Security(9)

“I’m fine now,” Delores says. She wipes her tears, determined to make the statement true since it’s Tessa who’s asking. “Really, I’m okay. Why’re you calling on the intercom?”

“The landline isn’t working. Electricians probably nicked it.” She asks Brian, as if it is a long--dead habit to always ask Brian, “Is that possible?”

Brian says, “It’s possible. I doubt it, though. Electric and phone are kept separate for just that reason.” He adds, for false modesty’s sake, “But I’m no expert.”

Tessa says, “Del, would you do me a favor?”

Delores sounds relieved, agreeing. She’s a large, fifty--two--year--old hausfrau, but her emotional maturity arrested at fifteen, when she got married. The psychologist who evaluated her for her competency trial noted she was most tranquil in the domestic sphere, and that domestic duties aroused her maternal side, which had been frustrated by the miscarriage she suffered after her husband broke her tibia with a baseball bat. It is obvious that Tessa also arouses Delores’s maternal side.

As when Tessa says, “I accidentally—look, don’t freak out—but I cut my hand down in the foyer—”

“Oh my God! Are you—”

“But I’m completely fine. There’s some blood on the marble. I’d really appreciate your cleaning it. Will it stain?”

Tessa knows the answer. She’s asking so Delores can tell her, with confidence, “No. No, Tessa, it’ll wipe right off with a little ammonia. The seal on the floor’s still nice and fresh, and marble only stains easy if it’s porous.”

Tessa smiles. She likes hearing Delores be confident. “Awesome. Thanks. Wear gloves. The whole blood--and--puke protocol—keep OSHA happy.”

Delores laughs. It’s an old joke between them how much Henri hates OSHA and how much Delores loves it. “Will do, kid,” Delores says. “You get that cut fixed.”

“Bye.” Tessa hangs up.

Brian gestures to indicate Tessa may pass him exiting the ele-vator, so she does. The ballroom rises around them. It feels like emerging from a mountain’s long, narrow crevasse into the vastness of an enormous cave, only it’s bright, and warm, and the finished pyramid of a thousand champagne flutes glistens like a waterfall on their far left. Long, athletic legs take two minutes to cross from one end of the ballroom to the other. Tessa’s legs are athletic, but not long, and Brian keeps pace to stay beside her. The chandelier up here is simple so as not to distract from the cherubim mural. Tessa picked this chandelier. Destin picked the seven--million--dollar pinecone in the foyer.

“This place is something,” Brian says. “I read about it. Supposed to be the safest hotel in the world, right?”

“Something like that.” Tessa pauses halfway through the tables to move a salad fork to a surprising position. She makes a sour face and moves it back. “Yeah, that’s the idea. Starlets can come here to recover from plastic surgery, that kind of thing.” She walks, and the clicks of her boot heels sound like cracking bones. Brian nods to show he’s listening, to show he knows she’s not done talking. “Charles really wants the government bigwigs—political figures, diplomats. That’s where the money is.”

They’re on the wooden dance floor now. Their steps are louder.

Brian says, “We should get your hand taped up. Before I deal with the dishwasher.”

“It’s done bleeding, I think.”

“If you duck out of the hospital—” He reaches for the small of her back when she makes a sharp turn around the grand piano. The grand piano’s not on the bandstand yet. Tessa doesn’t see Brian reach, or feel it, because she executes the turn perfectly, and Brian’s hand goes back in his jacket pocket. He doesn’t look embarrassed about having reached. He doesn’t look like he even noticed doing it. “I might go all big brother on you.”

“Oh no,” Tessa says. “Not that.”

“Don’t smile or anything, Tess.”

“I won’t.” She is.

“Don’t smile. You’re annoyed with me, so don’t smile.”

“I’m not. Not at you. I’m thinking of a joke.”

“Yeah?” Brian’s smiling, too. “Tell it to me.”

“Why’d the rabbit cross the road?”

Brian doubles over, laughing so loudly it startles Henri at the other end of the ballroom, where he is ranting at his underlings in French. It startles Justin and Jules in the kitchen, where they are staring at the dishwasher in utter confusion.

Brian’s laugh at half a joke makes it easy to identify with utter confusion.

Tessa pushes into the kitchen, which is huge and industrial. Its sheer size and its Tetris game of tables, cabinets, tools, and appliances ensure that neither Henri nor the sous--chefs saw Franklin tampering with the dishwasher.

The kitchen’s size also means that Brian’s laughter echoes through it as he and Tessa come inside. Tessa’s mashing her lips together so she doesn’t laugh, her effort not to laugh worse than a laugh, because it means if she did laugh, it would be genuine. Not professional or proper or polite or cautious. It would honk like a Canada goose, obnoxiously endearing. She treats her past like a secret. She becomes very, very, very upset if someone mentions her upbringing in the foster system. She says, You’re trying to use this. Don’t you dare try to use it. Quit trying to crack me like I’m a vault in a bank! She throws things.