Here Comes the Sun by Nicole Dennis-Benn Read Free Book Online Page B

compound, the lobby is visible through the glass exterior. Already the concierges are busy pushing luggage on carts through the marbled interior, which boasts high ceilings and large chandeliers that glower above the champagne-colored lounge and the front desk. Gone is the rustic quality that Reginald Senior upheld until his death—a natural ambience created by vibrant colors, palm trees, and artwork by Jamaican artists. Under Alphonso’s direction, tourists now have to leave the lobby and drive half a mile to be reminded where they are. Alphonso has also loaned a few abstract paintings—geometric shapes and swirling colors—from his personal collection to the lobby. The gift shop, manned by a young woman named Portia, is right across from the check-in desk and only sells picturesque views of the island; entry to the two main restaurants—Italian and French—are diagonal from one another. Margot gives Maxi a crisp bill and gets out of the car.
    â€œIf yuh evah wake up an’ need a man, yuh know who to call.” He winks at her.
    â€œI won’t ever need you, Maxi,” she says, waving him goodbye and walking away with her fluid stride that emphasizes everything she knows his imagination has already seen.
    â€œNot even on a rainy night?” he asks, driving off slowly.
    Margot laughs, holding her stomach and stumbling merrily to the entrance of the hotel. “We in a drought, so keep wishing.”
    â€œSee, if me mek yuh laugh dem way, then imagine what else me can do.”
    â€œAw, lord, Maxi, yuh nuh easy. I will see you lata.” She blows him a kiss.
    Once Margot is on the property, the hush returns. She walks toward the front desk, holding her head as high as possible. The security guards, groundsmen, and concierges are not immune to her magic; but the housekeepers and other administrative staff, mostly women, are. Visitors seem to single her out to ask for directions or recommendations. She can also hold conversations with tourists longer than any other front desk clerks, who tend to be overly polite and too eager to smile, as though apologetic for their lack of knowledge. She’s the best front desk clerk at Palm Star Resort. It’s the only job that she has ever known. But soon this will change.
    â€œMorning, Pearl,” Margot says to one of the housekeepers who happens to be signing in. The older woman draws her lips together. The two younger housekeepers—Pearl’s oldest daughter and youngest niece, respectively—nod at Margot, then look away as though embarrassed about something. Margot has an inkling that Garfield told everyone what he saw—Margot getting fucked by Alphonso in the conference room. Though this is old news—it’s one of those pieces of gossip that could easily be a myth, given how smoothly Margot plays it off. Had it not been for the mysterious occurrence of Garfield’s death shortly after—serves him right—then perhaps it would have been completely forgotten. Margot carries on with her business, greeting the lower staff whenever she has to assign them to clean vacant rooms. She makes direct eye contact that forces them to look away, ashamed for their filthy imaginations. She also dares them to retort with information they have bottled up and kept for when she writes them up. But this never happens. They keep the damning secrets among themselves. Occasionally these might slip out to new employees in the middle of spreading linen, folding towels, washing pillowcases, or emptying trash—tales of Margot’s bare backside making their rounds among shoulder-jerking, tear-eyed laughter that is an amalgamation of envy and disgust—boisterous, as though the brutes think that they’re alone and unobserved at work. But whenever she’s around, the laughter drains like the last bit of water from a bottle.
    â€œWhat oonuh laughing at?” Margot had asked Pearl’s daughter and niece one day.