by Lori Borrill
After three days together on the job, Rachel had learned that when it came to Anita, what you saw was what you got. There was nothing fake or presumptuous about her, nor was she a giddy fan girl. And after growing up in the plastic world of L.A., Rachel found it extremely refreshing.
This was exactly the kind of life she’d imagined when daydreaming about moving abroad—doing normal things with normal people who weren’t looking for something to gain other than simple friendship. She caught glimpses of that kind of life when she and Anita took their daily breaks in the employee room with the other housekeeping staff. Sure, on her first day people were reserved, not knowing what to make of her or how to act around her. But by this morning’s break, they’d all resumed what Rachel assumed was their normal banter, and she was envious of the ease with which they conversed. The coworkers talked about everything, sharing intimate details of their lives regardless of who came and went from the room. They laughed and consoled, traded secrets and insights in a way Rachel had abandoned years ago.
Too many times in her past, she’d talked like that with friends only to find her words twisted and plastered over the tabloids the following week. She’d had to learn the hard way not to open up to casual friendships, even though it went against her outgoing nature. And when she watched these men and women sharing themselves so easily, she yearned to do the same.
So often, she’d wanted to disappear from the spotlight, and on more than one occasion, she’d gone off to try life in some anonymous locale. But within a matter of weeks, boredom snuck in, and with no real skills or lasting hobbies, she’d gone back to L.A. defeated for lack of something meaningful to do. Watching them all together left her tempted to try it again.
“I don’t think I’ll win any Best Housekeeping awards,” Rachel said. “But I have to admit, there’s something calming about the work.”
Anita tossed her two pillows and cases. “It’s funny you say that, because it’s exactly the way I feel about the job.” She held a pillow under her chin while she slipped the clean white case over it. “I like that I don’t have any bosses hovering over me. I get to work on my own in the quiet of the empty rooms. And I find that busy fingers open up my creative side and help me think.”
Rachel mirrored Anita’s movements, covering one pillow then closing up the end like the woman had shown her. “Your creative side?”
“I write books in my spare time.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. My daughter Kelsey and I are trying to get some young adult fiction published. We haven’t sold anything yet, but the novel we’re working on now is our best yet. I have high hopes for it. Anyway, I spend most of my time here at work keeping my hands busy while I mentally plot and plan out scenes.” She pulled a small spiral pad from her smock pocket. “I take notes so I don’t forget the good stuff. And after dinner, Kelsey and I spend our evenings working on it.”
She tucked the notepad back in her pocket and shrugged. “We may never publish anything together. Kelsey’s the one with the real talent. But in the meantime, I’m enjoying spending the time with her. Most teenagers don’t want to hang with their parents, so I’m lucky we have the writing to keep us close.”
“That’s so cool.”
They continued putting fresh linens on the bed, Rachel tucking the corners the way Anita had shown her. Over the past few days, she’d heard dozens of stories like Anita’s as the two passed the time by chatting about all the people who worked at the resort. She was quickly putting real lives behind the faces of the staff, and it took her back to the accident that had put her here.
She insisted on calling it an accident because she’d never intentionally hurt someone, but that didn’t excuse her actions.
She’d been enjoying a long weekend at a resort in San Diego when her agent had called with what was another installment in a long string of disappointing news. They’d ended up getting into a terrible fight, and when her agent hung up on her, Rachel had been so furious she’d snapped her cell phone shut and flung it across the room. She hadn’t even seen the maid stepping from the bathroom, and the phone had hit the woman square on the temple, cutting open her head and leaving her with a mild concussion, according to the doctor’s reports.
And while it was a genuine accident, it was Rachel’s actions after the fact that had created all her problems. Instead of apologizing immediately and tending to the woman, she’d blamed her for sneaking into the room and accused her of eavesdropping. She’d let the incident further her tirade, and she’d treated the woman as if she were no more valuable than the chair in the corner.
If Rachel hadn’t been ashamed enough before, she was even more so now. As she worked to put a fresh coverlet on the down comforter, she considered something like that happening to Anita, and it nearly brought tears of shame to her eyes. She’d acted horribly, and for the first time since it happened, she began to understand why the judge might have sentenced her so harshly.
“Done,” Anita said. She pointed to the dark wood dresser and table in the room. “Why don’t you start dusting while I go tackle the bathroom?”
“Actually, how about if I do the bathroom and you dust?”
Anita waved her off. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind.”
“Really, I don’t want special treatment. Let me do the bathroom.”
“Hon, this room is a checkout. We’ve got to scrub the whole thing down. You do the next one where we just straighten up.”
“I’m serious. You’ve already shown me what to do.” She made her way to the cart in the hall and pulled on a pair of gloves. “Let me do it.”
“Well, you are a stubborn one, aren’t you?”
Rachel smiled. “Yes, actually, I am.”
Anita handed her the proper cleaning products, reminding her which one to use on the tile and which one on the mirrors, then Rachel sauntered off. Though she’d spent the past several weeks hating the judge who’d sentenced her and feeling nothing but sorry for herself, she had to admit this experience was affecting her in ways she hadn’t expected.
