The sylvan hotel, p.7
The Sylvan Hotel, page 7
In moments, Kathryn’s chipper voice broke through, along with the beeping sounds of a switchboard.
“Kathryn,” Joann cried.
“Hey! What’s wrong? What happened? Oops, one sec—”
Christmas music blared.
“I’m back. Sorry. The phone’s been—”
“He’s gone. He’s moving to California, and he met a tall girl in church.”
There was a pause.
“Kathryn?”
“Joann, come to the hotel. You’ll be early for your shift, but just hang out with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. We’re all here, and we’re all here for you. Fuck it. You don’t need him.”
“But, I’m going to be alone—”
“No, you’re not. Okay, hang up and get in the car. Or should I send … someone to pick you up?”
Oh, god, no. She didn’t want anyone seeing her like this. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to the valets. They had enough to worry about. It was Christmas.
“No, I’ll be there soon. Thank you.”
“It’s gonna be okay, Jo. Breathe—and start driving. We’re waiting for you.”
Joann cried as the traffic light turned to red.
Stop. Everything. Had. Stopped. What in the hell now? Who was this tall chick?
What was Grady thinking? Their families were friends. She was friends with his brothers.
His brothers were friends with her brothers. They’d all known each other since high school, and she’d started seeing Grady her last year of college. His interest had caught her by surprise, but the relationship was working, or … so she’d thought. And now he was blowing their lives up.
Goddammit. She’d been so tuned into the hotel lately. And Robert. But it wasn’t like she’d done anything wrong. Sure, she “fixed” her schedule sometimes, because it made such a big difference to work with him versus without. And he made no secret of the fact that he preferred working when she was there. Was that bad? He had seemed disappointed when she didn’t need him to walk her to the car the other night. She and Kathryn were going—
For crying out loud. Here she was again, paying attention to something else. And so there was a little chemistry. Big deal. People flirted all the time, and they’d barely been doing that! Still, she should have been paying attention to her actual relationship. She should have made more trips to California. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What a mess.
She was a mess. She had somehow managed to tank a perfectly respectable relationship, and now she was on her own.
Down Madison.
Up Madison.
Miss MacIntosh had arrived. Above her, fourteen lofty letters spelled out, “The Sylvan Hotel.” But Joann couldn’t see the signage through a fountain of tears.
Oh, thank goodness. There was a parking spot right across the street—how was that even possible in the midst of holiday central?
The valets didn’t take their eyes off those spaces.
She fed the meter … then one foot in front of the other. And fuck the alley entrance. It was Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve. How could Grady do this to her? And what in the hell was she doing here while her life was falling apart?
Nearing the circle, she hesitated, seeing Robert and Bill standing guard at the front. Seeing her, the boys straightened up, their expressions instantly somber.
“Hey, Joann.” They each held a door open.
Kathryn had obviously broken the “news.”
Robert searched her face, concern blanketing his own—but Joann could barely utter a hello. She continued through, and two sets of eyes followed. Two sets of eyes wondering what would happen next.
PARTY LIKE IT’S 1992
The Sylvan’s pastry chef set a golden custard on the marble countertop. Crème brûlée—a dollop of bruised sunshine, securely nestled in a circle of porcelain following a dose of flame.
Joann loved watching Stan torch the tops of these caramelized delicacies on slower nights that afforded her time to loiter in the kitchen. As long as she stood against the wall and away from the “line” or hid out in the baking nook, the crew was okay with her being there. When restaurant orders started to ramp up, she’d make a run for it, not wanting to piss off the head chef who never hesitated to scream at whoever to “get out!”
Exhale. That kind of crazy-busy would return on the 31st, but for now, all of the Sylvans could breathe—and a well-earned break was on the menu.
“How are you, sweetie?” Stan asked gently.
The handlebar-mustached strong-man produced a clean spoon from his apron pocket.
“We heard your Christmas was a bit of a bummer.”
“I’m okay. And thank you, Chef!”
