But that was another dream he had: to share his last years with someone he loved and could teach, who would make his other dreams real after he was gone. He died believing that. I did that for him.
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And so, at midnight, when Currier kissed her she smiled at him with an openness he had not seen before. "H^py New Year, Wes. With ail the wonderful things we have to look forward to."
"Together," he added. "Everything. Togetiier." And when they kissed again, he thought she understood he was talking about marriage.
Laura didn't realize it until late the next morning, the first day of the new year, as she woke slowly in her suite in Chicago's Mayfair Regent. Her eyes still closed, she reviewed the paurty in her mind. She felt again her flush of excitement as the guests toasted her and she stood alone beside the piano, a few steps above them, her white satin dress catching the hght and glowing almost like a blue-white diamond. She saw again Clay watching Myma with mesmerized eyes, the architect circulating among the guests talking widi professional satisfaction about the brilliant hotel they would soon create, the investors who, even at a party, tal^d about cost per room and compared die Beacon Hill to other hotels recently renovated on Chicago's Gold Coast. And she remembered the New Year kiss she had shared with Currier, passionate and affectionate, with thoughts of the future. Together.
She opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was the lake, deep blue under a clear, cold January sky. The room was cool, and Laura stretched out in the warm bed, enveloped in the comfort of the room's muted colors and soft fabrics. Currier had rented the suite for a month so she could stay there while looking for a place to live. The rooms overlooked the deep curve of the Oak Street Beach and the Outer Drive, stretching north, one side bordered with beaches, parks, and the high waves of Lake Michigan, the other lined with a solid wall, miles long, of apartment buildings. Gazing at them from the elegance of her room, Laura thought of the Beacon Hill. She couldn't believe Currier assumed she would give it up to marry him. She moved restlessly. He must know she wouldn't. Which meant he thought they would be married and she would stay with the hotel. Well, why shouldn't she do that? Because he would want her to travel with him and, slowly, a trip at a time,
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she would lose touch with the hotel in Chicago and never get to the other three.
But that wasn't even the most important reason. I don't want to marry Wes, she thought. I don't want to marry anyone. I have something to do that's more important than anything else, and I wouldn't marry anyone . . .
Not even Paul? If Paul came back, the warmth in his dark eyes embracing her, his deep voice saying, "I'll be one of those husbands who happily follows his wife from job to job . . ."?
She pulled herself up in a tight ball, to stop the pain that still struck her when she let herself remember. / have to stop this. It's the first day of a new year, a time to turn to new ideas and new thoughts. A time to turn away from old ones. But just the week before, she had finished reading a book that haunted her, especially one line, about a woman who cannot have the man she loves. "There would always be a little dry patch in her heart, hungry for the sweet sunmier rain of his voice." The words stayed with her; she recognized herself.
Well, then, there will be that dry patch, she thought. And Paul will be part of it. And everything I do from now on will circle around him because he will not leave.
Or perhaps I am holding him there because I want to believe that love endures, even a love that brings pain. Even a love that lives in a desert, and must be circumvented, because I have to make a new life.
A new life. A new year. New thoughts and feelings, new friendships and sex and work. She thought of the Beacon Hill and all she had to do. And, beyond it, the New York Salinger, the next one she intended to buy. And after that . . .
She stretched restlessly. Once again she was part of the present and thinking of the future. And she wanted to get started. She had so much to do, so many plans, so many steps to take to get back what Owen meant her to have.
Half-awake, Currier put his hand on her breast. *Too early to get up."
"It's getting late; almost five-thirty," she said slyly.
His eyes flew open. "You woke me at five-thirty on New Year's Day?"
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1 wanted to ask your opinion about the new plumbing in the Beacon Hill bathrooms— "
"God damn it, Laura— ** He saw her mischievous smile, and he laughed as he pulled her to him. 'Tou had other kinds of plumbing in mind."
