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moods he had seen in the firelight of his study, and suddenly he felt a hunger to be better than he had ever tried to be, to take photography beyond the narrow boundaries he had lazily explored all these years when he was content to be little more than a dilettante.
He wanted to show what was behind the public facade of people and events; he wanted to photograph secrets: the faces behind each face, the scenes behind each scene. He wanted to make photographs in which people could find themselves and understand something new about themselves and their worlds.
For the first time, Paul wanted to do more than satisfy him-!self. He wanted to reach others. And he wanted it with a i passion that would have delighted Owen Salinger.
Emily turned up Third Avenue and he followed, content to ilet her linger when something in a shop window caught her I eye. The street was brightly lit and crowded; a solid stream of 'traffic moved in honking fits and starts, and the sidewalks on sboth sides were lined with attractions ranging from hot dog Estands to movie theaters, yuppie bars to Bloomingdale's. In jsome small shops wreath-hung doors swung open as Ichristmas shoppers and tourists came and went, and outside the bars, well-groomed young professionals talked of the evening's entertainment. In silence, Paul walked absently beside Emily; window-shopping bored him, and he paid more attention to the crowds, the sidewalk peddlers, and the bell-ringing Santa Clauses and trombone-playing Salvation Army troops on the comers.
They turned up Sixty-third, where it was again quiet, the iows of solenm brownstones like a gathering of old Boston femilies shutting out the clamorous world, and soon reached Park Avenue. Emily was talking about antique picture frames when they came to the Mayfair Regent and Paul stopped bhort.
I Leni Salinger was walking out of the hotel, smiling up at a ^eiy young man who was holding her arm. I They all saw each other at the same time. "Well, Paul," Leni said brightly, and Paul realized this was the first time he had even seen her flustered. "And Emily. Strolling in a snowstorm, how charming, somehow I didn't expect to see
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anyone . . . anyone walking on a night like this, though it isn't cold, of course, just ... Oh, I'm so sorry. Tor Grant, Paul Janssen, Emily Kent." In the brief interval as the men shook hands she regained some of her poise. "I'm quite late or we might have had a drink together. Are you on your way to dinner?"
"Le Cirque," Paul said.
"Well, we mustn't keep you. Perhaps we'll have a drink another time. I'm in town fairly often; we're looking for an apartment."
Involuntarily Paul's eyes moved to the young man's face.
"Felix and I," Leni said evenly. "We've talked about a place in New York for a long time. It does seem a slow process, though; how wise you were, Paul, to buy your apartment when you did. I'll call you one day and we'll have tea or drinks. Emily, how nice to see you; have a pleasant evening. Paul dear"—she reached up and kissed his cheek—^"I'U call you soon. Tor?"
Once again the men shook hands. "Ridiculous custom," Paul muttered as Leni and the young man walked away. "Why do I shake hands twice with a man I don't know and have not exchanged one word with and, if my aunt has anything to say about it, will never see again?"
"She's a little old for him," Emily said carefully.
Paul gave a short laugh. "He's a little young for her.'*
"I don't understand."
"He's besotted. Did you see the way he looked at her? I didn't know Leni was finding other men, though God knows she deserves them, but she needs someone who can match her in sophistication and brains, not some poor kid who's having the sexual adventure of his life."
"How can you know all that? You saw them for two minutes."
The scenes behind each scene. "That was my feeling."
They walked the few steps to an unobtrusive door beside the hotel entrance and went into the restaurant. "Poor Leni," Emily said suddenly. "I think it's very sad."
Paul gave her a quick look. "Why is it sad?"
She took off her boots and handed them to an attendant.
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and slipped on her evening shoes. "Because she should have what she wants; not what she can get. Nobody should have to settle for that."
"But if she has no choice?"
"Well, we don't know that, do we? Anyway, if women wait long enough, their dreams come true. I believe that."
'file maitre d' greeted Paul by name and led them to their table. "You mean," Paul said, "they make them come true."
