Page 37 of The Haunted Hotel
“Fifteen.” He shakes his head and chuckles. “What were you doing at fifteen?”
“Well, I wasn’t doing high kicks in the hallways or pirouettes in the ballroom, but I was working in my stepfather’s hotels,” he says. “Although we had a house in the Hamptons, most of the time we lived in the penthouse suite in his flagship hotel in Manhattan. Both Warren and I had to work our way from the ground up. That meant bussing tables in the hotel restaurants, cleaning bathrooms, and changing bed linen.”
“Warren?”
“My brother.” He frowns. “Half-brother, technically, but I’ve never thought of him that way. He’s just… my brother, as annoying as he is sometimes.”
“I wish I’d had a sibling,” I muse and pick up my water to take a sip. “But back then, the hotel was a lot busier, so there was always someone to talk to or other kids to play with.”
“My stepdad, Royce, always intended for Warren and me to take over the hotel chain so he could enjoy his retirement.”
“Is that what he’s doing now?”
“He…” Morgan hesitates for a moment. “He passed away. Last year.”
“I’m sorry,” I sympathise. “Were you close?”
“We were, actually,” Morgan admits. “He was a good man. He never treated me any different from how he treated Warren, his biological child. He was warm and affectionate, but he instilled a solid work ethic in the pair of us. There was no free ride. If we wanted to take over from him, then we had to earn it.”
“Cleaning toilets and clearing tables.” I smile softly.
“Yeah.” He huffs a small laugh. “Neither Warren nor I were very happy about it at the time, but he was right. As teenagers, we started off with those kinds of jobs, but by the time I left high school and then college, there wasn’t a single role I hadn’t tried my hand at, from front desk to concierge to night manager. It gave me a fuller understanding of what it takes to run asuccessful hotel, and I understand better than most owners that every staff member counts.”
Warmth spreads throughout my chest as I listen to him speak so passionately about the hotels he grew up in.
“I guess that…” He trails off as he looks over and sees Dilys approach the table at a snail’s pace.
Dilys is a tiny little thing, with delicate bird-like bones and no meat on her at all. She walks with a stoop and looks as if she’s a hundred at least. Her porcelain skin is pale and her short, curled hair is so white it’s almost colourless. Her customary floral dress is neatly pressed and covered with a pale pink cardigan. Shuffling towards us in her carpet slippers makes the tray in her gnarled hands rattle and shake, the two wineglasses atop it quietly chinking as they knock together.
Morgan stands abruptly as if to help her, but she looks up and glares, which has him pausing.
“She’s fine,” I tell him. “I told you, Dilys is very territorial about her job. She doesn’t like people trying to take over even if they mean to be helpful.”
He sits back down, not looking convinced, and it’s kind of sweet, his manners. It shows he’s been raised well, but Dilys is very stubborn.
It’s almost painful to watch her super slow approach, the wine bottle teetering precariously as her bony hands tremble, but I’m used to it. I know Morgan is itching to rise and take the tray from her, but heeding my words, he waits patiently.
Finally, she lifts the trembling tray and slots it onto the table, then pushes it towards us. She’s so small her fluffy white hair barely rises above the table’s edge. I remove the bottle and two glasses, and she takes the tray back.
Morgan watches in fascination as she reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and retrieves a card, which she then slides onto the table. It’s a small white business card with the Ashton-DrakeManor House Hotel and logo printed on one side. On the other in gold lettering are the words:
Thank you for your custom. Please have a nice day.
“Thank you,” Morgan says awkwardly to Dilys, who is staring at him.
She nods her head in acknowledgement and then turns and shuffles back across the room, her slippers making a muted rasping sound against the floor.
“Does she talk?” he asks incredulously.
“Hmm.” I think hard. “You know, I’m not sure. I’ve never heard her speak, and I’ve been here years.”
“How old is she?” He frowns. “Surely she should have retired by now?”
“I don’t know how old she is, and it’s not polite to ask.”
“Not polite?” He shakes his head. “Isn’t her age listed in her employment records?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure if she has employment records. She’s just always been here. Come to think of it, I don’t think any of us have actual employment contracts. I know I don’t.”