**I must have," she murmured and came to him with a passion that was as much a determination to live a new life as it was gratitude for his love and what he gave her. He knew how much she had to do, and he knew she wanted him to share it; he would understand why she couldn't many him. He always understood. She was beginning to count on &t.
**No woik for you today," he said later as he stepped from the shower in his bathroom. "It's a holiday, and we're going for a walk."
"WhereT** She was in the other bathroom, pulling on the heavy terry robe the hotel provided for the use of its guests. How many of these are stolen? she wondered. Fll have to ask the manager.
**Wherever real tourists go."
By day and night, the trees that lined north Michigan Avenue sparkled with festoons of tiny white Christmas li^ts. The stores were closed, but still there were crowds strolling past the Ottering windows of Marshall Field's and Saks; gazing at the haughty mannequins in I. Magnin's and the jeweky at Tiffany's; photographing the old water tower, a survivor of the Chicago fire silhouetted against the modem gray marble of the Ritz-Oolton hotel; and riding in horse-drawn carriages driven by top-hatted, black-caped coachmen. Currier and Laura walked up the avenue to the river, bending against the wind that whii^ed their coats about their legs, then turned back. A block firam the Mayfair Regent, thou^ they were chilled, Leuira turned east, to the empty building that had been the Chicago Salinger.
They stood in silence, contemplating it. "It's a lot more attractive with icing," Laura said with a small smile, thinking that few things are as sad as an empty building, brooding in tiie midst of a city's vibrant life. "But wait," she added. "In a year no one will recognize it."
*^ot even the plumbing," Currier agreed, smiling. He put his arm around her. "Each time I see tilie plans I'm more impressed. Owen was a visionary. And so are you."
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She shook her head. **I don*t know enough to be one; this hotel will be Owen*s vision. And my fantasies, brought to life."
He looked at her thoughtfully. "If you really do that, you'll be a brilliant success."
Laura hugged his words to her in the next weeks, as the plans were finished and bids were let and work was begun. In mid-January she rented an apartment in a graystone Victorian six flat in the DePauI area. Its windows looked across the street at other Victorians, and when the wind shifted she could hear the rumble of the elevated train two blocks west, but the apartment had large rooms with high ceilings and carved moldings, a real fireplace, and an extra bedroom for | her office. Best of all, she liked the DePaul University neighborhood. The faculty lived there, and working couples, and the area was always alive with people whom she came to know: young families with small children in strollers, older chil(ben building snowmen, teenagers walking from the nearby high school beneath tall, winter-bare elms to sit on creaky swings on their front porches or temporarily take over their parents* living rooms. It was more like a small town than a city; in many ways it reminded Laura of Beacon Hill in Boston and the small village of Osterville on Cape Cod. And when Clay and Myma rented a two-room apartment less than a mile away, it became home.
"Why don't you like Myma?" Clay demanded soon after they moved into their apartment. He and Laura were riding the bus along the lake to die hotel, and she had been scanning a list of suppliers she had appointments to see.
She tucked the list into her briefcase. "I do like her. I don't love her.
"
"Why not?"
"Do you?"
"What difference does that make? We're talking about you."
"Do you love her. Clay?"
"I'm living with her."
"Clay."
"WeU, I probably do. I mean, it's hard, isn't it, to know whether you're in love with somebody or just excited about her? Are you in love with Wes?"
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'*No, but I like him, I like being with him, and we*re working together, in a way. Do you like Myma?"
"Sometimes. She pushes a lot, you know, and that's a pain in the ass, but she's fun to be with, and she lights up like a little kid when I buy her presents, and she gets very grateful—"
"You buy her a lot of presents, don't you?" Laura asked.
His voice grew wary. "Why shouldn't I?"
"You should, if that's what you want to do." She had meant to ask him where he got the money, but she changed her mind. She thought about it frequently, knowing what he had earned at Damton's and what she was paying him through OWL Development, but he was twenty-three, and even though he often acted younger than his age, she couldn't press him with questions as if she were his mother or guardian. "But I don't hear much about any presents she buys you," she said.
