by Emilia Finn
“Th-th-thank you for this opportunity, M-M-Miss Mazzi.”
“Oh, wow.” I let my second word trail off. I started, because I was surprised, but I’m not insensitive to speech problems. “Mr. Lockwood. Welcome to the Oriane. You found us okay?”
“Y-y-yes,” he stammers. “There were b-b-balloon garlands outside.”
“Ha,” I laugh and drop into my chair. After crossing my legs and scooting in close to my desk, I steeple my hands and study this man. “My, uh…” How does someone describe their ‘Arlo’? “My assistant did that yesterday. She thought it would garner attention.”
“It worked.” Lockwood speaks without stuttering, but his cheeks blaze red. “They caught m-m-my attention, miss.”
“Please, call me Idalia. Now, let us begin.” I take Andy Lockwood’s resume from a folder on the corner of my desk, finger through the emails I printed, and familiarize myself with the discussions this man and I have had for the last two or so months. “It says you have a bachelor’s degree in business, and another in hospitality.”
“Y-y-yes, ma’am.”
“You have twenty-five years of consistent experience working in hotels, tallied over three premises. Can you tell me about those?”
“I-I-I started straight out of high school, ma’am. S-so while I was studying, I was w-w-working at my first posting.”
“Okay. And you stayed there for,” I scan his documents and do the math in my head. “Seven years?”
“Y-y-yes, ma’am. They were good to me while I studied, they allowed me to work nights, and when it was quiet, I could learn when I was d-d-doing nothing else.”
“Kind of them. After that, you were at the Chalet?”
“Yes, ma’am. I started on reception, and over th-th-the next fifteen years of my life, I worked my way up to operating manager. In that position, I handled the hotel’s ability to function. I ensured positions were filled with the right staff. I made sure housekeeping was doing the right thing, cleanly and quietly. I e-e-ensured the kitchens were up to standard, and every year or so, I-I-I discussed with them an u-u-updated menu. Allowing a hotel to go stale i-i-is a quick way to lose guests.”
“I concur. In this position, Mr. Lockwood, your responsibilities will not be as widely spread. I need you to run my housekeeping staff. Roster cleaners to adequately cover the workload we’ll have. As you know, these requirements will fluctuate. It’s natural we’ll be busier during weekends and holiday periods. This means it’s imperative the Oriane is not over-staffed on a Tuesday, Mr. Lockwood, and understaffed on a Saturday. It’s important you understand how this hotel will ebb and flow. Understand it, then predict it.”
“Y-y-yes, ma’am. I think I-I-I will suit this position neatly.”
“Perfect. Your job is to report to me. I want your schedules on my desk weekly. You’re to consult the reservation book daily, and roster as you see fit. I want that roster on my desk first thing every Monday, and for every reiteration, since they’re inevitable, I’ll want to see those too the moment they’re done.
“You may also make recommendations, Mr. Lockwood. I’ve already selected much of what we’ll be using—shampoos, linen, soaps, and the like. They’ll become a signature brand of sorts, but I welcome your recommendations if you find something of interest. I’m not so inflexible that I won’t consider something else if it’s superior to what we currently use.”
“Y-y-yes, ma’am.”
“I strongly believe in the power of positive reinforcement. So I want you to suggest ways of thanking well-performing staff. Monthly rewards, ceremonies, anything like that. Good staff will quickly turn bad if they’re never appreciated.”
“Y-y-yes, ma’am.”
“This town is small, Mr. Lockwood. We’re not on the freeway, which makes us a thought-upon destination, not a spur-of-the-moment stop-in. That means we must make the Oriane a place travelers will drive out of their way to see.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you moved in yet, Mr. Lockwood? Gotten settled?”
He nods, quick and jerky movements so his cheeks bounce. “Yes, ma’am. Th-th-the truck will arrive this afternoon w-w-with my things.”
“Excellent. Is there anything you’d like to discuss with me before we go? Questions you might have before we start?”
“N-n-no, ma’am. None that I can think of right now.”
“Perfetto.” I push up to stand and move around to the front of my desk. “Then I’m excited we get to start tomorrow.”
