Chapter 13 - The Dressing Suite After The Gala
The ballroom was on the second floor of the same building, right above the restaurant. I could hear the band through the ceiling while I was still downstairs folding napkins in the service pantry. The gala had taken over the whole place. White tablecloths, auction paddles, a step-and-repeat by the entrance that flashed every time someone posed. My manager, Luis, tapped my shoulder and didn't look at my face.
"VIP suite," he said. "Dressing room B. They asked for the cloche service. Just you."
He handed me the tray. Same silver cloche with the finial on top, polished so I could see my own reflection warped in it. My black apron was still tied at my waist. I had the recorder and the folded printouts from the second phone in the pocket under the apron, against my hip. I didn't check to see if they were still there. I felt them.
I took the service elevator up. The music got louder, then muffled again when the doors closed.
Dressing suite B had a frosted glass door and a brass handle. I knocked once. Vanessa's voice said, "Bring it in."
She was standing by the vanity in a floor-length silver dress, the white blazer from that first night gone but the diamond necklace and teardrop earrings exactly the same. Mark was by the window in his dark suit and tie, hands clasped, not drinking. Ethan stood near the clothing rack with his back half-turned, holding a glass of champagne he hadn't touched. My husband. He looked up when I came in and his face did something I had never seen before. He forgot to swallow.
I set the tray down on the low table. The cloche caught the warm light from the vanity bulbs.
Vanessa smiled at me like I was still just staff. "Thank you, honey. You can leave it there."
I didn't move toward the door.
Mark was watching me. His eyes went from my face to Ethan's and back. "Have we met?" he asked me, quiet.
Ethan said, "Maya," too fast. "What are you doing here?"
Vanessa's head turned slowly toward him. "Maya?"
I kept my hands near the tray. My breathing was steady. I could hear the bass from the ballroom through the wall, the emcee laughing over a microphone somewhere.
"My name is Maya Quinn," I said. I looked at Vanessa when I said it. "I was the waitress that night downstairs. I'm not illiterate. I'm his wife."
The air in the suite went still. Vanessa's smile stayed on for a half-second too long and then fell off completely. She didn't gasp. She just stared at Ethan like she was waiting for him to correct me.
Ethan stepped forward and put his hand out, not to touch me, but to stop me. "Maya, don't do this here. This isn't the place. We can talk outside."
I reached into my apron pocket and unfolded the single sheet I had printed at the library. My fingers didn't shake.
"On October twenty-ninth at 11:47 p.m.," I read aloud, "you wrote, 'Can't wait to see you tomorrow. Mark thinks I'm at the foundation dinner. Same hotel. Same room.'"
I didn't raise my voice. I read it exactly as it was typed, period after room. I folded the paper back along its crease.
Vanessa didn't look at the paper. She looked at Ethan. "Tell me that's not real."
Ethan's voice cracked. "It's about real estate. We were looking at a property for the foundation. The hotel was near the listing. It was nothing. Vanessa was helping with comps."
Mark hadn't moved from the window. He pulled his phone from his inner pocket, not to call anyone, just to look at the screen. His face was colorless under the warm bulbs.
"The foundation hasn't had a dinner on a Tuesday night since June," he said. He scrolled with his thumb. "And we don't put hotel charges through the Hale Family Foundation. But there's a charge. The Whitmore. October thirtieth. One night. Three hundred and eighty-nine dollars. Plus room service."
He turned the phone so Vanessa could see it. She didn't take it.
"Mark, you don't understand the billing," Ethan said quickly. He was talking to Mark now, man to man, like that would help. "The agent booked it. I reimbursed it. Check the memo line. It'll say site visit."
"What agent?" Mark asked. His voice was flat. "Name him. What property address?"
Ethan opened his mouth and closed it. He looked at the cloche like it might open and save him. "It was in Tribeca. On Chambers."
"There hasn't been a foundation site visit in Tribeca this year," Mark said. "Vanessa handles scheduling. She would know."
Vanessa's hand went to her diamond necklace. She twisted it once. Her white handbag was on the vanity behind her, same structured top handles as the night at the table. She zipped it shut like that mattered.
"How long did you have his second phone?" she asked me. Her voice was low now, not sharp, almost careful.
"Long enough to read it," I said.
Ethan laughed once, a short sound. "You went through my phone? You printed my texts? That's illegal, Maya."
Mark finally looked at him directly. He stepped past me and turned the lock on the suite door from the inside. The click was loud. The ballroom music on the other side became a dull thump through the wood.
"Nobody's going anywhere yet," Mark said. He didn't look angry. He looked focused, the same way he had looked at the table that first night, hands clasped. "Not until we get this straight."
Vanessa's eyes jumped to the locked door. She breathed out and pulled herself up straight. The gala lights made her earrings glitter when she moved.
"Put the phones away," she said to the room. Her tone snapped back to hostess, to control. "All of you. Put them away before someone knocks. This does not leave this suite until we decide what leaves this suite."
May you like
She was looking at Mark's phone, at Ethan's pocket, at my apron. The cloche sat untouched between us, reflecting all four of us in its curved silver side.
Outside, the band started another song and the applause from the ballroom bled through the wall, muffled and far away.