She shook her head. "There's no need to be masculine and aggressive; the proper way for a woman to behave is to wait and to believe that everything she wants will come to her. Of course she has to be smart enough to recognize what it is she has in the palm of her hand, and sometimes she has to help things along once they've begun, but mostly it's waiting and watching."
Paul thought of Laura, and wondered what she was doing. Whatever it was, he knew she would not be waiting. She would be making things happen.
But Emily had a point, he thought. After all, she'd waited in Rome until he found her; she'd waited until he was ready to photograph her, and she accepted his decisions on the kinds of photographs to take; and, largely because of him, she might be on the brink of a modeling career with Eye magazine and the Marken Agency,
Then he had another thought that made him smile.
"What?" she asked.
"I was wondering if you think I'm in the palm of your hand."
She flushed. "I'd rather have you in my heart."
"Well done," he murmured. The captain brought a bottle of Dom Perignon and Paul watched absently as he opened it. "I'm going to invite Leni to tea," he said.
"Do you want me there?"
"I don't think so." He looked at her thoughtfully. In pale blue silk, wearing a sapphire necklace he had bought her in jParis, she was perfectly at home in the sybaritic luxury of the room. Self-absorbed, and willful, she still could show that instinctive sympathy for others that made her even more desirable than her pliancy and charm. She was especially desir-
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able at that moment, as Paul reflected on the image of his aunt leaving a New York hotel. Emily was right: there was an awful sadness about it, and also, Paul knew, the cruelty of long, lonely days, perhaps years, of waiting for something better, something good, something right. "But I'll tell you what I do want." He reached across the table and took Emily's hand. "I want you to marry me," he said.
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Chapter 17
THE Ninety-Fifth restaurant hovers over Chicago like a great eagle, ninety-five stories above the city at the top of the sloping John Hancock Center. From that lofty jerch the lights of the city, orange and garish fix)m the ground, )ecome amber garlands laced together in grids and long diago-lal strokes that stretch from the horizon to the dark, restless vat&TS of Lake Michigan. And it was at the top of the Han-»ck that Wes Currier hosted cocktails and dinner for two lundred to celebrate the New Year and, more importantly, the )urchase of the Chicago Salinger by the OWL Development [Corporation.
The name was Laura's idea. Currier had objected. "It sounds like a joke, and that's a red flag to bankers when you x)me to them for financing. You want something serious and »nservative and faintly dull."
"I like it," Laura said firmly. "Especially because it is a oke, my joke, and it's important to me."
Currier contemplated her. "OW from Owen," he said after a noment. "And L from Laura. I can see why you like it, but his isn't a time for games; the stakes are too big."
"Please, Wes," she said. "Symbols are important to me. I'd ike to keep this one." And so the name stayed.
Once he accepted OWL Development, Currier helped ^ura through the legal steps that made the company a corpo-ation, and Sien he arranged the financing for the purchase of he hotel by investing nine million dollars.
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The money was divided. Currier bought fifty percent of the equity in the hotel with four and a half million dollars, loani
ng Laura another four and a half million to buy the other fifty percent. Their investments also gave each of them fifty percent of OWL Development Corporation. So Laura's first debt was to Currier, for four and a half million dollars.
Currier arranged his travels so that once Laura moved to Chicago he was frequently with her, involved with every step of her work. They had spent two weekends in New York after their first one, and then Laura began traveling between Chicago and Damton's, where she was helping Kelly and John train a new assistant manager. Currier and Laura had hired an architect, and when she was in Chicago she worked with him on drawing blueprints for the renovation of the hotel from the detailed plans she and Owen had worked on together. And then Currier and Laura took the blueprints to a banker he knew well, who approved the mortgage and construction loans for the purchase and renovation of the Chicago Salinger by the OWL Development Corporation. So Laura's second debt was to the bank, for twenty million dollars.
