That afternoon, a hotel on the other side of town called to arrange an interview. The hiring manager sounded interested when Marcus described his eight years at the Wexley. He asked for his manager's name to verify employment, and Marcus hesitated before providing the contact information for human resources instead. The caller agreed, but the conversation cooled in a way Marcus recognized immediately.
Thirty minutes later, the hotel canceled the interview. The email referred to an internal hiring decision, although the position remained posted. Marcus made himself finish two more applications before closing the laptop. By five, he was walking toward Bellamy's because the apartment had become too quiet and because he had promised Alma he would return the extra umbrella she sent home with him the previous evening.
She accepted it from behind the counter, then turned a mug upside down on the coffee machine as if she had been expecting him. "You look like a man trying not to ask for help," she said.
"Is that obvious?"
"Only to people who have worked nights for twenty years. Sit down."
Marcus chose the booth beside the window. He could see the Wexley's brass canopy across the street, the same entrance where he had worked so long he could predict which guests would turn toward the revolving door and which would prefer the quieter side entrance. A familiar taxi pulled up and a bellman he had trained hurried beneath the awning with an umbrella. Marcus felt a sharp, unexpected grief for the ordinary work itself.
Alma brought tea before he ordered, without sugar. "That lady of yours was something," she said.
"She wasn't my lady. I just made sure she got warm."
"You think those are different things? Sometimes they're the same for an evening."
A voice from behind him said, "I hoped I'd find you here."
Marcus turned. Odessa stood just inside the door, wearing the same old coat, now dry at the shoulders, with the faded scarf folded neatly in her hands. She carried herself with the gentle self-possession he remembered, but her eyes looked more tired than they had the night before. She had come without Celeste, without a driver waiting visibly outside, and without any announcement that might have explained why she was there.
"You found me, ma'am," he said, standing.
"Please sit. I need tea, and I've had enough people standing up simply because they think I might want something."
Alma appeared with a second cup. Marcus smiled despite himself. "No sugar," he said.
Odessa laughed softly. "You're going to be unbearable if you're right every time."
They talked first about ordinary things. The weather had cleared but the river was expected to rise after days of rain. Alma's nephew had started a job repairing school buses. Marcus had seen a listing for a maintenance coordinator at a hotel near the airport, and Odessa asked what appealed to him about it rather than assuming it was beneath his ambitions. Only after the pot had been refilled did she ask whether the Wexley had contacted him.