"She doesn't have to buy me things. She knows how to make me happy. She really does care about me—and who else does, except you? I remember a long time ago Ben said he'd always take care of us, and I thought, so what's the big deal; when I grow up I won't need him. But you always need somebody, don't you?"
"Yes." The bus lurched to a stop in the heavy traffic, and Laura was thrown against him. "Especially somebody with a strong shoulder," she said with a smile.
"You heard from him lately?"
"No. I will, though. I always get a card on my birthday."
*That's next week. Does he know we're in Chicago?"
"I wrote to him about buying the hotel, and I sent him my address. And I told him you said hello."
"What for, danm it! I didn't tell you to do that."
She was silent.
"I don't want to have anything to do with him!"
*Then all these questions are a little odd," she observed.
"Well . . . shit." He shrugged. "You don't just forget somebody ..." His voice trailed off.
"You don't forget your brother," said Laura. "No matter what he's done." The bus reached their comer, and they jumped up and pushed open the center doors to alight.
Judith Michael
Each day, as they approached the hotel from Michig Avenue, it looked new to Laura, as if it were being tran; fonned, and more her own. In fact, except for the new windows that had been installed, the outside always looked the same; cleaning the bricks and limestone and putting in new doors and the marquee would come last. Now everything was happening inside, where walls had been torn down, and plumbing and electrical wiring were being relocated, to transform two hundred and fifty rooms into one hundred large bedroom-sitting rooms, thirty suites, and a penthouse suite with its own terrace. This day, as they walked the block from the bus stop, Qay exclaimed, "The marble's here!" and they stopped to look at the wrapped slabs that would line the walls of the bathrooms and form countertops and whirlpool tubs. All the marble was the same: a soft dove gray shot with dark green and blue; the fixtures would be white, the towels blue. Every room would have two bathrooms, but they would be identical—^'*so either a man or a woman will feel comfortable in them,** Laura had told Christian DeLay, the president of the design firm she and Currier had hired. "I don*t want one of them to be a pink and gold boudoir, and the other one to look like it belongs to the Chicago Patriots football team."
"Chicago Bears," DeLay corrected her scornfully.
"Bears," she repeated thoughtfully. "Fll remember that.| Fve been living in New England, and I got used to the Patriots. Peiii^>s you'll tell me other things about Chicago, too, so I won't feel like an outsider."
He resisted her smile. She was an outsider, and she was making too many design decisions on her own, instead of deferring gratefully to his expert advice. "Many people don't like blue towels," he said, returning to the subject of the bathrooms. 'They think only white looks clean."
"But I talked to the salespeople at Marshall Field's, Laura said, "and they told me they sell more towels and sheets in colors than in white, so that must be what people like."
"In their homes, perii^w. Not in their hotels."
"But this isn't their hotel. It's mine. And I think blue will do very well."
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He frowned, breathing annoyance, thinking someone should have taken a strap to this young woman when she was young. "Just as you like," he said.
Laura gestured to one of the straight chairs in her temporary office. "Would you sit down for a moment? And tell me something. You own your design firm, is that right?"
Still standing, he nodded stiffly. "And Mr. Currier recognized our excellence by bringing us into this job— '*
"Mr. Currier and I made that decision together." Her voice was gentle. "I'm trying to make a point. You own your company and you're proud of it, and you don't like others telling you how to do your job."
"Exactly. My point exactly."
"And mine," Laura said even more softly. "I've never owned anything in my life, you see, until now. And I'm so proud of this hotel, and so excited about what we can do to make it perfect, that I want to be part of everything in it. I care about all the decisions, from toilet paper and towels to carpets and the concierge's desk." She smiled, a little wistfully. "I can't help it; it's a dream come true for me and I'm afraid of missing any of it. But I do need your help. I want to leam; otherwise I can't really be part of everything, and it won't be like a dream at all. . . ."
