"What problem?"
"I told you, nothing serious. The chef had a small tantrum and I took care of it. You got Farley to his room?"
"Yes; he's asleep. I'll have to rearrange the seating for the show tonight; I don't want his girlfriend to have to sit with someone who'll tear Britt apart."
They walked up the two steps to the landing at the entrance to the lounge, and Laura smiled at the young woman who stood behind a long table at one side of the landing, wrapping Christmas gifts the guests had bought that day on Michigan Avenue. It was one of the services Laura would be offering until Christmas to guests of the hotel. She glanced at the long rolls of garlanded and tinseled wrapping paper. "It looks like you'll need more, Mary. And ribbons, too. I'll make sure it's here by morning."
In the lounge, guests stopped her to ask about Farley and compliment her on getting hhn out peacefully. Others stopped her to invite her to dinner parties in their homes. "And Wes, of course, if he's m town," they all said. She talked to each of them for a few moments, making her way closer to the fireplace. When she reached it, she sat on the arm of Rosa's chair. "How wonderful that three of my favorite people are getting to know each other."
"Getting to be friends," Kelly said. "And Ginny's filling us
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in on all die gossip. She wasn't surprised by your barking actor; he's done it before."
"I wish I'd known," Laura said. "I'd have bought a leash and a muzzle, to be ready."
"You did fine," said Ginny. "He's been known to knock heads together." She contemplated Laura. "Are you enjoying your party?"
"Of course." Laura's eyebrows rose slightly. "Don't I look as if I am?"
"You look beautiful and calm. You ought to look beautiful and triumphant. You've got this crowd smiling like a happy bunch of Eagle Scouts who just discovered what it's like to feel up a girl. Do you have any idea how miraculous it is to make them look happy about anything?"
"I'll look triumphant when I know I am. Ginny, it's only five o'clock on Saturday. We still have to get through dinner tonight, and then the Jacques Brel show at Chez Fromage and tomorrow's brunch."
"You can't miss; you're on a roll. There's a kind of rhythm to these things—trust me, this I do know—and once all these too-rich, too-finicky folks decide they're having a good time, they stop looking for things to complain about. Last night's dinner was a gem, and so was that knockout show of gold this afternoon. You're doing everything right, honey; you've made them light up like a Las Vegas strip."
Laura smiled and looked about the room. Ginny watched her, knowing that there still was something unexplained about the magic she had worked with her guests. Tliey'd come, these two hundred blase, demanding world travelers, because of Currier, or because of friends of friends, or because of the curiosity that sometimes sparks from the ashes of ennui, but Ginny knew they also had come to pass judgment and criticize. And somehow, before they could gleefully tear into the newest hotel on the scene, Laura had made them feel part of her celebration, part of her success.
It isn't just that they're being catered to and coddled with little innovations they haven't seen anywhere else, Giimy decided; it's because of Laura. They look at her and see a sophisticated beauty, and then, almost hidden, there's a little girl who isn't part of them, and who won't be. She's separate, cut
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off from all the bustle of people attaching themselves to other people. They may not understand that that's what they see, but whether they do or not, they want to help her to succeed, to belong, to be one of them instead of standing outside, peering in.
And besides, she was damned good at what she did. *Tell me something," Ginny said to her. "How do you remember all their names and their kids' names and their favorite vacation spots and all that other stuff you drop like little dribbles of perfume when you talk to them?"
Laura smiled. "Dribbles of perfume," she repeated.
