Sharing Is Caring

I lifted the phone from its cradle. I pressed the concierge button. Settling back into the pillows, I waited while a machine voice told me all about the hotel’s offerings. I was only interested in one. When at last a real person answered, I sighed patiently as he, too, recited his required script.
“How may I be of service to you today?”
“Is there a young woman standing in the lobby?” I asked. The pause on the other end of the line made me smile. “She’s wearing a pale pink blouse and a knee-length, flowered skirt. Tennis shoes, probably white. Definitely no flip-flops or sandals. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail with a sheer white scarf.”
“Uh… um…” the concierge hemmed.
“Call her over. Her name is Abigail.” I chuckled as the man stammered, barely whispering the woman’s name. Clearing his throat with a harsh cough, he tried again. Louder. I heard her response.
“Yes?” She sounded like she always did. Innocent. A little scared, but still hopeful.
“Ma’am, there’s a call for you.”
“Here?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her tennis shoes made the slightest, dull flop sound on the marble-floored lobby. I listened eagerly as she approached. Holding my breath, I rehearsed, again, what I was going to say.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“Abigail, your letter was shameful. The language, how vulgar! But, no fear, I understood exactly.” The choking sob she held back amused me. She hadn’t predicted my call. Not here, at least. “Read between the lines, so to say. Oh, and don’t worry about Timothy. I spoke with him earlier. No need to call him and explain the misunderstanding—you know, sending me the wrong letter. I already did. Showed him exactly what he meant to you. He had some rather coarse things to say about your language, as well. And, your lineage. Seems he’s under the impression your parents were canines.”