Page 1 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
PART I
ANDREW
Serafina
Present
The hotel lobby is a hive of activity already and it’s still only eight a.m.
“Morning Sera!”
“Oh hey Natalia,” I say, straightening the name badge on my freshly laundered shirt. I know it’s Natalia without following the sound of her voice—her thick Spanish accent is as recognizable as sangria, her feisty, no-nonsense personality equally as polarizing as the drink. “What time do you finish today?”
She follows me to the check-in desk, mop in hand.
“I’m almost finished, señorita. Ijust need to let the floor dr—WATCH YOUR STEP, señor!” she shrieks at one of the kitchen hands.
“Holy Mother of Mary,” she mutters, turning back to me. “That boy has a death wish, running in here.”
I shake my head, smiling, as I log into the computer. “Do you have plans for the day?”
Her face glows with pride. “It’s my granddaughter’s graduation this afternoon. A very special day. Lots of things to prepare this morning—food, decorations… it’s going to be busy.”
I pull up the guest list to see who we have checking in today. “I’m sure it will go perfectly, Natalia. You must take some photographs to show me.”
The lines in her forehead deepen. “Oh heavens, that reminds me. My daughter has ordered a… what do you call it? Um, a wall with flowers…”
“A floral backdrop?” I suggest. “They will make the photos look amazing. I’ve seen a bunch of those on Instagram—no pun intended.”
She’s about to reply when a poor unsuspecting gardener walks into the lobby.
“OUT!” she yells.
His eyes pop wide and he quickly backs out to the exit.
“No dirty boots in the hotel!” she shouts after him, then turns back to me, grumbling. “These people have been raised in barns.”
“Why don’t you head off now, Natalia? The floor will be dry soon.”
Her face lights up. “Really? Are you sure? My shift isn’t supposed to end for another half hour.”
I make a note of two guests checking in today—a regular who vacations here every couple of months, and a gentleman called Andrew Stone. We usually have notes attached to each guest profile so it’s easier to identify people and make them feel welcome, so I check Mr. Stone’s profile, but there are no notes attached to his yet. I make a mental note to research him before he arrives.
I look up. “Yes, absolutely. I’m going to be here for the next few hours. I can make sure people don’t run or slip or drag dirt through on their shoes.”
“Thank you Sera, that is so kind. But, watch out. That floor is a death trap when it’s wet.”
I reassure her everything will be fine and gently shoo her off to the staff rooms, then I turn back to the screen.
Guest-profiling is the official term for our research, although that’s really just a fancy name for snooping. We do it so we can tailor our offering to each guest’s stay and make them feel special. Then we elevate our services if they qualify for the Platinum Pool. Guests that fall into this category get more than simply a beautiful room or suite. They get our best linens, curated playlists, pillow scents and our undivided attention.
I scan Andrew Stone’s reservation and swallow. He’s booked Room 38, the Meadow Lane Suite, for four— Wait,what? Fourteennights. And he’s paid in full. That’s one of the longer stays we’ve had here in myexperience, and is usually accompanied by a long menu of preferences for wake-up calls, newspapers, dietary stipulations, assistants, cars, you name it. Here, there’s nothing.
I open up the browser and start my search. According to our customer data, this is Mr. Stone’s first stay, so we’re starting his profile with a clean slate. I try LinkedIn next. Six Andrew Stones pop up, none of whom look to be—no offense to any of them—big hitters or high earners, which this man must be if he can pay for the Meadow Lane Suite fortwo weeks.
Next, I try Facebook, Instagram and X.
Nothing.
