Chapter 2 - “A man left this downstairs.”
My stomach tightened.
“What man?”
“Very handsome.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“Very large.”
“Still broad.”
“Looked like he could carry a refrigerator.”
Vincent.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was my apron.
Not the original.
A new one.
Thick white linen.
There was a note.
The other one was beyond repair. — R
I laughed despite myself.
Mrs. Alvarez peered over.
“Who is R?”
“No one.”
“Mija.”
“Someone I helped.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Handsome?”
“Mrs. Alvarez.”
“That means yes.”
My phone—temporarily resurrected after a night in rice—buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Megan Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“This is Claire Walsh from Moretti Hospitality. Mr. Moretti asked whether you’d be willing to interview for a position.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course he had found a job.
“What position?”
“Guest-services coordinator at the Langford Hotel.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
The Langford was one of Chicago’s most expensive boutique hotels.
“I’m a waitress.”
“Your résumé indicates six years of hospitality experience, including two years as assistant floor manager at Bell & Finch.”
I froze.
“How do you have my résumé?”
Pause.
“Mr. Moretti’s office requested it from Laura.”
That irritated me.
Then something else did.
“How do you know I was assistant floor manager?”
“It’s on the résumé.”
I hadn’t thought about that job in years.
I had left Bell & Finch when Leo was born because the hours became impossible.
“What does the position pay?”
Claire told me.
I sat down.
It was nearly double what I made before tips at Laura.
Plus health insurance.
Dental.
Paid sick leave.
Predictable daytime hours.
Everything I needed.
Which meant I couldn’t accept it.
“Is this a real vacancy?”
Claire paused.
“Yes.”
“Was it vacant yesterday?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
“Did Mr. Moretti create it?”
“No.”
“Am I the only candidate?”
“No.”
“Will I actually be interviewed?”
“Yes.”
“By him?”
She laughed.
“No. By me.”
I considered.
“Then I’ll interview.”
“Two o’clock?”
“Yes.”
After I hung up, Mrs. Alvarez grinned.
“You have a date.”
“Job interview.”
“Better.”
She was right.
The Langford occupied a restored 1920s building overlooking the river.
I borrowed a blazer from Mrs. Alvarez.
Claire Walsh was fifty, sharp-eyed, and refreshingly unimpressed by Roman Moretti.
She interviewed me for fifty-five minutes.
Not once did she mention the alley.
She asked about difficult guests.
Staff conflicts.
Scheduling.
Inventory.
A wedding reception where the florist delivered arrangements to the wrong venue.
I told her how I’d handled it.
She took notes.
Finally:
“Why did you leave management?”
“My son.”
“Why?”
“I was working sixty hours.”
“Can you work forty?”
“Yes.”
“Occasional weekends?”
“Yes, with notice.”
She closed the folder.
“You’re qualified.”
Relief moved through me.
Then suspicion.
“Would I be sitting here if Roman hadn’t sent my name?”
“No.”
I appreciated that.
“Would you hire me if he told you to?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Roman owns the hotel. I run it.”
I smiled.
“I like you.”
“You may regret that.”
She offered me the job.
I accepted.
Roman wasn’t there.
That mattered.
Three days later, I started.
For two weeks, I didn’t see him.
I began to think perhaps I never would.
Then one Thursday afternoon, I entered the hotel’s private conference floor carrying event schedules.
Roman was standing by the windows.
No coat.
Dark shirt.
Gray trousers.
He looked healthier.
Vincent stood nearby.
Roman saw me.
“How’s Leo?”
I stopped.
“You remember his name.”
“Yes.”
“He’s better.”
“Antibiotics worked?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I held up my folder.
“I got the job.”
“I heard.”
“Claire says she hired me.”
“She did.”
“You didn’t interfere?”
“I introduced an opportunity.”
“That sounds like something powerful people say when they interfere.”
Vincent laughed.
Roman looked at him.
“Leave.”
Vincent’s smile disappeared.
“I was just—”
“Go.”
He left.
I looked at Roman.
“That was unnecessary.”
“He’ll survive.”
I put the schedules down.
“Your wound?”
“Healing.”
“Properly?”
“Yes.”
“Doctor says?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I turned to leave.
“Megan.”
I looked back.
“Why did you stop?”
“In the alley?”
“Yes.”
I thought about it.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not true.”
“No.”
I leaned against the table.
“My father died when I was nineteen.”
Roman became still.
“Heart attack?”
“Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Someone found him.”
He waited.
“A truck driver stopped. Called 911. Stayed until paramedics arrived.”
I looked out at the river.
“My dad didn’t survive. But for years I kept thinking about that stranger sitting beside him so he wasn’t alone.”
Roman said nothing.
“So when I heard you…”
I shrugged.
“I couldn’t keep walking.”
Something in Roman’s expression softened.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His entire demeanor changed.
“Excuse me.”
I gathered my papers.
As I reached the door, I heard him say:
“Find out who authorized it.”
I shouldn’t have noticed.
I did.
Over the next month, I saw Roman four times.
Always briefly.
He never asked me out.
Never offered money.
Never treated me like I belonged to him because I had saved him.
That surprised me.
What surprised me more was Leo.
One Saturday, I had to bring him to the Langford for twenty minutes because Mrs. Alvarez’s daughter went into labor early.
Claire let him sit in her office with crayons.
When I returned, Roman was there.
Leo stood beside him.
Holding a toy dinosaur.
I stopped.
“Leo.”
He looked up.
“Mom!”
I crossed the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Mr. Roman knows dinosaurs.”
Roman looked offended.
“I know several dinosaurs.”
Leo nodded solemnly.
“He knows T. rex.”
“Everyone knows T. rex.”
Roman looked at me.
“I also know triceratops.”
“Impressive.”
Leo held up his drawing.
“I made him.”
It depicted something enormous and green beside something black.
“Which one is Roman?”
“The big one.”
Roman almost smiled.
“Accurate.”
“Why is he green?”
Leo considered.
“Because black was boring.”
I laughed.
Roman stared at the drawing as though it were a legal document.
Then Claire appeared.
“Your sitter situation is solved.”
“Thank you.”
I took Leo’s hand.
As we left, he looked back.
“Bye, Mr. Roman.”
Roman lifted a hand.
“Bye, Leo.”
In the elevator, Leo whispered:
“He looks sad.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Children noticed things adults spent years learning to hide.
That evening, Roman called.
The first time he’d ever used my number personally.
“Did Leo get home?”
“Yes.”
Pause.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You called to ask that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
“I liked him.”
I smiled.
“He liked you too.”
“I haven’t spent much time around children.”
“I noticed.”
“How?”
“You spoke to him like he was forty.”
“He asked serious questions.”
“He asked whether sharks sleep.”
“A serious question.”
I laughed.
Roman did too.
Then silence.
Comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
“Megan.”
“Yes?”
“I need to tell you something.”
My smile faded.
“What?”
“The night you found me wasn’t random.”
I sat straighter.
“What does that mean?”
“I was supposed to meet someone behind that bakery.”
“Why?”
“Business.”
“What kind?”
“The kind I don’t want near you.”
I went quiet.
“Roman.”
“The man who attacked me knew where I would be.”
“You were set up.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And someone has been asking about the woman who helped me.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“I don’t believe you’re in immediate danger.”
“That is not comforting.”
“I know.”
May you like
“Who is asking?”
“I don’t know yet.”
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