Free Mother's Day by Patricia MacDonald Page B

brochure back across the desk. “I probably will be here a week,” she said hesitantly.
    “It’s a good deal,” said Eddie. “You’d pay as much for four nights.”
    “Okay.”
    “How many people?”
    “Just myself.” The woman passed her plastic card across the desk.
    “Okay, Miss…Emery,” said Eddie, reading off the card. “I’ve got room 173 for you. Ground floor, near the soda machine, but private.”
    “It sounds fine,” she said.
    “Ever been to Bayland before?”
    Linda smiled wryly. “Not for a long time.”
    Valerie cleared her throat loudly.
    “Well, it’s a nice little town. Enjoy your stay.”
    “Thank you,” said Linda, picking up her bag.
    Eddie walked out from behind the counter and scrutinized her. “There’s a lot of places to eat in the area if you’re hungry.”
    “I’m not,” said Linda shortly, taking the key he held out to her. “Excuse me.”
    As soon as Linda was out the door, Valerie jumped up from her seat, tossing aside the dogeared magazine. “You scumbag,” she cried. “You were coming on to her.”
    “I was doing my job,” he said.
    “Don’t tell me. I know what you were up to. I know you.” Valerie raised her hand as if to slap him, and Eddie grabbed her wrist and twisted her forearm.
    “Let me go!” Valerie yelped.
    “I’m sick of you coming in here, Val,” he muttered.
    “That woman wouldn’t be bothered with you in a million years,” she shot back. “She wouldn’t spit on your ugly face.”
    Eddie gave her arm an extra twist until she whimpered, and then he pushed her away. “Get lost,” he said.
    Valerie rubbed her arm ruefully, jammed her cigarette in her mouth, and drew herself up with whatever dignity she could muster. “I’m right,” she said. Slowly she walked over and pushed open the motel door and looked either way, as if expecting to see some sort of performance going on in the parking lot. Eddie knew what she was doing. She was waiting for him to call out to her to come back. It was always the same with them. When he remained silent, Valerie turned and looked at him with a haughty glare. She took the cigarette from between her lips, dropped it on the carpet in the lobby, and crushed it with her shoe. Then she hurried out the door as he yelled out, “You bitch.”
    Eddie picked up the still smoldering butt, Valerie’s orange lipstick greasy on the filter, and deposited it in an ashtray. Then he stared at the black patch in the rug where the cigarette had been defiantly ground out. He had some spot remover in the janitor’s closet. He’d better get it and clean the mess up.
    Eddie went back behind the desk. The Red Sox were losing, 9-3. Disgusted, he snapped off the set and took out a paper clock with movable hands on it that said “Back in…minutes” around the clock face. Eddie moved the paper hand to five and hung it in the doorway. Then he locked the door and hurried down the outside sidewalk to the janitor’s closet at the end of the first corridor of rooms.
    He found the spot remover and closed the closet door. As he emerged from the janitor’s closet his gaze was drawn to the lit room where the ice, soda, and snack machines were. A woman was in there, getting ice. It was room 173.
    Eddie walked over and pushed the door open. “Hi there,” he said.
    Linda Emery jumped and let out a cry. Ice bounced out of her bucket and cracked on the tile floor. “Don’t sneak up on people,” she said angrily.
    “Sorry,” he said, looking down at the puddle of water around the machine, now studded with ice cubes. “This thing is leaking. We’re waiting for the guy to fix it. Here, let me get you some fresh ice.”
    “That’s not necessary,” said Linda.
    “How’s your room?” Eddie asked, leaning against the door frame.
    “Perfectly adequate. Would you mind getting out of my way?”
    Her tone was imperious, but Eddie could see fear in her eyes, which sent a pleasant sensation of excitement surging through him.