by Jackie Wang
I picked up the newly-laundered sheet they were in the process of refitting onto the mattress. There was an obvious gash on it that had been repaired with ivory thread. The thread color did not match the fabric, which made the stitches immediately stand out. “If I had to pay $150 a night to sleep on these sheets, I’d demand a full and immediate refund.”
“This room goes for a hundred a night,” Mercy snapped. “And not all our guests are as picky as you are.”
“You want me to spend a hundred dollars of my hard-earned money to sleep on poorly patched-up bedsheets? Why the hell would I do that if I could just head down the street and pay a bit more to stay at the Holiday Inn? At least I can expect a certain level of comfort there!”
Mercy dropped everything and lunged at me, chest heaving. “Well then, why don’t you take your stuck-up British ass down on over to the Holiday Inn then!” Mercy exploded. “We don’t need your kind of attitude here. You look down on everything we do here. Nothing will ever be good enough to meet your lofty, five-star standards! Get out!”
“Mom, stop,” Maggie interrupted. “You don’t mean that. Roman’s just trying—”
“Mercy Summers, two months ago, you begged me to come here and help you. Cried over the phone, telling me this great sob story about how your family was desperately in need of help. But what do I get for flying all this way? I get yelled at and treated like a villain. I didn’t sign up for this bullshit.”
“Clearly, I was mistaken. We can’t possibly work together,” Mercy continued, her beady eyes turning vicious and menacing. “We’re hopeless, right? A bunch of hicks with no standards, right? Beyond saving, right? Well, we don’t need you no more. Get the hell out of my hotel! I’m done here.” She threw a pillowcase against the wall and walked out.
Maggie tried to run after her mother, but I grabbed her by the wrist. “Let her go. She needs to cool off.”
“I’m so sorry, Roman. I told you, my mom is crazy. She can get very emotionally unstable sometimes. She might’ve forgotten to take her pills today.”
“She’s stubborn, that’s all,” I said. “I’ve met plenty of people like her in my career.”
“She’s probably pouting in her room. I can go talk to her,” Maggie said.
“Her room?”
“Her and Dad live in the attic,” Maggie explained. “They spent so much time here that, over the years, they began moving everything upstairs, so they didn’t need to drive to work.”
I shook my head. They were absolutely barmy. “That can’t be healthy.”
“It isn’t. But they won’t listen. They say they love living here, and that if guests don't enjoy the place, then they will.”
“Well, no wonder they're so protective of it. They’re treating this place as if it’s a living, breathing thing. Their baby,” I muttered. “Instead of looking at it like a business that needs to be managed with a firm hand.”
Maggie sighed. “You haven’t even seen the attic. It’s crammed full of random knick-knacks. Mom’s a real hoarder, too. Trying to toss out her old things is like trying to cut off an arm and a leg.”
I sighed. “Your parents are really something, aren’t they?”
Maggie finished tucking in the sheet and said, “You don’t know the half of it. But I love them, and they’re all I’ve got. What choice do I have?”
“You’re not stuck here forever, you know,” I said, helping her plump the pillows. “You could get out of here. Move to the city, and see where that takes you.”
“A single mom with two young boys, and no college degree?” Maggie scoffed. “Get real.”
“There are plenty of single moms in the city with similar circumstances,” I said. “It can be done. You just have to take that leap of faith.”
“My parents need me. They’re nearing retirement age. I won’t just abandon them,” Maggie said. “Besides, Greg and Jason love their grandparents. And God knows what Jesse and Caitlyn will do to this place if I’m not here.”
I took a duster and began working on the lampshades. “There will be more opportunities for your sons in the city. And you too. I can’t imagine what it must be like dating in a town where everyone knows what everyone else had for dinner last night.”
“I’ve dreamt about it a thousand times, trust me,” Maggie said, spritzing the windows. “But it just isn’t feasible right now. I’m not ready for that kind of life transition.”
“When will you be ready? When the boys are in high school? College? After they’re married?”
“What’s it to you?” Maggie said. “It’s my life.”
