The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(5)
* * *
“Sorry I have to do this,” Charlton says as he walks me through the employee entrance into the parking lot. We started the night shift at Aquamarine together—Charlton as a security guard and me as a desk clerk. We were promoted around the same time too, and it’s been an ongoing joke between us that one day we’ll run the hotel. Now he’s carrying my box of personal effects as he escorts me to my car. It feels like a bad dream without the anticipation of waking up. “And I’m sorry this happened to you.”
“Thank you.” I blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay. Not yet. Peter Rhys-Blackwell took my job, but he doesn’t get my dignity. “I’ll be okay.”
I don’t know if that’s true. I have built-in childcare. I have a roof over my head that won’t be immediately threatened by this sudden loss of income. I’ve got savings to keep me afloat for a couple of months. But getting fired has blasted a hole not only in my dreams but in my heart. I love this hotel, even as I walk away from it for the last time.
I open the back-seat car door, and a sippy cup of rancid juice rolls out, hitting the ground with a plastic crack. The carpet is freckled with Cheerios and I hope Charlton doesn’t notice the musty funk coming from the damp beach towel crammed under the seat from our last trip to the beach. He doesn’t mention the mess or the smell. He slides the box onto the seat.
I reach in and take out a white envelope. Inside is the one-hundred-dollar bill that Blackwell slipped me another lifetime ago. “Will you do me a favor?”
“If it’s not going to get me arrested,” Charlton says. “But even then, I might consider it.”
Laughing makes me feel a little better. I hand him the envelope. “Will you deliver this to Blackwell’s room before you leave? Tell him it’s from me.”
I doubt Peter Rhys-Blackwell will be shamed by getting his money back, but keeping it doesn’t feel like a consolation prize for losing my job. It makes me feel tainted.
“I can do that.” Charlton pulls me in for a quick hug. “Don’t let this get you down. The Rachel Beck I know is going only one direction, and that way is to the top. Be good to yourself.” He bends over and picks up the sippy cup, holding it out and away like it’s filled with toxic sludge. He grins. “And clean your damn car.”
I take the long way home, driving up A1A instead of taking the interstate. I feel calmer than I should. Like I might be okay. But as I cross the Haulover Inlet Bridge—leaving Miami Beach behind—anxiety hits me like a sucker punch. All my limbs are trembling as I pull off the road and into a parking lot. My heart rate spikes. I can’t get enough air. And the fish in my chest—God, it feels like my heart is moving around inside my body. And it’s about to explode. I throw open the car door and stagger down to the beach, kicking off my heels as I take big, gasping breaths. I collapse on the sand and lie back, spreading my arms wide like a starfish. I focus on the rhythm of the waves and the slice of white moon hanging above me.
I stay there an exceptionally long time.
Until my pulse returns to normal, and my breathing slows. Until the moon gets blurry, and tears trickle down into my ears.
“What am I going to do?” I say aloud, but there’s no answer.
The first rays of sun have gathered along the horizon and the moon is gone when I finally stop crying and stand. I feel hollowed out as I brush the sand off my skirt and get back in the car.
* * *
I try to sneak into the house, wanting nothing more than to get in bed and stay there … maybe forever. But Mom is brewing a pot of coffee and her brows pull together when she sees me. “Where’s Maisie?”
“Oh shit. I forgot.” I rummage through my purse until I find my phone and then quickly text Brian. Can’t meet for breakfast. Please bring Maisie home instead.
“Rachel…” Mom begins. Her worry radar is finely tuned and always scanning, so she can tell something is seriously wrong. It doesn’t help that my eyes are puffy from crying and there’s sand sticking to my feet. I probably look like I’m doing a walk of shame.
“Mom, this night feels like it’s lasted a week,” I say as Brian texts back. No problem. “It sucked. And I really, really don’t want to talk about it.”
She makes an indignant noise I ignore as I walk into the bathroom, where I shed my clothes, shower off the sand, and change into my pajamas. Eventually I’ll have to tell her what happened. Together we earn enough to pay the mortgage, cover our bills, and keep the refrigerator stocked. I pay a little extra on my student loans whenever I can and put the rest into savings. We don’t splurge on vacations, but we also never go to bed hungry. We should be okay until I find another job. No need to worry her unnecessarily. For now, I only want to turn off the endless Blackwell reel in my head.
I’m tipping into sleep when the door cracks open, spilling light into the room. Maisie comes in and climbs up on the bed with me. “Mama, are you sick?”
“No, baby, only sleepy.” I stroke her soft hair. My sister and I had white-blond hair when we were little girls—Anna still does—but Maisie inherited Brian’s dark brown hair and brown eyes. “Did you have fun with Daddy?”
“I got a cheeseburger Happy Meal with apples and milk,” she says, and I’m relieved that Brian didn’t let her have soda. “But we went through the drive-through because Eden came over.”