“Can’t believe I’ve got a Fairfield working for me,” he chuckled. He was still laughing about it, in fact, when I left his office, my new uniform clutched in my hand.
* * *
“And you have proof you’re a Fairfield?”
I stare at the news reporter who called me this morning. Amy...something. No: Amelia. Or was it Ann?
News travels fast in the city, too, apparently: I’ve been here less than forty-eight hours, the dirt of Hillford still stuck to my shoes, and strangers already know my business.
“What, like a DNA test?”
“Sure. Or a birth certificate.”
“Oh, I have that.” I pull the copy from my pocket and smooth it on the table of the coffee shop. “See? He signed it. So like I said: he knows I exist. He’s always known. He’d just rather ignore me.”
“This is good.” She sips her coffee, something elaborate with soy milk, while I sip my black breakfast blend. Through the window behind her, I can see her news van. The camera guy’s smoking a cigarette and blasting talk radio. “Between you and me, the station hasn’t had a good scandal in years. Not a local one, anyway.”
“Scandal?”
“The Fairfields are kind of a legend, in our city. Maybe the entire state. Seems like everyone’s at least heard of them.”
This feels like a mistake. Besides the fact this woman clearly cares more about sensationalizing my story than helping my case, there’s also the fact that, legally, I’m not sure I should be sharing details about any of this without my lawyer.
“You know…I, uh, I just remembered, I’m running late for something. I’ll be in touch.” I thank her for the coffee she insisted on buying me, then push my way out of there before she can protest.
Getting the news involved was never my intention. I just want something to make him answer me. That’s honestly the worst reaction Timothy Fairfield can give me: nothing.
For the twentieth time since I started this, I wish I hadn’t started it.
The city feels like a puzzle I have to assemble without looking at the box. I only know the way to one place: the Acre. Maybe that’s why I keep going there.
Maybe I just keep hoping I’ll run into him.
It’s stupid, for a few reasons. One: I’ve already gotten the law involved, tired of his dodged calls and silence. All those returned letters and holiday cards, every year since I was six.
Two: the guy’s an owner. Owners don’t hang around their businesses all day. He’s probably on a golf course or some Mediterranean cruise right this minute. I bet the lawyer’s had as much luck reaching him as I did.
There’s something else, though—another reason I park in the deck, bolt across the street, and slip my way into the Acre Hotel’s lobby for the fifth time since I got to the city.
Near the back of the lobby, past the tearoom, stands a giant fireplace. It’s sealed off against use, even though it still has leather chairs flanking it, inviting people to sit. Over the mantle hangs a huge oil portrait of a man.
“Bourne Fairfield: Founder, Acre Hotel and Monroe Street Station.”
He looks exactly like me.
Okay: not exactly like me. He’s much older, lines around his eyes and mouth, and has a handlebar mustache. But other than that? The resemblance is dead-on.
A couple laughs from somewhere behind me. They’re getting closer.
This is stupid, too: the fear of getting recognized. Like someone will see me, look at the painting, and magically know I’m Tim Fairfield’s bastard son. Even if those million-to-one odds played out, why am I scared? Who gives a shit if anyone knows? As soon as the lawsuit goes public, the entire state will know.
Still, I put my hands in my pockets and stroll along, pretending I’m just some tourist roaming the halls.
By the time I circle back to the front of the lobby, it’s dusk. I glance through the doors at crowds bustling past, a flood of families in church clothes coming up the steps. They’re probably here to dine at the fancy restaurant to my left, or maybe attend some wedding in the giant ballroom to my right.
I stand aside when they choose the door in front of me. Like a ghost, I go unnoticed.
A van pulls up across the street and catches my attention. It’s the reporter I just ditched.
“Shit,” I whisper, when the doors open. She might not come after me in here, but I get the feeling she will stalk me down the street, follow my car to my hotel, and camp outside my room until I give her the scandal she wants.
I turn and stride to the elevators. So I have to wait it out in the Acre a little longer. It won’t kill me.
In five visits, I’ve yet to see anything but the first floor. I close my eyes and pick a floor at random.