“You’re an amazing young woman, Maggie. I see so much potential in you. So much spirit. You’re stifled here.”
“Stifled, maybe. But I’ve got help here. My parents can help me babysit. They’re paying my salary. If I move, I won’t know anybody. I’ll be unemployed, friendless and I’ll struggle. A lot. Doesn’t sound like any fun, does it?”
“Our entire lives are built on struggle. That’s the definition of life. You’re struggling here, just as much as you would anywhere else. You’re overworked at this hotel, trying to be receptionist, housekeeping, server, and hotel manager all rolled into one. You’re burnt out. All for what?”
“My parents can’t find anyone else,” Maggie admitted. “Anytime we hire new staff, they don’t last more than three weeks. My mom is especially picky.”
“Once I’m done working my magic here, this place will flourish. I promise, I’ll get them the right kind of staff they need, and train the ones they already have. We’ll fix it all, Maggie. Then you won’t have this hotel to blame for trapping you on this island.”
Maggie paused mid-wipe and looked at me. “Why are you doing all of this, Roman?”
“It’s my job.”
“But you volunteered to come here. My parents couldn’t afford your consultancy fees. Why did a big shot like you choose to help a bunch of nobodies like us?”
“Everybody starts somewhere, right?” I shrugged. “To be honest, I thought a vacation to the States would do me some good. And it has. This island is remote, but absolutely breathtaking.” I added, “I make enough money in the UK; I don’t need more of it. Most of my hotels practically run themselves, so I don’t have too much real work to do. Besides, I like helping people out. Even though I can get pretty worked up about it, my motivations are pure. Mercy sounded so sad and desperate when I answered her call. I fell for her act.”
“It wasn’t an act. We are desperate. And we don’t deserve you,” Maggie said. “Your generosity has been abused here.”
“I don’t think so. Not completely, anyway. I’ve met a gorgeous, hard-working mum who’s grateful to have me.” I smiled up at her. “As long as I make a difference in one person’s life, I’m happy.”
“Do you want to meet them?” Maggie said. She was facing the window, and wiping it top to bottom. She’d been working on the same spot for more than five minutes now.
“Who?”
“My sons.”
“You mean, at your house?”
“Duh, where else?” Maggie said. “They—They asked about you. Said they’d never seen a British ‘bloke’ in real life before. They’ve seen you on TV, and they’re a bit star struck.”
“I’m no celebrity,” I said. “Just hosted a small mini-series a few years back, that’s all. I’m surprised they even know who I am.”
“They saw an interview you did last year,” Maggie said. “In their eyes, if they see someone onscreen, that person must be famous.”
“So, are you asking me over for dinner? Like a date?” I teased.
Maggie shook her head. “Not a date. Just a friendly thank-you dinner. For all your help here.”
“I’ve barely gotten started here,” I said. “I hardly deserve a thank-you dinner in my honor.”
“But things are already looking a hundred times better,” Maggie said, putting down her rag. “Will you come over for dinner tonight?”
“Is this you a
sking, or the boys?” I grinned.
“All of us.”
I nodded. “It’s a date, then.” Then, I added, “Just so you know, I’m not so great with kids. Never really know how to act around them.”
“Don’t worry, you just have to keep your ears open,” Maggie said. “Greg and Jason will do all the talking. They’re huge blabbermouths. Can’t shut them up sometimes.”
“Well, I look forward to tonight, then.”
“Me too, Roman. I hope it wasn’t too forward—”
“I’m excited to meet them. Honestly.”
“Hopefully you won’t be disappointed by my cooking skills. I can’t make the type of food you must be used to.”
“Home cooking, made with love, is the best kind of cooking.” I walked closer to Maggie and tickled her cheek with the feather duster. “I better check on the kitchen. I’ll see you tonight, love.”
Maggie beamed, and snatched back her duster. “See you then, Roman.”