Once the money became available. Currier had his assistant take over the negotiations to purchase the hotel so Laura's name would be kept out of it.
It was well known that Felix had been seeking a buyer for the hotel since early summer, even before the court case over his father's will was settled. But two potential purchasers had bought other buildings, and by late fall he was angry at his Realtor, short with his banker, and impatient with what he called the dead Chicago real estate market; that was well known, too. And so, when Currier's assistant negotiated with Felix's Chicago Realtor, he was able to buy the Chicago Salinger for nine million dollars rather than the ten Currier had thought it would cost, with immediate possession; the building had been empty since Felix closed it six months earlier.
Laura's name did not appear in any of the negotiations, nor on the purchase documents. Her Chicago lawyer represented her at the meetings with Felix's Chicago lawyer, everything
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was done in the name of OWL Development, and when Currier introduced her to Chicago financiers, he told them she was the manager of OWL Development's hotel. She knew that Felix would find out eventually who owned the corporation, but for now it was a secret. And she intended to keep it a secret for as long as possible, while she tried to think of ways to get control of Owen's other hotels.
"You understand the name of the hotel must be changed," Felix's attorney told Laura's attorney as they signed dozens of documents for their respective employers. "OWL Development cannot use the Salinger name at any time."
"We have no intention of doing so," he replied.
"And what will the new name be?" Felix's lawyer asked idly.
"It hasn't been chosen yet."
It had been chosen, but only Currier and Laura knew it. From the beginning, she had known it would be called The Beacon Hill. And every hotel she managed to buy, from then on, would be given the same name. The only difference among them would be the name of the city.
So, on Currier's orders, the chef of the Ninety-Fifth baked a cake for dessert on New Year's Eve in the shape of the old Chicago Salinger, with Chicago Beacon Hill lettered on the marquee in gold, and an owl perched protectively on the roof. The cake stood on a table in the foyer; it was the first thing guests saw when they arrived at ten o'clock. Men in black tie and sleek women with gems sparkling at their throats and ears hovered over the square, white-icinged edifice like children at a toy-store window, and they had to tear themselves away to greet their host who stood with Laura and Clay at the entrance to the dining room.
Clay was whispering to Laura. *The owl was my idea, but that's just between us. Wes thought up the gold letters. He thinks of gold at the drop of a hat."
"It's very sweet," Laura murmured while waiting for another stranger to come forward to be introduced. "Thank you. Clay."
"A small gesture," he responded modestly. "Since I'm going to be the assistant manager of the very posh Chicago Beacon Hill, I have to keep my boss happy." He caught
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Myma's eye across the room and winked at her. He was feeling very good.
"Laura, may I present—^" Currier said, introducing her to one of his Chicago friends as the manager of the future Chicago Beacon Hill, and Laura shook hands and smiled.
"Lovely, my dear. Exquisite," the guest said, holding her hand in his and peering up into her face. "You, too, Wes; you look fine. Wish I looked as spiffy as you in black tie, instead of like a dead cockatoo with the color washed out. You really carry it off. I like your lady. I do like your lady." He tilted his head, appraising her, and Currier, for a moment, saw Laura through the other man's eyes.
She looked lovelier than at any time in the six months he had known her, not quite as thin, though still thinner than he preferred, and her face more lively, though too often still reserved, even distant, when what he wanted to see there was pleasure, delight, laughter—and love. She wore a close-fitting dress of white satin, long-sleeved, the neckline plunging in a deep V, with a necklace of irregulariy shaped amethysts, and, at the point of the neckline, a pin that was a single iris carved of blue-violet opal with a center of gold. Currier had given enough jewelry to his women to know a good piece when he saw one, and Laura's pin was very fine. He had not asked about it—it was a rule of his never to ask where a woman's jewelry came from—but Laura had told him Owen had given it to her. As a gift, it could not be compared with the inheritance he had left her, but because it was more intimate it made clear to Currier, more than anything else, the depth of Owen Salinger's love.