Nodding, Stan set the spoon on the marble countertop. Relieved to see that he didn’t need details, Joann shifted the conversation to his gorgeous work.
Across the lobby, Finn pushed a cart through the kitchen door. French press, incoming! He stopped midway to straighten the linens. Finesse would not be forsaken, even for minor drop-offs.
Then Room Service spotted the crème brûlée. “Gee, Joann. What’d you do to deserve that? Oh, uh … sorry. Never mind.”
Joann shook her head, and his evil giggle returned.
“Christ, Finn,” Stan sighed in exasperation.
“What? I didn’t say anything.” Then as the elevator began to close, he quickly surveyed the lobby and yelled, “Penis!”
“That boy,” grumbled the chef.
When he wasn’t charming his way through something, Finn made it his personal goal to rattle the elder kitchen statesman. So far, he had not succeeded.
The chef now turned to Joann.
“So? Are you going to survive?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’m just sad.”
“Baby girl, give it time—and I bet you’ll be on the mend sooner than you think.”
“Thanks, Mister.”
Kathryn pushed through the swinging door from PBX.
“Stan!”
“Hi, darlin.’ How are you?”
“I’m good. How are you? Oooooo, did you bring treats?”
“I did, indeed. Sorry, only one spoon. When Finn comes down, tell him to bring you another.”
“Yummy! Thank you so much!”
“You’re most welcome.”
Waving, the power-house pastry god retreated to the kitchen.
“Have a good night, you two.”
Joann waved back.
“You hanging in there?” Kathryn nudged her friend.
“Yeah. I guess.”
Beep-beep-beep.
The switchboard was also having a moment, so Kathryn disappeared into PBX again.
Swish. Barbara Reddings pushed through the stair door on wobbly stilettos. Her fuchsia-houndstooth suit defied ambient lighting, but a set of audacious earrings was giving the entire ensemble a run for its money. Bold but clingy, the precious pair glittered like big-little upstarts threatening to steal the show.
Joann took a deep breath as Ms. Reddings drew closer.
Babs Reddings was the Sylvan’s matriarch-in-chief. At sixty-ish, she had persevered for years at the old hotel, and didn’t have to answer to anyone—not even the general manager.
Mr. Alexander was the figurehead, but Babs was the math. She ran the numbers, balanced the budgets, curated clients, and knew every dime, coming and going. The Sylvan controller was very much the right-hand woman of the two Seattle proprietors—a couple of moneybag misters who were content to leave her ladyship (and her calculator) at the Honduran-Mahogany helm.
Babs was all about bookings and baubles, and she was, unabashedly, the boss.
“Great shoes, lady.”
Two cocktail servers bubbled and fizzed.
“And is that … Chanel!?!”
The gay boys were up next. Word was out about a lobby “code red,” so three food servers took a break to bow down.
“Honey.”
“Sweetie.”
“Porkchop.”
They held her hands, massaged, hugged, squeezed. Then big kisses, small kisses.
Here a smooch. There a smooch. Everywhere a smooch-smooch. Not one of Ms. Redding’s cheeks was to be neglected. Joann couldn’t help but think of Sr. Annette’s English class.
This shit was right outta Pride and Prejudice.
Now for the straight boys. Jed oozed and aahed, while Todd quickly pulled Babs’s car to the doors.
Turning to Joann, the dowager frowned.
“Make sure Mr. Alexander gives you an envelope for me before he leaves. Don’t let him out the door until he does.”
“Okay, will do!”
Dubious eyes fixed on Joann through diamond-encrusted spectacles.
Likely too swift of a reply. And a major deficit in the brown-nosing department.
Damn you, Jane Austen!
Leaning over the marble, Madame Boss Lady searched for incriminating evidence of … something.
“How are things up here, tonight? What’s occupancy looking like?”
Joann rotated a list so that Babs could see the expected volumes and VIP specifics.
Adjusting her glasses, she inspected the print-out.
Swish. Stan pushed through the stair door, now in a black-leather cap, black-leather vest, T-shirt, jeans, and black-leather chaps.