Chapter 11
I arrived outside the Summers’ residence at a quarter to seven. I’d changed into a dark green jumper and jeans for the occasion, and parted my hair to one side. I even shaved. I wanted to appear young and approachable to my host’s two young American sons. If I could reel in their hearts, their mother’s would surely follow.
Maggie and her boys lived in one-half of a historic duplex about fifteen minutes’ walk from the hotel. It was an older building, with an exposed brick exterior and dark railings leading up to a charming front door. Tiny Christmas lights adorned the entrance. I walked up and rang the doorbell. A plastic wreath hung at eye-level, complete with hand-painted acorns and fake snow.
Maggie answered the door wearing a dark red jumper and tight jeans. Even in such boring clothes, she looked stunning. “You’re early! I’m still making dinner,” she said.
“Shall I wait outside?” I said, cocking my head.
“Of course not. Come in.” Maggie called out toward the living room, “Boys! Come say ‘hi’.”
Two lanky boys, one short, the other a full head taller, came to the door.
“Introduce yourselves,” Maggie urged, nudging her sons’ backs.
“I’m Jason,” said the younger boy in a high-pitched voice. He had a head full of tawny hair and huge, cartoon-like eyes hidden behind a pair of blue glasses. Jason was wearing a t-shirt with a train on it, and his ragged, too-big trousers, most likely hand-me-downs, were falling off his narrow hips.
“And I’m Greg,” said the taller boy. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Finnegan.” Greg’s back was stiff and straight as he eyed me up and down, sizing me up. His hair was dark, almost black, and fell to his shoulders. When he finally smiled, he revealed a mouthful of braces.
“The pleasure’s all mine.” I shook both their hands. “Please, call me Roman.”
“That’s such a cool name,” Jason said. “I wish my name was Roman. There are two other Jasons in my class and the teacher’s always confusing us.”
“Boys, show Roman to the dining room,” Maggie said. “I’ve got to finish dinner.”
“This way,” Greg said, leading the way. “Watch your step.”
I walked into the living room, which had toys of all shapes and sizes sprawled across the carpet. I tiptoed over stacks of colorful LEGO and shiny action figures, careful not to step on anything.
“Sorry about the mess,” Maggie called out from the kitchen. “Boys, clean up time. Wash your hands, dinner’s almost ready.”
Greg started putting toys away while Jason continued watching an old animated episode of Spider-Man on TV. I bent down and helped Greg scoop up LEGO pieces and put them in a plastic bag. “Why don’t you help us, Jason? That way we can clean up faster.”
Jason shook his head. “I wanna watch TV.”
I smiled. “If you help us clean up now, after dinner, I’ll tell you a really cool story.”
Jason arched a thick eyebrow. “Oh, what’s it about?”
“The time I almost got killed by a lion on a safari,” I said, grinning. “It’s a good one.”
“When did you go on safari?” Jason asked, wiping his glasses.
“I’ll tell you if you come help out.”
“Fine. But it better be worth it,” Jason said. He knelt and began slotting crayons back into their box.
“I’ve got loads of great stories,” I promised. “But I only tell them to kids who clean up after themselves.”
“I want to hear the story too,” Greg said, tugging at my jumper. “You need to have scars, or it didn’t happen.”
I rolled up my right sleeve to expose the jagged silver scar that ran along my forearm. “Is this proof enough?”
The boys pounced for my arm, running their curious fingers along the puckered scar. “Whoa, did you get mauled?”
“Later,” I said, winking. “It doesn’t really make for polite dinner conversation.”
“Wow, you are so cool,” Jason said, eyes bright. “My dad’s so boring. All he does is take pictures of things like buildings and statues.”
“Now, now, the lives of photographers can be exciting too,” I said. “Maybe you just never asked to hear the right story.”
“Dad never tells me stories anymore. He only calls on my birthday. And sometimes Christmas,” Jason said. “We don’t have much to say to each other. He lives in L.A. with his snooty girlfriend, Lisa, and her puppy, Bonbon.”
“Well, my dad never calls, period,” Greg said, sighing. “You’re lucky Thomas calls you at all. I haven’t seen my dad in years.”
