Chapter 27
Ellen was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking at her hands. Sometimes she lifted one to wipe at the tears that ran down her face; otherwise she just let them flow. Her hand was already healing. She could see that the smaller scratches were less red. It was a betrayal, almost, because she’d just torn everything inside her wide open.
The sun hadn’t yet risen when she decided that whatever the state of her visa, the Boston Rosette had a conference starting in two weeks, and she’d missed two days of planning already. Perhaps the ethereal silence of the office and the hum of her computer would be soothing.
Her skittishness about taking the stairs from the parking garage was back, so she waved at the night guard on the gate and walked through the front doors of the hotel. She figured there was about a one in twenty chance that someone she cared about would be on duty.
Just her luck: it was Francesca. The lobby was deserted, so she was spotted right away. “Elena!” Francesca called, hurrying out from behind the counter. Ellen flinched and then covered it up with as much of a smile as she could muster.
“Ciao, cara,” she said, ready to submit to Francesca’s usual big hugs and European cheek-kisses.
But Francesca pulled up short when she was five feet from her. Ellen had forgotten about her face; her hair was in a ponytail, and she hadn’t replaced her bandages. The bruising was probably quite spectacular. Francesca’s eyes immediately filled up. “Oh my shit,” she breathed, covering her mouth with one hand, and reaching out the other to Ellen. “It is terrible.”
Ellen let her touch her cheek. Her touch was cool and uncomplicated, and Ellen was grateful for it. “It looks worse than it is. It doesn’t even really hurt now. I’m sorry, I forgot to—”
“You are sorry! Ellen, always with the sorry!” Francesca’s tears were falling onto her blouse.
“Honey, stop, please; you’re going to get yourself all messed up, and you’ve got four hours of your shift to go.” Ellen brushed at the wet patches on Francesca’s shirt. She also wanted her to stop because it made Ellen want to cry again.
Francesca made a half-hearted attempt to stem the flow, mopping her face the way Ellen had been doing earlier. “But why are you here? It is so early!”
“I...” This was what she didn’t want to have to explain. “I didn’t have a good night. I thought I could start making up the days I missed in peace and quiet.”
Francesca fixed her with a hard stare. “Your eyes are red also; not from the attack, I think.”
Ellen looked over at the reception desk. Right now a nice shift-work job, with no need to make plans for the future, just figuring out what hours you’d be working this week or next, sounded so good she could have put her head down next to the phones and wept. “No,” she admitted, unable to look at her friend. “But not now, okay, please?”
“Okay,” Francesca said slowly. “It is very bad, then?”
“It was... inevitable.” That was what she kept telling herself.
“Now I am sorry, cara.” Francesca did hug her then, her small frame somehow enveloping Ellen’s tall angles. Ellen gave in to it for a long moment, then pushed her gently away.
“All right, enough with the pity party,” she said, sniffing. “Can I grab some tissues?”
She was almost at the elevators when Francesca called, “I have not heard you say ‘honey’ before.”
Ellen closed her eyes. He’d been right: how could she go back?
• • •
A stack of messages sat on her desk, and her voicemail light was blinking. Dropping her purse under the desk, Ellen picked up the top message.
It was addressed to Jon and was from a big client. “Stephen Oakes says if Ellen doesn’t have a visa, you’d better get her one quick.”
The next one said, “Trainor Electronics says if Ellen goes, so does he.”
“Barton Laing says he’ll hire Ellen if you don’t want her.”
And so on. Still reading them, but unable to believe her eyes, she pressed the button on her phone to retrieve her voicemail. Lucía’s voice, from late on Thursday night, came out loud and clear. “Ellen, I’m sorry. I was really pissed today, and this just took me by surprise. Don’t let’s let business mess up our friendship. Call me, okay? Let’s go punch something.” Then from the following morning, high-pitched, frantic: “Is this you? On the TV? They’re saying your name but I can’t—Why aren’t you answering your cell phone? It is you! Oh God,Ellen! Are you okay? Where are you? Call me!”
Then there were messages from other clients, some about the article, some checking on her after the mugging. Some were forwarded from Jon’s voicemail.
And then she heard Claire’s bare, clipped tones. “Yes, hello, Ellen,” she began. “Well, obviously we’re all very sorry about what happened last night. We’re... very, very sorry.” It was about as human as Claire had ever sounded. “So, obviously, take your time coming back to work. The CIS only made us go back four years, and they’re satisfied we’re not breaking any rules. And Jon’s put in a request to get you on the list for a green card. If you want it. So... feel better. Give me a ring when you get back.”
It was Claire’s stiff, impersonal voice that finally made Ellen believe that she really wasn’t being thrown out of the country. But the next message was even better. It was Tony Stephanopoulos: the chairman of the hotel chain and one of the people at her table at the Queen’s Ball. “Ellen, my dear,” he said in his Greek accent, “I am in Bangkok, and I just heard. We will fix this. You are a credit to this hotel, and I have told Jon that I will make you hotel manager myself if this is what it takes to get you to stay. Do not worry. And next year may I suggest stuffed grape leaves for an appetizer?”
Ellen put the phone down carefully, got up on rather shaky legs, and went into the kitchen. She picked up the kettle, took a step to the sink to fill it, and then sank into the nearest chair, the kettle still in her hands, crying with relief.
