Page 1 of Don't Tell

1.Suzanne

“You’re late.”

Roger Tate is standing in front of the hotel’s staff entrance, blocking my path. His lips are pressed into a thin line, his dark eyes are narrowed, and his arms are folded across his chest. I glance down at my wristwatch, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

The appropriate term for the accessory would be a brown rope with a clock that’s barely working. And when I see the long hand move, I not only know that it’s working today, but I also know I’m five minutes early.

I match Roger’s gaze. “It’s 7:45 a.m. My shift doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes.”

“Not an excuse.” His frown deepens as he adjusts his glasses. “This is a reputable establishment. You should have been here an hour ago. What would the guests think when…”

My eyes move to his bald, sweaty head. I tilt my head and wonder why it’s always that shiny. I can literally see the sun's reflection on his head. Roger has an alarming temper for such a small man. He always seems to be annoyed about something. After five years of working here, I quickly realized that letting him ramble off is the quickest way to get him to shut up.

“...and you must be on time. Always.”

I nod. “Okay. Can I go in now?”

He shoots me a dirty look from the corner of his eye, but moves aside. I don’t look at him as I walk into the Cresswell hotel. And just as I expected, the hallway is mostly deserted, except for Carmen, standing just a few feet away with a cup of coffee in each hand.

Bless her.

“Good mor-NING!!!” she says as I approach. Carmen has a face that announces every thought she has ever had. Round cheeks, a mouth already smiling before her brain has caught up. Today, her hair is in a bun held together with what looks like three pins and faith. She got the day off yesterday, and her whole body says so.

“Did Roger give you a tough time?”

“When has he ever not?”

She hands a cup to me.

“Thank you.”

My phone buzzes in my bag. Probably Renée checking in — or my mother. I start reaching for it, then change my mind and decide to check in the locker room, preferably after Carmen leaves.

Not that I have anything against Carmen. I just like to keep my private life separate from work. It’s better that way. Lines or boundaries remain.

She bumps my hip with hers as we walk into the locker room. I leave my bag in my locker, grab my uniform, and move to a corner of the room to change. I slip into the black pants and blue top. I reach up, pull my curly hair into a knot, and secure it with the band on my wrist.

“Ready?”

I hear Carmen ask. I nod, even though she can’t see me yet, and return to my locker. As I do every morning, I put my clothesinto the tiny space, take out my phone and sketchbook from my bag, then close it.

An image has been in my head since last night. More of a memory than an image. It’s one of my favorite memories of Marguerite. It was the first time she taught me how to bake cookies. She mixed the cookie dough with me, and we put it in the oven together. Then she told me she trusted me with the last bit.

I was so nervous about getting it wrong that I left it in the oven for too long. I ended up baking a plate of hard-as-rock cookies. But Marguerite didn’t mind. She ate them with the biggest smile on her face.

I still remember that smile. And today, when I get the chance, I’m going to sketch her.

“I went to that bar in Yountville.” I turn just in time to catch Carmen’s raised eyebrow. I know what she’s thinking. I don’t say anything yet because I know she’s going to tell me. “I figured I’d check it out myself since you adamantly refused to come.”

“I didn’t refuse, Carmen,” I say as we move to the housekeeping office. “I had some painting to do.”

“And I have kids to take care of — that didn’t stop me.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket again. I want to smack myself. I totally forgot to check it in the locker room. My hand dives for my pocket —

"What are you two doing?"

I snap my hands out. Roger stands by the service desk, eyebrows furrowed deep, clutching the schedule. "Don't you have rooms to clean?"