Whoa! The tall muscle man looked so different out of his kitchen whites. Where was he going?
“Bell-closet keys, please, Joann.”
Stan had finished his work week, and a flour-covered uniform was ready for cleaning.
“Look at this handsome devil!”
Babs fluffed her silver perm, having lost all interest in check-ins.
A full audit of the chef began, and Joann backed away, hoping to blend in with the key boxes behind her.
“Hello, Babs.” Stan tipped his hat. “How are you?”
“Doin’ fine, cowboy. Just about to leave. Off to dinner and a big glass of wine.”
“That sounds very nice. Enjoy yourself, Ms. Barbara.”
“Todd,” the controller commanded, “I’m ready to go, now.”
“Car’s right out front, Babs.”
“Love you, my boy.”
“Aw, it’s the job. No problem at all.”
Exhale. Joann would live to see another day. She handed Stan the keys, and—
Kathryn pushed through the swinging door.
“Hey, do you know where Finn is? The kitchen’s calling—they’re trying to track him down.”
“Well, he was at the elevator a few minutes ago.”
Jed approached with bags and introduced the Howells party. Kathryn checked them in, and Joann took a seat in PBX.
Minutes later … laughter out front.
Peeking through slats in the swinging door, Joann spied Todd, Kathryn, Bill, and Bryce. Sigh. She didn’t feel up for hotel humor. But … talking to people was probably the healthy thing to do.
Joann pushed through.
“We found Finn,” Todd said, lowering his voice.
Kathryn giggled.
“He was upstairs getting stoned with Mary Ann.”
“Who the hell is Mary Ann?”
“Mary Ann. From Gilligan’s Island. Dawn Wells!”
“Okaaay … that is definitely one for the books.”
The valets nodded in approval. Finn and Mary Ann. Respect.
More guests arrived, so the Sylvans took their posts. Joann wrestled with three room switches, and 602 called to complain that his hot water wasn’t working. Kathryn promptly paged Engineering, and, minutes later, Tim emerged from the bowels of the boiler room. Swaying across the lobby, he made his way to the desk, then steadied himself at the marble countertop.
“I checked, and the hot wwwater’s fine,” he slurred. “Tell the peeeople to bbbeee patient. Sometimes it … it takes a while for … for things to heat up.”
“Yessir. Thank you.”
Staggering back across the lobby, he left a boozy bouquet in his wake.
Jeezus, thought Joann. They were off to a head start with the New Year’s shenanigans.
Five days later, it was officially shenanigans eve. At the front of the house, Joann, Kathryn, Robert, Todd, Jed, and Bryce welcomed droves of overnight revelers. George poured non-stop in the bar, and Cocktail Bitches One, Two, and Three ran back and forth with orders.
The restaurant was also hitting capacity, and a jazz quartet warmed up in an already-crowded lounge.
Lynn and Kiet were busy in housekeeping land, but found the time to make a few “drive-bys.” Even so, they kept their visits brief, lest they be caught by Mr. Alexander, who was manager on duty—or “MOD”—for the night.
On his third lobby drive-by, Kiet delivered about a pound of turndown chocolates, usually reserved for guest pillows. The housekeeper proudly plopped the contraband candy on the desk, and swish—back through the stair door. Kiet had his own rebellious ways, and sometimes he swiped gold-wrapped goodies for his favorite desk agents.
“Well, I guess we’ve got our fuel for tonight,” Joann laughed.
“No kidding,” replied Kathryn. “Oh, and we have three rooms left.”
“Great. Alexander’s gonna have a conniption.”
“Well, it’s not like we’re empty, and everyone’s paying rack rate. Plus, you just know there’ll be some stragglers who are too tipsy to drive. Hey, and maybe our ‘fearless leader’ will do us all a favor and stay in the bar.”
“Yeah. Hopefully, George can get him sloshed. Then Mr. MOD can go upstairs—and pass out ’til next year!”
Beep-beep-beep.
Kathryn ran to PBX where a switchboard was under siege. More pillows! Too many pillows! Another blanket! Extra towels! Safety pins! Bobby pins! Irons! Ironing boards! Hairdryers! Sewing kits!