He put his arm aroimd Laura's waist with a proprietary gesture that no one could miss. And when Laura leaned back slightly against him he felt the swell of pride and possession that he had not felt for a woman for a long time. He wanted to give her everything, do everything for her, take every burden from her and solve every dilenmia so she had nothing to do but lean against him and shed, forever, the guarded look that froze her features and kept her just this side of true beauty.
"Well, now, Wes." The guest, seeing Currier's arm around Laura's waist, finally relinquished her hand. "Good to see you again. You in town for long? How about lunch?"
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They made their arrangements while Laura looked through the doorway at the wall of windows in the dining room. When the guest moved on, she said, "Would anyone mind if we took time out to look at the view?"
"It*s your party; you do what you want. Anyway, I think everyone is here." His arm still around her, he led her into the dining room where groups of people stood among the tables set with crystal and silver-rimmed china, with a spray of hibiscus in the center of each, and individual flowers at the women's place settings. Most of the guests had congregated in the dimly lit Sybaris Lounge a few steps up from the main room, where a pianist played show tunes and two bartenders mixed drinks. But Laura was drawn to the windows, almost floor to ceiling, giving a panorama of orange street lights, blue office lights and white apartment lights, like a glittering toy city sharply sliced off along the side that was ti^e black expanse of the lake.
**You*re part of it now," Currier said. He was standing behind her, his hand just below her breast. "And you'll make it yours."
Laura leaned back as she had befoiie, letting herself rest against his solid strength. He had none of Paul's lean, nervous, searching energy; almost twice Paul's age, and self-made, he was methodical and rock-like, self-directed and absolutely sure of himself.
And if he was sometimes too domineering for Laura's independence, too deliberate for her impatience, too predictable for her enjoyment of the complexities in people, he was a powerful friend, steady and trustworthy. And she knew nothing was more important or valuable in fiie long run, especially if she ever wanted someone to whom to cling.
He was even good for Clay, Laura thought, glancing across the room at her brother, who was lifting his champagne glass in a toast with Myma, Currier had little tolerance for young people who did not meet his standards of maturity and responsibility, but
because of her he was teaching Clay some of the mysteries of international banking and trade, and Clay, fascinated by the size of the deals if nothing else, was absorbing it all. And, for Laura, he was doing even more: he was studying.
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For the first time Clay was willing to read a book, or a dozen books if that was what Laura wanted, and he even submitted when she quizzed him on what he read. He did most of the things she told him because she had promised him the assistant manager's job in the new hotel, but only if he could learn enough, fast enough, adding to what he had learned in Boston and Philadelphia and at Damton's. So he read and studied and didn't mind it too much, partly because of the job and Laura's pride in him, but also—he had to admit it—because Myma was really proud of him and kept telling him so. "I'll make you a tycoon yet," she exulted, and Clay didn't mind her taking the credit for his new job because as soon as she heard about it she became more passionate than ever.
For what was probably the first time ever. Clay wasn't envying anybody; he didn't feel he was just marking time until something bigger came along. I guess I'm happy, he thought.
Everyone is happy, Laura reflected, looking again at the lights of Chicago and listening to the piano music weaving through the conversations in the restaurant. Everyone is happy. In her mind she saw Owen's smile and felt the touch of his hand on her hair. Dear Owen, this is your party; you should be here to see your dreams come true.
"You're a long way off," Currier said, his Ups close to her ear. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"About dreams," she replied. She put her hand on his, her fingers lying along his short, strong ones. "Owen's and mine."
"And mine," he said. "Don't shut me out, Laura."
"I won't."
But, still, it was Owen's dream, it had been theirs together, and she longed for him. She wished she could watch him . move among the guests, towering over them, his mustache f waving as he spoke, his eyes weighing everyone, memorizing their quirks and phrases so he and Laura could joke about the party later, as they had done so many times in Beacon Hill and at the Cape.
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