Chapter 9: Staff Door

By nine that Monday, every employee in the Wexley Las Vegas knew who I'd married.

The bellhops stopped talking when I walked past.

A housekeeper crossed herself at the service door.

My manager brought me coffee without being asked, and then stood by my station.

"You don't have to do that," I said.

"I do, though. I called him the sandwich guy in front of him. I called him a van driver."

"He's very forgiving."

"That's worse. Men like that, you can't tell."

I worked the desk anyway.

It was the only thing I knew how to do with my hands.

At ten, a woman in a tailored cream suit came to my counter with a rolling case and a face.

"I'd like to speak to someone else," she said.

"I can help you, ma'am."

"I'm sure you could." She looked at my badge, the embossed gold one.

"Everyone knows what you can do. Four years at the desk and one night in the elevator."

The lobby noise dropped by half.

A bellhop near the revolving door turned his whole body toward us.

I smiled the smile I use for people who yell about the towels.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't catch your name."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does, because I'll need it for the room. What name is the reservation under?"

She told me, thin and cold.

I typed it.

"Four nights, deluxe king."

"And I'm sorry to say the guest room phone isn't working on your floor, so I've upgraded you to a suite on the thirtieth."

"At no extra charge."

Her face loosened with confusion.

"Why?"

"Because someone should be kind to you," I said. "You sound like you've had a terrible morning."

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