Chapter 7 - No More Speaking for Her
“Wait,” I said.
Vanessa went quiet on the speakerphone. Margaret was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed against the mattress to steady herself.
“If you post anything,” I told Vanessa, “do not use Margaret’s image. Do not discuss her health. You have no permission to explain her to anyone.”
“I wasn’t going to use her picture.”
“Then what does the apology say?”
A pause followed.
“It says she’s been going through something difficult,” Vanessa said. “It says I handled it terribly.”
Margaret looked at the phone.
“No,” she said.
Vanessa drew a breath. “I can take that sentence out.”
“You’re still thinking about the sentence.”
“I’m trying to fix what I did.”
“You called me onto a stage,” Margaret said. “You took off my wig in front of everyone, and you held it up so they would look at me. Now you want to put out a video telling them how to feel about it.”
“I thought people should hear me admit I was wrong.”
“Then why did you give me five minutes?”
Vanessa said nothing.
I had an answer ready. I wanted to tell her that she had mistaken an audience for the person she had hurt. But Margaret was already speaking for herself, and I let her.
“I asked you not to make me explain myself to strangers,” she said. “If you post a video about me, people will come looking for my face and my name again. They’ll argue about whether your apology is good enough. They’ll ask me to answer you.”
“I can tell them not to contact you.”
“You couldn’t control the room when you had the microphone. You can’t control the internet.”
Margaret’s voice was level. Her fingers, resting beside mine, trembled slightly.
Vanessa said, “People keep saying it was a joke. I don’t want them saying that.”
“Neither do I. You can tell the people you said it to that you meant to embarrass me and that it was cruel. You can do that without telling them anything about my body or asking me to accept your apology.”
“You mean the wedding guests?”
“Start with anyone you’ve told it was a joke.”
There was a long silence. Through the phone I heard a door close on Vanessa’s end.
“I already recorded it,” she said.
“That doesn’t mean you have to post it,” Margaret replied.
“I won’t.”
Margaret leaned back against the pillows. I watched her, uncertain whether she wanted the call to end.
Vanessa spoke again, more quietly.
“I’m sorry I called twice. I thought if I waited, it would look like I didn’t care.”
“You can care without calling me,” Margaret said. “I don’t want another call today.”
“Okay.”
Margaret ended the call herself.
For a while she looked at the dark phone screen. I brought her a glass of water from the nightstand, and she took a few sips.
“You shouldn’t have had to walk her through that,” I said.
“I didn’t have to. I chose to.”
“I know.” I sat beside her. “I’m sorry I started talking first.”
“You told her to wait. I wanted her to wait.”
She set down the glass.
“I also wanted to hear what she planned to say. I’m tired of finding out afterward what people decided was best for me.”
I thought of the hotel staff notice, which she had revised herself, and the private recording she had chosen to keep. Each decision had taken time she would rather have spent resting. None of that made the decisions less hers.
My phone buzzed. It was Simone Harris. I stepped toward the window, but Margaret gestured for me to answer where she could hear.
Simone had heard from the minority investor who had postponed an introduction after the false sale-approval claim circulated. The investor had received Simone’s correction. Now a potential financing partner was willing to meet.
“She understands there’s no agreement to sell?” I asked.
“Yes,” Simone said. “I put that in writing. She also understands the lender needs a plan, not a completed financing, by the deadline.”
“When can she meet?”
“Tomorrow morning. Her team would need access to verified operating records before discussing terms.”
Margaret held out her hand for the phone. I gave it to her.
“Who gets those records?” she asked Simone.
“Only the people reviewing them, under a confidentiality agreement. We’ll go through the proposed list with you and Richard first.”
“And no one gets a story about the wedding.”
“No one needs one,” Simone said.
Margaret passed the phone back. After the call, she told me to take the meeting. She would read any proposed terms with me, but she did not want to sit through an introduction while she was tired.
“Ask about the people who work here,” she said. “Not just whether we keep our name on the building.”
“I will.”
“And don’t promise them we can pay for everything at once.”
That night, a short message arrived from Vanessa. She said she had canceled the video and would not contact Margaret again unless Margaret invited her to. She did not attach the recording or ask whether Margaret believed her.