She thought back to the day she’d arrived here. She’d been at her lowest and had hoped something positive might come out of the stay. At the time she’d been thinking meditation, relaxation and reflection, but in this turn of events, she was beginning to find her sense of renewal through the people she was meeting and this work they shared. It was a pathetic statement to her existence that the simple task of learning how to make a bed gave her a sense of gratification. These were things other people took for granted—dreaded, even. But to Rachel it felt like…independence.
“We’re out of furniture polish,” Anita said. “I’ve got to go get more, but I’ll be right back.”
“No problem.”
Rachel stepped into the bathroom and looked around, pleased to see it wasn’t even very dirty—certainly not the mess like she’d seen in some of the other rooms. They’d already pulled all the towels and dropped them in the hamper. She’d cleared the vanity of all the complimentary products and emptied the wastebaskets. With all the clutter gone, the rest of the job seemed easier to tackle.
She considered the best place to start and decided to start with the biggest job first, which was the oversize walk-in shower. The enclosure was spacious enough for two, encased with a frameless glass door, floor-to-ceiling marble and featured a wide chrome showerhead that hung from the ceiling. It was much like the shower she had at home, large and luxurious. And today she’d find out exactly what it took to clean it. So setting the products on the marble vanity, she took the scrub sponge and spray cleaner and stepped inside.
She did as Anita had shown her, starting by spraying down all the walls then letting the cleaner soak in a bit before wiping it down with the sponge. She hummed as she worked, busily scrubbing the walls in circles just like Anita had shown her, when the click of the shower door opening caught her attention. She assumed it was Anita, but before she could turn around, she heard the whir of the pipes just before th
e heavy spray began to rain down upon her.
She yelped and moved to grab the valve, confused and shocked, and in her alarm she turned the lever the wrong way sending the steady stream into a raging storm.
Jumping and screeching, she finally managed to shut it off, but not before she was blinded from the sting of the chemicals and wholly drenched to the core. She shook her head to get the wet strings of hair out of her face, unable to touch her eyes with the harsh chemicals on her gloves.
What the hell had happened? And if Anita had accidentally turned on the faucet, why wasn’t she helping right now? She started to wipe her eyes with her forearms just as she heard the familiar snapping of a camera.
“Hey!” she called out. She swiped her arm over her face and blinked her eyes open to see a man she didn’t recognize, holding an expensive SLR camera and snapping off shots.
“Hey! What the hell—” she started, then like a blur Anita came rushing through the door, a towel in her hand and fury in her eyes.
She started screaming expletives as she pushed and shoved at the photographer, slapping the towel over his head and trying to grab for the camera in his hand.
“You get the hell out of here!” she screamed. “Get out! Get out!” She had him by the scruff of his collar and he choked and stumbled back, the camera slamming against the doorjamb as he fought to maintain his balance.
“Hey, bitch!” he cried.
It only infuriated her more, and by the time the two stumbled out of the doorway the man was ducking and holding his arms up in defense.
“I’m going, you crazy bitch!”
“Crazy bitch? I’ll have you thrown out of here!”
Then the scuffle faded out of the room and down the hall, leaving Rachel standing in the shower, cold, soaked and shaken. Her hands were trembling and she pulled off her gloves and moved to rinse them in the sink. It was only when she caught sight of her horrid reflection in the mirror that she realized what had happened. The ghostly face staring back at her would be a tabloid cover next week, another item on her long list of embarrassing moments for the grocery store checkout stands.
And as she stood pondering what ridiculous caption they’d splash over her picture, she wondered whether it was time to laugh or cry.
6
“HAPPY?”
Brett tossed a magazine on Marc’s desk then stood there angrily awaiting a reaction. Not accustomed to seeing his brother mad, Marc glanced down, curious to know what could set him off.
All Washed Up, read the headline in bold yellow letters sprawled across an image he barely recognized as Rachel. She was standing in a shower—one of theirs, he realized—the gray uniform smock hanging oddly off one shoulder. Her hair was a mess, her hands covered in soapy rubber gloves, and the expression on her face was one of shock and mortification.
To say the photo was unflattering would be like calling Mt. Everest a short hill, and as he studied it, a dozen questions began running through his head.
“This is your fault,” Brett snapped.
Marc blinked. “My fault?”
“I had this all worked out. Everything would have been fine if you’d just let me handle it.”
“What did I do?”
“That’s what I’d like to know, but Rachel won’t talk about it. Whatever happened between you two in that meeting last week, you did something to set her off. Probably one of those classic, self-righteous lectures you’re so good at. I don’t know because she’s not saying. But what I do know is she came out of it intent on proving something.” He stepped from the desk and began pacing the spacious office. “You know she sent Stefan home.”
Marc shook his head.
“Oh, yeah,” Brett went on. “She cancelled all her appointments and told her friends to stay in L.A. Then she showed up for work and insisted she and Anita share everything evenly.”
“What does that have to do with this picture?”
