CHAPTER ONE
“Clean it again,” was the general manager’s reply to my co-worker, Rosa, when she explains that the penthouse suite, which no one had used, had been cleaned two days ago.
“The room is going to be so perfectly clean, so spotless and shiny, that anyone would be comfortable eating off the damn toilet seat,” Mr. Danforth continues.
Rosa and I exchange glances. Whoever is checking into the penthouse of The Montclair, a boutique hotel nestled on San Francisco’s Nob Hill, has to be somebody important for Mr. Danforth to get his hair extensions in a knot.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” demands Mrs. Ruiz, the housekeeping manager. “Mr. Lee will be here in a few hours!”
I raise my hand with some hesitation because Mrs. Ruiz is not likely to welcome my reminder.
“You said I could leave early,” I say. “I was going to go over to Berkeley and talk to the financial aid officer.”
Sure enough, she looks annoyed, and Mr. Danforth looks at her as if I just asked to triple my pay instead of taking off an hour early. She closes her eyes and sighs, but I can tell she remembers that she agreed yesterday to let me clock out early today.
“Can you take care of that tomorrow?” she asks. “We’re already short-staffed. I need you to work the Grand Pacific Suite.”
Tomorrow is difficult because I will either have to miss my class at the community college or make it into work late, but Mr. Danforth’s stare is boring holes into me, so I nod.
As Rosa, Maria, Sierra and I take the elevator up to the twelfth floor, I ask, “Who is Mr. Lee? Quíen es Señor Lee?”
“No sé,” Maria answers with a shrug.
I actually picked up a little Spanish back in North Carolina, where I’m from, as there is a growing Hispanic population there, but having lived in California for ten months now, and worked alongside many Spanish-speaking women, I can actually string more than two words together.
“I was afraid to ask,” Rosa says. “It’s like we’re supposed to know already, but I never heard the name before.”
Sierra has earbuds on and probably didn’t hear my question. I’m not sure she would know anyway. I push the housekeeping trolley out of the elevator.
“Do you think they want us to replace the clean linen, too?” I wonder.
Maria shrugs again as Rosa opens the double doors of the suite. The penthouse at The Montclair is insane. It’s the only penthouse I’ve ever actually seen, and I bet all penthouses are amazing. But at nearly 4,000 square feet with floor-to-ceiling views of the city, I can’t imagine anything more luxurious. It’s bigger than the apartment I live in with two other women out in the Sunset District on the west side of the city. And there’s a frickin’ grand piano in the foyer. Do most rich people play the piano?
And the price tag on this place would take me three months’ worth of income, pre-tax, to afford. And that’s assuming I don’t need my wages for anything else, like tuition for my classes at City College of San Francisco, MUNI fare, and food.
“We should just say we cleaned the place,” Sierra remarks when we enter the suite. A beautiful blond, Sierra’s just buying her time at the hotel until she makes it big as a model. “I mean, why the hell are we cleaning the place twice?”
She plops down on a sofa wide enough to seat eight people and grabs a magazine from the glass coffee table, but Maria takes the bedroom and Rosa heads into the kitchen.
Sierra shakes her head. “Lame.”
“They’re just hardworking,” I say.
“They’re probably afraid ICE will ship their asses back to Mexico if they don’t jump at everything management says.”
“I think Maria’s from Venezuela.”
“Whatever. You going to be as lame as them, Veronica?”
“Virginia,” I correct. “I’ll take the bathroom.”
Sierra rolls her eyes and starts flipping through the magazine. Part of me wants to have words with her, but I agree that it’s silly to repeat a job that’s already been done. I decide to leave it alone.
With its Jacuzzi bathtub tucked into a bay alcove, a separate waterfall shower, double artisan sinks, and marble flooring, the bathroom is bigger than my bedroom. I manage to finish scrubbing, wiping, and mopping the already clean bathroom before Mrs. Ruiz rushes in.
“He’s here early!” she exclaims. “Finish up! Quick!”
I grab the cleaning supplies and replace them onto the trolley. I manage to wheel it out of the suite as Mr. Danforth steps off the elevator and stands aside to let a man wearing perfectly pressed slacks and a button-down shirt pass. With his jet-black hair gelled back, perfect tan, and designer sunglasses, he looks like a movie star. But more than the way he looks, it’s the way he moves that has me rooted to my spot. I’m guessing he’s only six feet at most, but he carries himself as if he’s much taller. I’ve never seen anyone with such smooth, almost elegant confidence.
As the men pass by with the bellhop bringing the luggage behind them, Maria and Rosa lower their eyes, as if they’re not worthy of meeting the eyes of royalty.