I showed Margaret the message because it was addressed to her. She read it and handed the phone back without replying.
The next morning, Simone and I met the financing partner in a small conference room off the hotel’s administrative corridor. Elena joined us with the current operating reports and the preliminary repair list.
The partner’s name was Natalie Brooks. She did not begin with a speech about saving the Grand Ashton. She asked Elena how many service elevators were operating that week.
“Two,” Elena said. “One has been taken out of service twice this month. We’ve scheduled the independent contractor’s inspection, but we don’t have a final scope yet.”
Natalie wrote that down. She asked about the accessible bathrooms next, then kitchen ventilation, then the difference between a room that could be rented and one that could be rented without a guest calling the front desk about the temperature.
Elena answered each question. Once, she said she needed to check a maintenance log rather than guess.
“That’s the answer I want,” Natalie said.
When Elena left to retrieve the log, Natalie turned to me.
“The Whitmore proposal puts a price on the whole property,” she said. “I’m not here to beat that price. If you want to keep control, the question is whether the hotel can support the work and the debt at the same time.”
“That’s our question, too.”
“There may be a way to stage the projects and fund the first stage without selling a controlling interest. A renovation loan alongside the renewal, perhaps with additional capital from existing investors. I can’t offer either on these numbers today.”
“What would you need?”
“Independent costs. A schedule that shows when rooms or services would be unavailable. Revenue assumptions that reflect those closures. And clarity about which forecasts have already gone to the Whitmores.”
Simone sat up. “We’re preserving the access records and comparing correspondence. Daniel Bennett has agreed to turn over his hotel-related files and messages. That review isn’t complete.”
“I don’t need you to accuse him of anything,” Natalie said. “I need to know whether I’m being asked to rely on the same figures.”
I appreciated that distinction. I also disliked how badly we needed her to make it.
The lender’s letter lay in my folder, its deadline less than two weeks away. We had several million dollars of necessary improvements in preliminary estimates and no final bids. A proposal contingent on verification might help us submit a credible plan. It would not repair an elevator or guarantee a renewed loan.
“If your review supports a first stage,” I asked, “could you give us something in writing for the lender before our response is due?”
“A conditional indication, possibly. Not a commitment. I’d need their cooperation, and my reviewer would need the records promptly.”
“And the employees?”
Natalie looked at me. “What about them?”
“The Whitmore plan accounts for cutting up to twenty-four positions. We’re trying to price an alternative that doesn’t start there.”
“I can review a plan built around keeping staff,” she said. “I won’t promise the math works until we see it.”
It was less comforting than a promise. It was more useful.
Elena returned with the log. Before we left, Simone arranged secure access for Natalie’s reviewer to the operating reports and maintenance records we had approved. Separately, she would share the presentation Daniel had provided in the Whitmore correspondence, limited to checking its figures against the hotel’s records. She explained that distinction to me before sending anything. Margaret’s recording stayed in its private folder, untouched by this work.
I called Margaret from the hallway.
“She didn’t promise us money,” I said.
“Good. I wouldn’t believe her if she had.”
“She thinks a phased plan might be financeable. They’re checking the records now.”
“And did you ask about staff?”
“I did. We have to show what keeping them costs, along with everything else.”
Margaret was quiet for a moment.
“That’s fair,” she said. “Tell Elena I’m glad she said when she didn’t know something.”
By late afternoon, I was back in the office with a stack of contractor notes. The elevator contractor had measured the shafts but still needed supplier prices. The bathroom estimates had come in as ranges so wide they were barely useful. I was marking questions in the margins when Simone appeared at my door.
Natalie’s reviewer was on the phone. Simone put her on speaker.
“I haven’t finished the comparison,” the reviewer said. “But I found a gap you should see before we build a funding plan around this presentation.”
She sent a page to Simone. On my screen, Daniel’s forecast showed guest revenue holding steady through the first renovation period.
“Look at the room-availability records beside it,” the reviewer said.
May you like
I opened the second file. Several floors had been marked for closure during that same period. The dates were preliminary, but they were there in the hotel records Daniel had been allowed to use.
“In his presentation,” she said, “those rooms are still earning money.”