“I-I-I’ll sign my contract this afternoon and send it over.”
“Good news. May I be frank, Mr. Lockwood?”
His cheeks pale, and when our eyes meet, his widen. “M-M-Miss?”
I smile softly, my attempt to soften my words. “I do not mean to overstep, and you have my blessing to tell me to mind my own business.”
His eyes continue to grow wider.
“But your stutter, Mr. Lockwood. It seems severe.”
His white cheeks make way for a blazing red. “S-s-since childhood, ma’am.”
“Have you sought speech therapy? I know a little about it.” I’ve studied until my brain bled out my ears in an attempt to help Max. “I do not pretend to be an authority on the matter, but I wonder if perhaps speaking to the right professional may help you?”
He looks down… around… away. Anywhere but at me. “I-I-I fear I am but an old dog now, Ms. Mazzi. Too old to learn new things.”
“Not at all.” I place my hand on his shoulder and lead him to the door. Opening it, I wait for his eyes to come back to mine. “Would it be a bother if I collect some information for you, Mr. Lockwood? I do not want to impose, but I feel as though I could help you. If only a little bit.”
“No bother, m-m-ma’am. But I fear I will disappoint you when I cannot c-c-catch on.”
“No disappointment, and no expectations. I’ll hand my literature over, and after that, it will be in your hands. I won’t nag.”
He nods and escapes my eyes by looking at his shoes, then when I release him, I watch his back as he bustles past Sarah and bolts into the sunlight outside.
I remain standing at my door, arms folded, brows pulled close, and my eyes on the door for a few minutes longer.
“He seemed a little strange.” Sarah peers over her tall desk the way a meerkat might in the wild. “Like, no judgment or whatever. Just an observation.”
“Yeah…” I lift my shoulders, let them fall again, then when I hear Arlo’s laughter in my ear, I come back to Earth and shrug once more. “Not everyone gets to be blonde, pretty, and tall like you, Sarah.”
She snorts. “I wasn’t even talking about his looks.” She whips long hair over her shoulder. “But I was having a bleh morning. So thanks.”
“Welcome. I’m heading upstairs for a bit. You know how to reach me.”
“Yup.” She sits down once more, glances over at the ringing telephone, then grins when I go to turn away. “Welcome to the Oriane. This is Sarah speaking. How can I help you today?”
Snagging Andy Lockwood’s file from my desk and tucking it under my arm, I swing back out of my office, close it up and set the lock at my back, then I pass Sarah and smile as she books another guest.
I’m going to see my baby. I’m going to make some lunch for the three of us. And I’m definitely not going to think of Abigail Rosa’s cute brother… like I did for hours after our race up three flights of stairs a few weeks ago. Or the morning after. Or the whole day after that.
Nope. That man—Nixon—has not received a single second of my brainpower since I met him.
Three days after Andy Lockwood officially began managing my cleaning staff, I get word via the lobby’s suggestion box that our rooms are immaculate, the bathrooms sparkle, and the bedding is crisp and perfect.
Perfetto.
With a pep in my step and a smile on my face, I make my way through the same ballroom I traipsed across not so long ago in a silver gown while I pretended not to notice a certain brotherly duo who stared right
back. They looked so handsome in their suits and mischievous grins, and there isn’t a person on this planet who could deny the mutual attraction.
However, today, that ballroom has been transformed into a high tea. Tea and coffee, pastries and cakes. Beautiful linen and sparkling silverware. This place is a cornucopia for pompous women who wear too-big hats and too many jewels, but the event is going off without a hitch, and comes with the added bonus of raising money for charity.
Every dollar these women raise for cancer research while they eat and schmooze, the Oriane will double. I’ll feel good about myself, I’ll have earned a chunk of goodwill in this new town, and on top of that, a tax break.
It’s win-win, really.
“Idalia?” Arlo’s voice brings my gaze up, though I know she’s not here. She’s in my ear. “I wanna take Max to the park, if that’s alright with you? He’s bored up here and asked to go kick his soccer ball. I know you can’t talk back to me, since I’m speaking to a thingy plugged into your wall right now, but if you have a problem with us going out, call me on my cell. I’ll wait. If you’re chill with it, then we’ll head out in a few minutes. Max is just putting his shoes on, so you have time to raise the alarms.”
