“Do you know much about Tony Lee?” I ask Judy Park, an older woman of Korean descent who is working Maria’s shift today. She and I spread new sheets over the king-size bed in the penthouse. All the sheets in The Montclair have a thread count of a thousand, which I’m told is what makes them so soft, but the ones in the penthouse suite have a thread count of eighteen hundred.
“His family very rich,” Judy replies.
I smooth the wrinkles off the flat sheet, wondering what it would be like to sleep in sheets this soft. “Is he from China?”
Judy nods. “He Chinese.”
“I didn’t know there were Chinese people that rich,” I say. Growing up in North Carolina, most of the Asian folks I come across are engineers or doctoral students at the universities. They don’t dress or look like Tony Lee.
Judy arches a brow. “The Lees, they in the Forbes 500. China has more billionaires than any other country except U.S. And that not include Hong Kong billionaires.”
“Does he come to the hotel often?”
She shakes her head. We finish the bedroom, and I go back outside to retrieve the umbrella from the trolley. I look about the living room to see where I should place the umbrella. I don’t want it to be overlooked, but I don’t want it to be too obtrusive either. I decide to lean it against the coat rack next to the door. That way he can grab it on his way out. I jot a thank you on a Post-it and stick it on the umbrella.
As I stand up, I hear male voices in the hallway. Rosa is still working on the bathroom, and we haven’t done the living room and dining room yet.
“You want, we come back later, Mr. Lee,” Judy offers as the man enters.
He wears a light colored three-piece suit, and I’m surprised that taupe can look so good on a man, but against his complexion and black hair, the color works well.
“You can finish,” he tells Judy as he takes off his coat. His vest hugs his body, accentuating the V-shape of his upper body. He glances at me but takes no further notice as he makes his way to the bar.
“Martini, dirty,” he says to the older gentleman who came in with him.
“Good memory,” replies his companion, taking a seat on the sofa. “So you gotta make nice with Drumm, eh?”
“That’s what my brother sent me here for,” Mr. Lee replies. “It’s a job my father and brother think I can’t fuck up too badly.”
I wipe down the dining table as quickly as I can so that we can be out of their way sooner rather than later.
The other man chortles. “Still, I’m surprised Jean-Jacques’s not out here himself. Seems a pretty important relationship since Drumm’s father could very well be the country’s next president.”
“Jean thinks Drumm and I can hit it off.”
Lee hands the man the martini but only has a glass of water for himself.
“To be honest, I think Eric Drumm is a twit—which is not to say that I think you are as well. Maybe your father and brother think you’ll do better ’cause you’re closer in age to Eric.”
I think Eric Drumm is about thirty years old. I’m not used to features like Lee’s, and he looks like he could be either younger or older than that. For some reason he feels older. Again, it’s the way he carries himself. Or maybe it’s because Drumm reminds me of a college frat boy based on what I’ve seen of him in the news.
“How long are you going to be with him?” the older man asks.
“Drumm invited me to spend a week with him. He wants to show me where he plans to develop a golf course and resort hotel.”
The men talk other business while I finish wiping down everything, dump out the wastebaskets and put new trash bags in them. Luckily, Rosa had taken care of the vacuuming first, so I’m wrapping up when Lee seems to be addressing me.
“Why is that here?”
I turn around, unsure that the question is directed at me, but he’s looking at me with those dark eyes of his. He doesn?
??t seem pleased, but maybe he’s just always on the serious side. I wonder if maybe I had dropped some trash while taking out the wastebaskets, but he glances over at the umbrella.
“Oh,” I say, “thanks for letting me use it yesterday.”
“I told you to keep it.”
“I thought it was a loaner.”