God, even the elevator is nicer than Mom’s house: thick carpet, mirrored ceiling, and gold-plated doors they must polish every thirty minutes.
The doors glide open. They must oil the tracks every thirty minutes, too. They don’t even squeak or rattle.
I knew the Acre Hotel was nice. It’s the kind of place people in our town would go for big anniversary stay-cations, or distant family members’ weddings. They’d come back with pictures of the ballroom like they’d gone sight-seeing in some famous cathedral.
Even so, I had no idea it was this nice. I pass by an open door, propped with a maid’s cart, and peek inside the room. It’s a full suite. The living room furniture alone looks like it cost more than my car.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, the room isn’t ready yet.”
I turn.
The blue eyes blinking up at me crease at the corners when the girl smiles. “We’ll be done soon, I promise. I just have to do the windows. Unless you need to come in for something?”
She’s halfway reaching to the cart behind me. For whatever reason, I don’t think to slide out of her way to the right or left. I don’t think to tell her this isn’t my room at all.
Instead, I scoot past it and into the suite. She grabs the window cleaner and thanks me as she follows.
“Can I help you with anything?”
Her question makes me realize I’m looking around this suite like I’m hunting for Easter Eggs, taking in every detail. Not like I’ve been the occupant for however many days.
“Oh. No, I was just—just checking how clean it is. You did a great job.”
“Thank you, Mister....” She waits, spray bottle poised over the glass of the French doors.
I blink. “Silas.”
“Mr. Silas. Well, I’ll be out of your hair soon, if you—”
“No, not Silas. I mean, it is Silas, but that’s my first name.” I take a breath. Whether my nerves are rattled from those eyes that follow me wherever I go, or the fact I’ve been sneaking around this place like a thief since yesterday, I can’t tell. “McIntyre. Silas McIntyre.”
“Mr. McIntyre,” she nods. I hate that she’s giving me the customer service smile, right now. I want the real deal.
“Silas,” I correct again. I should have told her I was a Fairfield; if she’s being this nice to a nobody, just any old guest, I can only imagine the red carpet treatment staff reserves for the family.
Then I remember that news van outside. How much everyone loves a scandal. It’s not a bad thing to be a McIntyre, for a little while longer.
Except for one important trait: McIntyres always get caught.
“Hi, sorry! I know you’re busy, I just came in for my laptop.” A woman in an ivory pantsuit rushes into the room, tiptoeing like she’s crossing in front of a camera, until she spots me.
“Are you with the front desk?”
The girl looks at me too, her hand mid-swipe on the final pane of glass, while I stammer. Why the hell can’t I think of a lie as easily as I spit out Mom’s last name?
The woman goes on. “My luggage was supposed to be here from the airport—they promised it would be delivered by five.” Her eyes scan the space around me and, seeing it does not contain her luggage, flicker between my face and the girl’s.
&
nbsp; “This is his room.” She points to me with the window cleaner bottle.
“No, it’s mine.” The woman points to the corner, where some high heels reside. Great.
“This isn’t your room?” The girl stares at me, hard, and rests the bottle against her hip as she pops it.
Come on, brain. Now would be an excellent time for some world-class bullshit.
Nope. Nothing.
I look around again, like I’ll find inspiration in the double crown moldings and textured wallpaper. I probably look like an idiot, which I deserve.
An idiot. Well. Might as well play to my strengths.
“Oh. This...isn’t my room.” I force a laugh and start for the door. “Sorry about that. You know how it is, they all look the same....”
The second I’m past the girl’s cart, I veer to the elevator. It’s not the smoothest plan; I would’ve greatly preferred one where I didn’t look stupid. But at least I’m free.
“Hey.”
The elevator doors are almost closed when I hear the voice. A broom handle jabs into the space and resets them. When they open, the girl is standing on the other side like a knight with a lance.
“Can I help you find the correct room, sir?”
“Nope. I’m good.” I reach for the Door Close button, but she steps inside, broom in hand, before they shut.
“I insist. That’s our job here at the Acre: to help any guest with anything they need.”
