Sharon Baker wasn’t typical of most interns. She was older, around thirty, and professionally attired in a gray business suit, a far cry from the high school or college kids who usually interned at the Hotel. Sharon was about five and a half feet tall, with a light complexion and dark, short hair with finger waves running through it. Her face was angular, but her full lips softened the sharp lines. Her eyes were dark and intelligent and rather regal.
The riddle of her internship grew as Am listened to Sharon and Kendrick talking. She wasn’t a homemaker entering the work force or someone looking for a career change, but a graduate in the Master of Professional Studies program at Cornell University, Kendrick’s alma mater. They didn’t do a Masonic handshake for one another, but Am felt a certain clubbiness in the air—whether it was there or not.
Sighing, Am waited for old home week to end. Because he knew that theory was so different from practice, he liked to tease hotel school graduates, saying that hotel programs thrived in those schools that emphasized major collegiate football. He had learned the trade while on the job, working in hotels for the six years it took him to earn a degree in philosophy, and in that time not one guest had asked him about nihilism or existentialism or logical positivism. They cared more about a clean room, a comfortable bed, and soft towels.
While at the university, Am thought of his hotel jobs as way stations between more important ventures. It was only after graduation, when he took the grand tour around the world, that he began to see innkeeping in a different light. There were times in his travels when nothing mattered so much as the haven of a well-placed bed. A good inn, Am discovered, was a sanctuary, a godsend, and with that epiphany he returned to San Diego, a born-again believer in the hotel trade.
Sharon’s talking to Kendrick gave Am the chance to observe her. And the more he looked and listened to her, the more he kept thinking she arrived with the caption “What’s wrong with this picture?” Finally she took notice of his scrutiny and turned away from Kendrick to return Am’s gaze.
Kendrick noticed their eye contact. “Mr. Caw-field,” he said, “will be seeing to your work program.”
She tilted her head slightly. Her brown eyes weren’t as deferential as the movement. They challenged, and behind them was almost a smugness. Am had noticed that Kendrick hadn’t mentioned a word about her helping him with security. Of course not. He had the feeling that Sharon wouldn’t be jumping for joy when she learned about her duties.
After thanking Kendrick for his time, she left him with all the right parting words. The GM wasn’t oblivious to her charms; he looked about as contented as a dog getting his hindquarters scratched. Turning to Am, Sharon motioned with waving hand, inquiring, “Shall we?” Am fell a step behind as she led the way out of the office and down the hall, moving forward as if she knew the path better than he did.
“You have an unusual name,” she said. “Am.”
Kendrick never called him Am. His “Mis-tah Caw-field” was indictment enough. Am wondered where she had heard it spoken.
“It’s an abbreviation of sorts,” he said.
“For what?”
“Long story,” he said, “and I’d rather hear yours. So far it doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Your interning. People like you are supposed to step out into high-powered jobs.”
She arched one eyebrow. Am had always been envious of those with that talent. “Haven’t Cornell graduates ever worked here before?”
“Sure. They come in here thinking they know everything, and then we go about training them. Generally they take just a little bit longer than high school grads to learn.”
His words were light, joking, but Sharon wasn’t anywhere near a smile. “I also have an MBA,” she said, a hint of superiority in her voice.
“In that case I’ll speak slower,” Am said.
“Maybe,” she said with false sweetness, “you should consider not speaking at all.”
“Partners in crime need to communicate.”
“Partners in what?”
“The hotel security director just quit. We’re the replacements.”
“I don’t think my talents will be best utilized,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “by having me walking around saying ‘Ten-four’ into a walkie-talkie.”
“With so many talents,” said Am, “I still find it hard to understand why you’ve chosen to intern at all.”
“Have you ever spent a winter in Ithaca, New York, Mr. Caulfield?”
“No. I’m a born-and-bred Californian.”
Sharon gave him a knowing, if not very complimentary, look. “Ithaca gets more snow than most of Alaska,” she said. “I promised myself to go to a place that was warm, a place where there wouldn’t be any snow.”
“Ever consider a vacation?” he asked.
“I expect to be enjoying myself while I am here. I also figure two or three months of operational experience will look good on my résumé.”
“Two or three months,” said Am. “Gee, by that time you should know everything.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “Security holds little interest for me.”
Her attitude, Am realized, echoed his own of just a few minutes past. Instead of explaining, he had acted like Kendrick. Belatedly he tried to appeal to her. “Sometimes management is filling in,” he said.
“Ever hear of delegating?” she asked.
His reasonableness vanished. “Thanks for volunteering.”
Her jaw tightened. Then she relaxed. Somehow Am knew she wasn’t capitulating, though, merely reformulating her plans, whatever those were.
“It couldn’t be short for am-enable,” she said.
For a moment Am wasn’t sure what she was talking about; then he remembered that Sharon had asked about his nickname. She wasn’t easily distracted.
“No,” he agreed.
“Amoeba? Amentia?”
He stopped her, doubting seriously whether she would come up with anything flattering. He had forgotten he had another name. Even his parents called him Am now. The renaming had occurred over fifteen years ago.
“No. And it's not some exotic name.”
“So, what is it?”
He opened his mouth to tell her, then held back. There was something about Sharon that wasn't forthcoming. He decided he should be the same way with her.
“You're a hotel dick now,” Am said. “Figure it out.”