping hair indicates that he just stepped out of the shower. Droplets of water run down his torso. The sun catches his hair, and illuminates strands of pure gold interspersed among the blond.
Mrs. Charleston pushes me gently, her other hand still firmly around the stem of her martini glass.
“Now’s your chance, dear. Go check those window boxes.”
She isn’t as good at whispering as she supposes, and Cruise turns. He gives the ladies a pleasant nod, then he sees me and his face changes, his expression dangerously close to angry.
The change in his body language is clear, and I feel instantly rejected, but Mrs. Charleston is still pushing me forward, and no matter how unfriendly he appears, I need to tell him that Mr. Bancroft is not back in residence. At least, if that wasn’t the reason for his instant rejection of me, then I’ll know there’s another issue.
I stand, thanking the ladies for the juice, and walk over to Cruise. I expect him to slam the door in my face, like he did the first night when I asked him to turn down his music, but he stands there, stoic, waiting for me speak.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just here to weed the flower boxes,” I tell him. We both know that’s not true, and we both ignore the slight quaver in my voice. “I could tell, today, that you were upset, when Mr. Bancroft’s car was in front of the hotel. But it wasn’t for him. His son, Adrian, is taking it on a trip.”
I’m close enough now that I’m in his shadow.
He crosses his arms. “Is that so?”
“Yeah.” I don’t think he likes that I read him well enough to know that the Bancroft car upset him. Why he’s here on the Bancroft property if he hates them so much, is a mystery.
“It doesn’t change anything.” His arms are still crossed, but I sense that he’s relenting. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. He frowns. “So if Adrian’s gone and Mr. Bancroft’s gone..”
“Yup. I now I seem to be in charge of the hotel, all by myself, on my third day of employment.” For a moment I let my guard down. Let him see how lost I am, completely in over my head, even though the hotel has run smoothly enough the last few days, I’m constantly putting out small fires. What if something bigger happens? What if the entire operation crashes and burns under my watch, and I can never get a job in another hotel, for the rest of my life?
He sees my worry and his expression goes from stony to concerned. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“It’s an entire world of responsibility,” I admit. “If I didn’t like,” I glance up at him from beneath my lashes, “things about this hotel so much, I’d consider getting the hell out of here. Going home to my parents and sending resumes from Dad’s fax machine.”
I feel the weight of Cruise’s consideration, but I’m not sure what he’s thinking. I can read him well enough to determine that he’s making a decision.
“Tell me what you like about the hotel.”
A challenge. I could continue attempting to flirt with him, but it’s never been my forte, and after last night, I think we’re behind banal flirtations. So I tell him the truth.
“I love the history of it. The marble floor in the lobby, the seashell chandelier. I love the red upholstery in the bar, I love the grand staircase and the sweeping bannister. I love the ballroom, and the mermaid mosaic,” I glance at his tattoo and his eyes narrow. “I love the elegance of the dining room, I love these villas. I love the beach. Should I go on”
“No.” He sighs, and the sound of it indicated utter exhaustion, as if he’s been fighting something and he can’t fight it anymore. “You really do love this place. And you’re determined to fix it up?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll help you.”
“What?” How many hours have passed since he told me to forget I’d ever met him? It hasn’t been long enough for me to forget or forgive.