Her voice hits hard on the word “guest.”
“Really, it’s okay. I just went to the wrong floor, that’s all. I’m on the fourth level.”
Her eyes slide to the button I just pressed. Lobby.
“Hungry,” I explain, wondering how much jurisdiction a hotel maid actually has.
Like grass through frost, her smile emerges. “You’re not a guest.”
“I am.”
She passes the broom from hand to hand like swinging a microphone stand. “Okay. Show me your key card.”
“Lost it.”
“Uh-huh.”
All right, screw it. This is exhausting.
“Fine, you caught me. I’m not a guest.”
The girl leans against the wall and roams her eyes across me. I’m suddenly aware of my terrible posture, the dress pants from my roommate that are just half an inch too short, and the fact my face looks exactly like the guy who turned the Acre from whorehouse to hotel.
“Is your name really Silas,” she asks, “or is that your alias for sneaking into rooms?”
“It’s my real name, don’t worry.” I love the relaxed look of her smile, the lowered register of her voice, now that she knows I’m not staying in the hotel. No need for the hospitality act. “And yours is...?”
She hesitates, switches the broom to her other hand, and extends it. I take it in mine, just for a moment. “Camille.”
“Camille,” I repeat. I can’t make myself look away from her eyes.
We’re quiet when the doors open to the lobby. Camille flattens herself against the wall again. “I’m not allowed to take this elevator.”
“You’re not allowed?” I punch the Door Close button, then 10. “What, they make employees haul their carts and stuff up the stairwells?”
“There are special elevators for staff,” she explains. “I’m breaking a huge rule, right now.”
“Would they really care that much?”
“They’ve fired people for doing it. I mean, it’s usually a ‘three strikes’ kind of thing, but you never know.”
As the elevator rises, I move to the wall beside her. There’s something impossible to ignore about Camille, aside from the fact I immediately wanted to tear that uniform off her. Maybe it’s the fact I just witnessed her transformation from employee to real person, like some secret only I was privy to. Maybe I’m just so tired of getting ignored on this trip, I’m grateful for anyone who gives me the time of day.
“Do you like working here?”
Her smile tightens. She takes a breath, not speaking, and looks at our shoes.
“What? You hate it.”
“I don’t hate it,” she says quickly, “it’s just...not my dream job.”
I turn to her. My arm slides up against the wall, braced over her head. I swear I see her blush.
“I’m not a guest,” I whisper, as the doors slide open to no one. Together, we stare into the deserted hallway until the doors close. “You can tell me.”
The breath she took skates out of her mouth. “Okay. I hate it.”
We laugh. I stare at the pout of her lips when she grows quiet.
“Actually, the job is okay. I mean, it sucks, but it pays better than my last one, so...I shouldn’t complain.” She pulls a bobby pin out of the bun at the base of her neck, replacing it on the other side. “To be honest, it’s not the job. It’s the place.”
“You don’t like the Acre? Wow. The way everyone talks about it, you’d think it was Disneyworld, or something.”
Camille snorts. “Yeah, right.”
“Okay, not Disneyworld. But you know what I mean. The Acre, the Fairfields...” I cut my eyes to her. “...everyone acts like they’re the greatest thing ever.”
“Not me.” She motions for me to move closer. When I lean in, ducking so my ear rests just an inch from that beautiful mouth, she whispers, “I actually hate the Fairfields.”
The world’s biggest sigh forms in my chest. Of course she does. Because, blue blood or not, that’s exactly the kind of luck I get.
About the Author
Piper Lennox is the author of the Love in Kona series, All Mine, and more. Her favorite heroes are broken; her favorite heroines are feisty (and, usually, also broken). Nothing fascinates her more than all the incredible ways two people can learn to save themselves...and each other.
Piper lives in Virginia with her husband, their three children, and a Siberian Husky too smart for his own good. Before she spent her days writing about life and love, she wrote copy for insurance companies. She will never, ever go back.
www.piperlennox.com
Honey, When It Ends: The Fairfields | Book Two Page 24