Free You Don't Know Me by Nancy Bush

luggage.
    “I travel light,” Denise added, handing over the keys. She was wrinkled and sore, and longed for a shower, or better yet, a thick bubble bath surrounded by candles.
    She strode inside the hotel, hit by air-conditioning so cold, it felt like it would freeze her in midstride. She made a minor sensation at the check-in desk when spied by the obviously new girl on duty. The more seasoned employees were discreet to the point of absurdity, acting as if she were a longtime customer but trying their damnedest not to seem too interested in her.
    Denise was used to it, but her internal radar for fakery, always on high alert, picked up every nuance, every sidelong look, and overly disinterested attitude. Only people who truly didn’t recognize her acted normally. Perversely, upon encountering them, Denise wanted to shout: Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you recognize me? I’m Denise Scott, you uninformed shit!
    “The California Suite is one of our nicest.” The clerk smiled, handing her a key. She was young and possessed of curly, black hair and a practiced smile and even more practiced self-possession.
    Denise sized her up. “But it’s not the nicest.”
    “Pardon?”
    “What’s the nicest suite? The best?”
    “Our Presidential, ma’am. But it sleeps twelve. There’s a center suite with four bedrooms, one on each—”
    “I’ll take it.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    Feeling bitchy all over, Denise sighed and said, “You have nothing to be sorry about. Just put me in the Presidential Suite and all will be well.”
    Now all the employees were listening. Hands stilled over keyboards. Conversation ended. Denise fantasized ears growing huger and huger as they all sought to eavesdrop. She made it easy for them. “Is there a problem with that?”
    “I’m afraid it’s been booked,” the girl said in a chastised voice. “For over a month.”
    “Is it occupied at this moment?”
    “The guests are arriving late this evening.”
    “Then they’ll have to go someplace else.”
    Silence. Utter silence except for the soft gurgle of water from the circular fountain in the center of the foyer. Why are you doing this? she asked herself, panic starting to itch beneath her skin again. Why?
    “Could I help you, Miss Scott?” a friendly male voice asked from behind her left shoulder.
    Turning slowly, Denise encountered a serious-eyed man in a green golf shirt that sported the Desert Paradise Hotel logo: a saguaro blooming with tiny white flowers.
    “I’m Brent McCaffey, general manager of Desert Paradise.” He introduced himself, offering his hand, which she accepted warily. “The party in the Presidential Suite paid in advance. It’s a fiftieth wedding anniversary and they’ve also booked several other suites and a dozen or so hotel rooms. Actually, they also wanted the California Suite, but Maggie”—he pointed to the girl Denise had argued with—“thought we should keep at least one suite open, if possible, in case someone important stopped in at the last moment.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Would you like the California Suite?”
    Suddenly, Denise was weary. Bone weary. Soul weary. She’d driven straight from Houston without sleep. She didn’t even know what day it was. “Why is it called the California Suite?” she asked.
    “I don’t know,” he admitted, holding out a hand to Maggie for the key as he sensed victory. “Let me show it to you.”
     
     
    She had no extra clothes or shoes or cell phone or toiletries. The events of the past few days blurred into a dusty gray haze. Brent McCaffey was speaking as he opened the door to the suite but the words were indistinguishable to Denise. She answered him but knew not what she said.
    Fifteen minutes after leaving her alone, McCaffey knocked on the door again. Denise could barely find the energy to slide off the chain lock, then was pleased and touched to realize he’d brought her several votive candles from the gift shop. She’d made