Instead of raising alarms or calling phones, I turn back out of the ballroom and head toward the stairs.
I don’t have a problem with Arlo taking my son to the park… exactly. But still, the idea of him going out without me makes me sweat. So I head in their direction, pass Mr. Lockwood as I go, and nod my head in greeting.
The bonus to hiring a painfully shy man who struggles to speak is that I never have to stop and make smalltalk. Which is perfect, really. Since smalltalk makes me want to gag.
I crest the first landing, then head to the second.
“No alarms are sounding,” Arlo singsongs in my ear. “Nothing bad is happening, so I’ll assume that’s a green light. Don’t worry, we’ll swing by the lobby first to triple-check you’re cool with this.”
“I’m cool with it.” I speak to myself. To the stairs. To no one, really. Or perhaps I speak to my late husband as I peek up at the ceiling and think of him.
I don’t know that I’ve dealt with my loss yet. Not really. As soon as the dust settled after Max’s passing, and the pitying glances started coming from people in our community, I thrust my son and I into this hotel venture.
What better way to escape the sympathetic looks and longing sorrow than to move town? How else would a single mother spend her time and brainspace—to avoid thinking of fire, of death, of mourning—than to undertake something as large and occupying as the Oriane?
Instead of processing what happened to us in a healthy way, I’ve made myself busy; with the hotel, with moving… and with Maximo’s speech therapy.
Each night, my son and I work a little more on it—I picked up night classes for two years straight to learn the things a speech therapist might do to help. And when we’re not doing that, I’m studying how to run a hotel.
At this point, Mr. Lockwood is light years ahead of me in what he knows of running such an establishment. But I figure, a lot of it seems to be common sense, and what isn’t can be tackled with a confident exterior and a willingness to learn on the fly.
“We’re coming out the front door now,” Arlo sings. “One step, two step. One Arlo and an itty-bitty Maximilian.” She sniggers.
A large part of me thinks she narrates their lives not only for my benefit, but for Max’s too. If he won’t speak to her, then how is she supposed to speak back? How is she to teach him, even incidentally, if she never has to open her mouth?
Solution: she sings and narrates everything.
“Max is wearing one yellow sock, and one red. And that’s totally coooooool,” she sends her voice low. “Because that’s all we could find. Oh yeah,” she croons. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, red and yellow are the cool kid colors. Oops, Max. You dropped your—No, don’t chase it.” She’s no longer singing. “We’ll find it in a sec.”
I hear Arlo first, then a second later, the thud-thud-thud of a ball making its way down a flight of stairs.
Smiling, I slow my steps and prepare myself to catch, then when the palla comes into view, I widen my legs and position my arms.
No one really taught me how to look normal when playing sport. I’m that girl who ‘harrumphs’ when I throw. I despise exercise. I squeak at the idea of contact sports. And when my son’s palla comes closer, I catch it, but not before it smacks my chin and threatens a black eye.
“Ahi!”
“Oh, shoot. Idalia?” Arlo skips down the stairs and comes into view with Max’s hand clasped in hers. She stops at the top, snickers, then shakes her head and makes her way down to me. “That was the ugliest catch I’ve ever seen.” She takes the ball from my hands and passes it to Max. “You heard us?”
“I was in the ballroom when you said you were going out.” I pull Max into my side and grin when he wraps his arms around my hips.
There’s a part of me that worries about our relationship, our ability to connect when he never speaks. Of course, words are just one way for people to communicate, but still, I’ve spent two years trying to accept and acknowledge that maybe this is a permanent thing for us.
The research I’ve done says he’ll speak when he’s ready to speak. It could be today, or it could be next week. Realistically, it could be years from now.
And I don’t get to control any of it.
My job is to support him, provide him with that safe space to relax; probably something I’ve undone by moving us here and into a hotel.