“Boys, wash up. Dinner time,” Maggie said. “Don’t bother Roman.”
“We’re not bothering him,” Greg said.
I empathized with the boys immediately. After all, I knew exactly how it felt like to grow up without a dad. Of course, my mum did the best job she could with Amelia and me, but there were countless times when we needed a dad, and Mum knew it. Sure, it was fun to watch football with Mum, or play catch with her, or listen to her stories, but there was always a strange hole in our lives that she could never quite fill. Not that I begrudged her for it. I’d never do that to Mum; she was always our greatest cheerleader and most passionate fan. She never remarried, and rarely dated, because she devoted all her time and attention to us. Between two jobs and getting us to and from school, Mum had her hands full. When Amelia and I were younger, we loved it. We selfishly wanted to keep Mum to ourselves, forever. It wasn’t until we got older that we realized how sad Mum was. How lonely she felt.
The boys finished tidying up their toys, and ran for the bathroom. While they washed their hands, I made my way into the kitchen. It looked like the Tasmanian Devil from Looney Tunes had torn through it, leaving unimaginable destruction in its wake. Blackened pots and pans crowded the tiny sink, miscellaneous splotches painted the cupboards, and every inch of countertop space was littered with wrappers, utensils, and containers.
“What happened in here?” I asked, laughing at the mess. “Looks like you made enough food to feed a small village.”
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I made five different dishes.”
“Why all the work? I’m a simple man. Give me a good steak and potatoes, and I’m happy.”
Maggie wiped her forehead with a sleeve. Then she stood back and took in the mess she’d made. “I guess. I don’t know. Maybe I did go a little overboard.”
“I’ll help you clean up after,” I volunteered.
“You don’t—”
“It’s the least I can do.” I looked around. “Now where can I find some utensils to set the table?”
Over dinner, the boys kept asking me to tell my story. I denied them by saying Maggie wouldn’t like to hear about it while eating her food. Even though Maggie said she didn’t mind, I kept my lips sealed. Delayed gratification always made everything that much better.
We chatted about the boys’ school, their football teams, favorite cartoons, and video games. Maggie ate mostly in silence, looking up occasionally and smil
ing at me. She’d been right about her sons: they were chattier than my Aunt Nancy, and I loved hearing their stories. They were so open and enthusiastic about everything; it was incredible. Maggie had done an excellent job raising them.
When we were done, Maggie told the boys to go upstairs and get changed. I rolled up my sleeves and began loading up the dishwasher.
“You really don’t have to do that,” Maggie said, watching me stack plates.
“I said I’d help. Dinner was phenomenal, Maggie. How did you make that pork chop so juicy? Are you sure you shouldn’t be working the kitchen at Crescent Hill? You’re a culinary genius.”
“I’m not trained. This stuff, I just play it by ear. It’s not restaurant-quality,” Maggie said modestly, drying her hands on a dish towel.
“Have you tried your father’s cooking?” I asked. “If this dinner was not up to par, then what your father is serving at Crescent Hill is dog food.”
“He enjoys cooking. He’s not good at anything else,” Maggie said. “We humor him.”
I became more somber. “He’s no good as a chef. And everyone knows it. Humoring him has cost the hotel. Dearly.”
“Let’s not talk about work. How did you like the boys?” Maggie asked, changing the subject. “Sorry, they asked so many questions.”
“I like them a lot. Great boys. They’re young, bright and they’re curious. Nothing to be sorry about.”
“Did you really get mauled by a lion?” Maggie asked, touching the exposed scar on my forearm. My skin tingled where her fingertips rested.
I nodded, suddenly aware of how close her body was to mine. How her chest rose and fell with each bated breath. “When I was twenty-five,” I told her, running my fingers along the back of her hand.
“Will you tell me the story?”
“You can join me upstairs when I tell the boys the story,” I said. “In fact, I insist on it.”
“Are you sure it won’t frighten them too much?” Maggie asked, handing me a plate. “I don’t want them to get nightmares.”