Mr. Alexander, incoming.
“Have you seen my wife?”
“I don’t think she’s here, yet,” answered Joann.
“Well, we have dinner reservations!” he shouted.
Swish. His date veered through the front door looking like she was already three high-thread-count sheets to the wind.
“Where have you been? The restaurant is waiting for us. Our reservation was for ten minutes ago!” The general manager was spoiling for a fight.
And Joann was fighting the giggles. Mrs. Alexander was wearing what looked like an aluminum Christmas tree. Tufted layers of “foil” rustled on a tinny—and tiny—outfit that looked high-fashioned out of Reynolds Wrap.
Turning toward the restaurant, Mr. Alexander monologued about fine-dining decorum while his wife uttered apologies, unraveling behind.
Swish. Captain Front Desk pushed through the stair door, back from his dinner break—New Year’s Eve was one of the busiest nights of the year, so it was all hands on deck—and everyone breathed with relief. Nothing could go wrong with Brad at the helm!
The band started up again, and guests continued to flow through. At reception, three desk agents crowded in as a sheet of paper was discreetly ripped into fourths, then eighths.
“Looks like the show’s about to start!”
Kathryn scrutinized the crowd, all dressed up for the big countdown. Velvet, satin, and silks paraded in, escorted by tuxes, tails, and dapper dinner jackets.
Holding up ratings below the countertop, Brad voted each time an outfit made an entrance: FOUR. NEGATIVE TWO. SIX. EIGHT. FIVE.
A Sylvan fashion show was always fun—and just wait ’til the aluminum Christmas tree walked by!
A few minutes later, there was a break in the parade. Kathryn returned to PBX, and Joann approached the big window. Undoing the latch, she opened it ever-so-slightly.
“Hey, Robert.”
“Hey, Jo.”
“Good luck tonight.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Then Kathryn radioed for Kiet to bring someone a toothbrush, and Lynn radioed back to say that they were on strike.
“Base to Housekeeping. That is not an acceptable answer,” Kathryn sassed.
Mister Bailey joined in—and tried not to laugh.
“Valet to Housekeeping and Base. Please do not abuse this channel.”
“Housekeeping to Valet. Go park some cars.”
“Ten-forty.”
Joann smiled. What the heck was “ten-forty?” Was that even a real radio code? Regardless, Robert had recently started to switch up “ten-four.” She smiled again. Only Mister Bailey could make a radio code sound cute.
Eleven o’clock at last—and the girls were free to go. They’d intended to wait for the boys, but realistically, the valets would be dealing with vehicles until 3:00 a.m.—and there were likely no seats left at Kay’s.
Brad had a plan.
“You two should stick around! Just wait until the Alexanders head out. Wifey’s already wasted, so they’ll be leaving soon. Then you can grab a key for one of the empty rooms—and treat yourselves to a little New Year’s Eve on the Sylvan!”
“Aw, thanks, Brad! You rock!” Joann gushed.
“Well now, you two worked hard tonight,” he gushed back.
“We all did, dammit!” laughed Kathryn.
The desk agents headed downstairs to clock off and change, then returned to PBX. It was going to be an extra-long night for Brad, so they’d volunteered to help answer calls until the coast was “all-clear.”
Static. Pop. Whiiine.
Kathryn reached for a radio.
“Base to Valet, we can’t hear you. Please repeat.”
“Valet to Base.”
“Go ahead, Valet. We can hear you, now.”
“Uh, Base? Mrs. Alexander has …”
“Base to Valet. What did you say?”
“Valet to Base. Mrs. Alexander is down.”
Miss Emerson looked at Miss MacIntosh. Miss MacIntosh looked at Miss Emerson.
“Valet to Base. Mrs. Alexander is in the circle. She … she has fallen into the hedge!”
Static.
“Base, how … what should we—”
Kathryn pushed hard on the walkie-talkie button.
“Base to Valet! Pull. Her. Out.”
