by Tara Lain
The door to the small private dining room cracked open. He yanked the cap on over his hair and quickly replaced the glasses as he stepped back into the big brick opening and began wiping the sooty walls again.
“Bernice, Bitsy, get in here. I want to check your makeup.” The woman’s voice accompanied a general rise in sound through the open door. When Mark came into the small dining room from the kitchen, he’d gotten a glimpse of the lobby. Packed with frantic looky-loos and hopeful contenders all intent on witnessing the arrival of the conquering hero. What the hell was their strategy? Appear casual as they hung around staring at a billionaire’s son?
It got quiet again as the door closed. He kept wiping, with his eyes fixed on his task. Sponge up, down, rinse. He didn’t need to look to know it was Mrs. Fanderel and her girls. Being the sister of the owner of the resort gave her all kinds of privileges—at least in her own mind.
The nasal edge to her voice grated up his spine. “Let’s go over by the window. The light’s better.”
“Mo-ther.” The lower voice was Bernice. Pretty, but with a whiny tendency that gave her face a sour look sometimes. “He’s here.”
Eyes crept up his back like ants. He kept wiping.
“Pay no attention, girls. Sinders won’t bother us. Now let me look at you.”
Mark glanced over, past the round table and chairs in the center of the room. Mrs. Fanderel had Bernice’s face in her hand and was wiping at her cheeks. He looked right and found himself eye to eye with Bitsy. The little blonde gave him a smile and a slow wink. He tried not to smile back, but she really was cute. She even seemed nice, compared to the rest of the family.
Mrs. Fanderel waved a hand. “All right, Bernice. Touch up your lipstick, darling, and you’re ready to go. Bitsy, your turn.”
Bernice poked at her lips with a pencil. “She shu-ben’t eben be going out dere.” She glanced at her efforts, then looked over at her mother, who was picking at Bitsy’s blonde curls. “I’m the oldest and have the first claim.”
Her mother didn’t pause. “We have no idea what type he likes. You don’t want him in some other family, do you? If he likes Bitsy, he has her.”
Bitsy tried to pull out of her mother’s grasp. “She’s right. She wants him; I don’t. She’s got way more going for her than I do. I’ll go up to the room, and you guys meet him.”
The mother’s fingers tightened on Bitsy’s arm. “This is the fifth-richest family in America. Ashton is supposed to be handsome and charming. You act as if you were being sent to your death.”
“I don’t want to marry anyone until I’ve finished school. You know that. And maybe not then.”
“Dammit, his money could send you to music school on the moon if you want to go there. You’ll be charming, you’ll be gracious, and you will marry him if he picks you… is that understood?”
Bernice sent a glower Mark’s way. He looked back at his work. “Mother, the fairy boy is taking this all in. Do you think we could discuss it elsewhere?”
Mrs. Fanderel glanced at him. “We’re not going to discuss it at all. It’s settled.” She nodded toward him. “And I’m sure Sinders wishes both of you well, since he is a member of the staff, and therefore his future depends on my goodwill.”
He just kept washing.
“Be sure you go out through the kitchen when you’re finished, Sinders. It wouldn’t do to have any of the guests see you looking like that.”
Bitsy laughed. “Hell, even covered in soot he’s prettier than either of us.”
What was she thinking saying something like that?
He glanced over as Mrs. Fanderel pushed Bitsy toward the door. “Have you lost your mind? He’s a strange boy in a cap, and a homosexual to boot. Who in their right mind would consider such a person pretty?”
Bernice looked back at him with an odd expression. Then they were gone the way they had come.
He dropped the sponge in the bucket with a splash. Just what his jeans needed. Wet dirt. His heart beat fast and he squatted down on the hearth. Sadly, she was right. His future did kind of depend on her. He wanted this job. Yes, it was crappy and menial, but the guests were superrich and, when they got drunk, could even be generous. The girls in housekeeping thought he was strange, but they still liked the fact he did all the really bad jobs, so they shared tips with him. They liked that he didn’t hit on them too. Plus, at nights he got tips of his own when he worked overflow on room service.
He had saved a thousand dollars so far by eating only the two meals the resort provided. He could never do that in the city. Living there cost so much it was hard to even get by, much less save. And here, since he was willing to take that hole in the attic as a room, he even had a little private space to do his designs. Not much time, true, but he got by on little sleep. He just had to keep his head down and not stand out any more than he already did. Standing out was bad. Standing out got you pissed on. Yeah, standing out got you fucked.
He pulled himself up and surveyed the fireplace. One more bad spot. He rinsed the sponge in the gray water.
The door opened again. He tensed. Had the women come back? He looked up to see a tiny man in a three-piece green suit stagger in the door. Green? Really? “Can I help you, sir?” He stepped forward. The man looked like he might fall.
“Yes, please. May I sit down?”
Mark rushed forward, wiping his hands again before he touched the deep red upholstery. “Of course, sir.” He pulled out a chair from the table and went to help the little man. Heck, he could have thrown him over his shoulder if necessary. Mark wasn’t supertall. Five-eleven last he checked. But this man was just a little over five feet—gray hair, rimless glasses, a natty striped shirt with white cuffs, and a bright red flower in his buttonhole. Quite the dandy.
He helped the gentleman into the chair.
“Thank you so much. It’s quite a crush out there. I got caught behind a determined mother and her trio of chicks. Thought I might be asphyxiated by the perfume.”
Mark grinned. “It is quite a ravening horde, isn’t it?”
The man leaned back in the chair and fanned himself with his hand. “I particularly like the subtlety with which they intend to just happen upon him. All five hundred of them. LOL, as they say.”
Funny. Just what Mark had thought.
The gentleman extended the hand he’d used to fan. “I’m Carstairs Pennymaker.”
Really? “Uh, Mark Sintorella. I probably shouldn’t shake. I’ve been cleaning the fireplace and I’m really dirty.”
“Nonsense, my boy, nothing gets on me.” He grasped Mark’s hand in his and pressed his other hand over the top of the shake. Such gestures sometimes made Mark nervous. Too creepy. But in this man it seemed natural, so he shook back.
“Can I get you something, sir? Water?”
“No, no. I’m feeling much better, thanks to your kind ministrations.”
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