DeLay melted. He sat down. He smiled.
"And also," Laura added, "I plan to buy three more hotels in other cities. If we work well together, I see no reason why you shouldn't design all of them."
He sat straighten What a pleasure it was to do business with her. "Perhaps we might begin with upholstery samples," he said. "There is a wide selection."
Laura gave him a smile he remembered the rest of his life, and his answering smile was still warm on his face as he spread large squares of fabric on the desk and a work-table standing at a right angle to it. Decisively, Laura rejected twenty of them. "What I have in mind is the same thing I said about the bathrooms: I want to stay away from stereotypes of masculine or feminine. If we could combine ! them in some way—very bright, very bold, and comfortable for both men and women so everyone will feel at iiome ..."
Judith Michael
He nodded sagely. "An interesting idea. Something neutral, then, like this one, simple gray and blue."
"Perfect for soldiers in the Civil War," Laura said with a smile. She took scissors and a box of crayons from her desk. "May I cut these samples into pieces?" Without waiting for an answer, she began to cut the fabric into strips. "K we could put some patterns together ..."
In the end, the carpets were custom-made by Couristan in silver gray with an overall pattern of violet and gold fleurs-de-lis, similar to an iris but not floral, and £)eLay sent the same design to Essex to be made into matching draperies. From then on, each morning, he appeared in the old manager's office Laura was using until it fell to the workers' sledgehammers, and the two of them reviewed samples, met with suppliers, and made hundreds of decisions, large and small, that determined the furnishings, the design of each room, the look of the lobby and restaurant, and the decor of the tea lounge a few steps up from the lobby. With DeLay's advice, Laura chose Henredon furniture upholstered in a lustrous, tightly woven fabric of silk and wool in solid colors of blue violet, white, old gold, and dark green—the colors of the iris. The other furnishings were antiques brought in by dealers who spent hours with Laura and I>eLay, and then hours more done with Laura, bargaining on prices.
Other representatives came from Hermds, Clinique, Sebasti
an, and half a dozen other companies to woo her so she would choose their specially packaged products for the bathroom/dressing rooms: shampoo, conditioner, hand lotion, tissues, emery boards, bath gel, toothbrush, razor ... the lists grew longer as Laura asked for more and the salespeople promised more in order to get their products into the European-style hotel that was already the talk of Michigan Avenue. The rumors were that the owners were sparing no costs to make it intimate and luxurious, providing decor and service far more personal than that offered in the Hyatt or Marriott or any large chain hotel, and that the costs would require its room rates to be so high only the wealthiest could stay there.
Other manufacturers came when Laura sent for them, and
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from the best she chose television sets, radios, and videocas-sette players, terrycloth robes, carafes and tumblers for bedside tables, hairdryers and built-in makeup tables with illuminated makeup mirrors for the dressing rooms, and built-in refrigerators to be stocked with cheeses, pat6s, soft drinks, wines and liquor.
Restaurant suppliers came and Laura chose, for the Beacon Hill restaurant, Villeroy & Boch china, Sambonet flatware, and Lenox crystal. The cost was close to three hundred dollars a place setting. "Do it right," Currier had said; he did not believe in spending millions and then cutting comers on small items, especially in a highly visible place like a dining room that he anticipated would become one of the city*s top restaurants.
Finally, Laura and the design consultants worked out the plan of each room. She knew what she wanted: each one had to remind her of her rooms in Owen's house. They were the first to fulfill the fantasies of space and beauty she'd had in the tenement she had shared with Clay and Ben, and she still remembered the warmth that engulfed her each time she entered them. It was that warmth and spaciousness she wanted to give her guests.
"It should feel like a home," Laura said to Currier one night in February as they dined at Le Perroquet. It was her twenty-fourth birthday, and they were sipping Dom Perignon and sitting close together on a banquette in a comer of the long room. "It doesn't matter whether it's for a few hours or a week or a month. It should feel like home."
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