“She gave you exactly what you wanted. No special treatment, just like you’ve been harping on since the day she set foot here.”
“I only want what the judge ordered.”
“And that’s what you got. You wanted her to be treated like any other regular person, except you forgot one thing.” He stopped and placed his palms on Marc’s desk. “Rachel Winston isn’t a regular person. Regular people don’t have photographers following them around looking for opportunities to humiliate them and plaster degrading photos of them all over the newsstands.” He pushed up and crossed his arms over his chest. “Poor Anita is devastated. She thinks it’s her fault for leaving Rachel alone without making sure the door was shut. I already straightened that out by assuring her there’s only one person responsible for this.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He took the tabloid in his hand and studied the photo. “I don’t see how you can blame this on me.”
“Do you know how pissed off Richard Winston’s going to be when he sees this? We’d promised to keep the press away from her. And if you’d let me handle it, Rachel wouldn’t have been doing anything that could humiliate her even if the press had gotten through.” Brett paced over to the large window then turned and pointed a finger. “If he calls looking for an explanation, I’m patching him straight over to you.”
Marc opened his mouth to defend himself when a tall blonde appeared at the open doorway. She poked her head in and smiled when she saw Brett. “Oh, there you are. They said you might be here.” She glanced alternately between the two men. “Am I interrupting something?”
Brett checked his watch. “Oh, hell, I lost track of time.”
The woman stepped into the office and held out a hand to Marc. “Hi, I’m Margaret.”
Annoyed and confused, Marc accepted it, though his only response was to glare at his brother.
“You two are obviously dealing with a problem,” Margaret said, turning to Brett. “If you want to cancel, we can go out another time.”
“No, I’m not cancelling anything.” Brett stepped to her side. “I’m done here, anyway.” He pointed to the tabloid. “Someone needs to go talk to her and since it’s your mess, I vote you deal with it.”
“I—” Marc started.
“I’m not playing mediator between you two. You wanted to run this show, now you can fix it.”
Then Brett turned and led the woman out the door.
“What was that all about?” he heard her ask as they stepped down the hall. Marc had to admit he had the same question.
Throughout their lives, he could count on one hand the times he’d seen Brett this angry. It left him flustered and still not fully computing what had happened. It was only when he returned to the photo and started reading the article that the shock faded and reality began to sink in.
Obviously, a reporter had gotten through and found Rachel in this compromising position. And obviously, Brett concluded it was Marc’s fault even though he’d made it clear Rachel wasn’t to be left alone at any time while she was working. And while his first reaction was to point the finger at Jolie and Anita, one or two of Brett’s points snuck into his conscience and kept him from picking up the phone.
He stared at the photo and bit back a curse. She looked wet. How the hell had she managed to drench herself while fully clothed in a walk-in shower? He scanned over the article looking for more information when a light rap on the door caught his attention.
“Oh, so you’ve seen it,” Jolie said, stepping into the room. She had guilt written all over her face, which was far more logical than the raking he’d just received from Brett. Marc had left Jolie in charge of Rachel. She was the one who had the explaining to do.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
“Last Thursday. I would have reported it, but Rachel kept insisting it was nothing to worry about.”
A familiar annoyance came over him. “Since when does Rachel Winston call the shots?”
Jolie opened her mouth to reply then shut it when she realized she had none. Instead, she stepped into the office and to
ok a seat at his desk.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right that I should have told you. It’s just that Rachel asked us not to involve you, and, well…” She smiled apprehensively. “Rumor’s going around that you two don’t exactly get along. We didn’t want to cause more trouble. She’s been so kind to all the staff.”
He stared at his head of housekeeping, the woman who had been running the department like a well-oiled machine since before he took over the resort three years ago. The woman he’d trusted wholeheartedly and thought he’d had a good rapport with.
The woman who, when given the choice between coming to him and covering for Rachel, quickly shoved that three-year relationship aside in favor of the celebrity.
“Even this afternoon when one of the guys brought the tabloid in,” she went on, “her first concern was to make sure none of us took the blame for it.”
“What a saint,” he said flatly.
Anger and betrayal crept in to color his reaction, but when he forced himself to think clearly, he knew he had a part in this. After all, he was the one who had holed himself up in his office for a week trying to pretend Rachel wasn’t under his roof. He was the one who’d set himself up as her adversary when his primary job here was to assure the smooth operation of the resort.
And when he let the nagging voice in his head speak clearly, Brett’s words slipped in and blew away any final argument he might have had.
It was true. He hadn’t considered Rachel’s situation when he’d laid down his expectations. He’d made biased assumptions about her without understanding everything wasn’t exactly black and white. And worse, he’d let his overwhelming desire for her body stop him from doing his job.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. “Do me a favor,” he asked. “From now on, keep me in the loop on everything significant that goes on with Rachel.”
“Absolutely. I’m sorry for not doing so earlier. This is a new situation for me and I—”
“It’s a new situation for all of us. You aren’t the only one who’s made mistakes. Let’s learn from it and move on.”