Kneeling down to his level in heels and a skirt should be difficult, but it’s a skill I long ago perfected. Grabbing his attention, his deep brown gaze, I smile and wait for his lips to quirk up to match. “You want to go to the park, Maximo?” I take his ball and set it on the tiled floor between us, then I fuss with his shirt, his hoodie, his moppy hair that hangs in his eyes more often than not. “You want to play calcio?”
“We can wait for you,” Arlo offers. She remains standing tall, out of our space. “If you’d like to join in, we can reschedule this for later, that way you don’t miss out?”
“Uh…” I catch a flash of Mr. Lockwood passing downstairs in search of something. Someone… Probably me.
Sighing, I bring my gaze back to Maximo. “Mommy has to work. But if you stay for a long time, I can come find you guys after. Then we’ll get gelato.”
“We call that ice cream here,” Arlo teases. “Italia.”
“Taci.” I fix Maximo’s shirt one last time, lean forward and press a kiss to his forehead, then I stop and stare into his eyes. “I love you, bello. With all my heart.”
I silently plead for him to say it back. I beg and barter, grovel and make deals with the devil, all for one word.
Or really, three words.
“No?” My bottom lip quivers with want. “Will you say it, Maximo?”
Arlo feels my desperation in the air. She feels how much I want this, so she tucks her teasing away and allows us this minute in our bubble, even in the middle of a hotel staircase. But when Maximo shakes his head and picks up his palla, ready to go, I draw a deep breath, then let it out once more.
“Alright. It’s okay.” I drop another kiss on his brow before pushing up to stand. I meet Arlo’s gaze and force a smile. “I’ll call you in an hour or so. If you’re still at the park, I’ll come down and join you.”
“Deal. I’m about to school the little man on how to actually kick some balls.”
Stopping, focusing on the now and not on my anxious Mr. Lockwood as he hovers on the level below, I purse my lips. “Really, Arlo?”
She shrugs, but it’s more ‘I’m cute when I’m a tyrant’ and not ‘I have no clue what you’re talking about.’ “I enjoy adding extra layers to every sentence I speak.” She smirks. “It brings meaning to my life.”
“Of course.” I roll my eyes and turn away when her teasing laughter makes its return. “I’ll see you both in a littl
e while.”
I walk downstairs with the pair, but the second they’re gone from the hotel and the doors close at their backs, I make my way to my housekeeping manager.
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Lockwood?”
“N-n-no, ma’am.” He says no, but his nervousness says otherwise. “It’s just that I wanted to speak with you about Deloris.”
“Deloris?” I lead him through the lobby and in the direction of my office. “Who?”
“Sh-sh-she’s on staff, Ms. Mazzi. Sh-sh-she began only last week.”
“Alright.”
We pass reception, then a small cluster of socialites in big hats as they head on up to the ballroom. I step through my office door, then when Mr. Lockwood follows me in, I close it up and come around to my chair.
Plopping down, somehow already exhausted with today although it’s barely lunchtime, I press my thumb and finger to my closed eye sockets. “Okay, vai. What is the issue with Deloris, Mr. Lockwood?”
“I believe she is not a good fit for the Oriane, Ms. Mazzi.”
Bringing my hand away from my eyes, I wait for my vision to clear, then for my gaze to bring the two Mr. Lockwoods back to one. “Okay… Why not?”
“You see, I l-l-like to test people, Ms. Mazzi.” He grabs the visitor chair and drops down with eyes that speak of excitement. He’s like a puppy, eager to please me, thrilled to show off his competency.
“Test?”
“Y-y-yes. I place something of value in a room, M-M-Miss Mazzi. Something small, s-s-something insignificant. A ring, perhaps. Or a little cash.”
I sigh. “Let me guess; Deloris swiped the goods?”
His face lights up, like he’s ecstatic that I ‘get’ him. “Yes, Ms. Mazzi! You understand. So now we must remove her, of course.”
“Of course.”
I look around my office, my filing cabinets, my computer, and beside my keyboard, my diary. I have appointments booked every single day. I have occupancy levels rising, despite this being a town that rarely sees tourists pass through. I have three weddings already booked for next month, and my chef is preparing a new menu as we speak… but I’m having to worry about theft. Already.