"Well, literary Vm not. But it's like perfume, you know: it makes their nostrils quiver; they pay attention and feel good. I've watched them when you do it: first they're surprised, and then their eyes Ught up, and they look like little kids whose monmiy just kissed them for making it to the potty on time." §
"Ginny." Laura was laughing. "If you tell my guests that's aj how they look in the Beacon Hill I'll be ruined." ^
Unexpectedly, Ginny felt a rush of delight. She'd made Laura Fairchild laugh; she'd made the cool reserve vanish from that lovely face and had brought back, for a moment, the warmth and liveliness she remembered from four years earlier. She was astonished at how good that made her feel. This child needs taking care of, she thought; she needs a woman friend who's like a mother, somebody who can help her relax and take the bumps without always getting bruised. She needs me. Of course, I've never had a daughter, only a couple of sons, but I don't know why that should stop me. I'd never been divorced, either, but I went ahead and did it, and I've been a hell of a lot better for it ever since.
Her thoughts had taken only a few seconds. "Honey," she said promptly, "I'll tell every one of 'em they look like royalty in a Persian palace. You think that'll bring 'em back fast enough?"
"I'm sure it will." Laura had been watching the door as they talked—unobtrusively, Ginny noted approvingly, but watching nonetheless—and now she stood. "Carlos Serrano just came in; he'll want tequila and someone to talk to about oil prices and someone else to share his bed. I'm sure I can provide the first two. If you'll excuse me— *"'
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"You could lelax for five minutes," Rosa fussed. "Your boss wouldn't fiie you; he'd never find another manager as good as you."
Laura smiled absendy, regretting, again, that she couldn't tell Rosa the truth. "Fm not afraid of being fiied," she said and leaned down to kiss Rosa's cheek. "I just want to do a good job, the way you taught me. I'll be back soon."
They watched her as she reached Serrano's side. He kissed her hand and talked animatedly as she led him to a table with Sid and Amelia Laughton. Ginny nodded with approval. "Sid Laughton's begun investing m drilling equipment companies, and he owns half a dozen banks in Oklahoma and Texas," she said to Rosa and Kelly. "Carlos will have somebody to talk to about oil, OPEC, Washington, the whole bit, from a different angle. It'll keep him more perked up than somebody who owns wells, like he does. Clever," she added, as proud of Laura as if she were her mother.
Still watching, she saw Currier come up to Laura, and thought what a striking couple they made, each of them commanding attention m a different way. She contemplated Currier. Smooth, suave, wealthy, powerful: most women's dream. Not mine, she thought. But if I wanted to be dominated and protected by a guy who's plenty nice even if he likes to run the show, and who has that stubborn kind of patience that means he's probably great in the sack, then I mi^t find him irresistible.
Laura might. Ginny gathered, from a very few confidences, that Laura had had a rough time and might want to relax in somebody's strong arms. And she had a loyalty that impressed Ginny, who came from a world where loyalty often clashed with the business of making money, and money won. But here were Rosa and Kelly, who weren't part of the international set but had been invited simply because Laura hked them, felt grateful to them, and wanted them to be part of her new job. It was impressive, Ginny thought, except diat that loyalty might tie her to Currier even more.
No question about it, she decided firmly, Laura needs a woman to watch over her. Looks like I'm going to be in Qur cago a lot more than I planned.
Laura and Currier had gone to Farley's table, where the
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young girl huddled with a woman Ginny didn't know. She watched them talk to her, saw her face begin to clear, and watched as they walked to other tables, chatting with the guests. When they were a few feet from her chair, the concierge came to them. Ginny leaned forward to hear what she could. "So sorry to bother you ... I tried, but . . . kitchen staff . . .
chef . . . delicate matter . . ."
Laura was walking toward the door before he had finished, with Currier and the concierge keeping pace. "I told you I thought it was settled," Currier said. "He's more stubborn than I thought. Don't worry about it; I'll take care of it once and for aU."
Laura shook her head. "I'll do it, Wes. I wish I'd heard about it the first time." She glanced at the concierge, who bowed his head. Next time he would come to Laura. Men take problems to men, she thought; it takes a long time for them to get used to taking them to women. "And I'd like to talk to him alone," she added firmly to Currier. "It's confusing if the staff doesn't know who's in charge, don't you think?"
It was a line Currier had used in describing his skills in arranging mergers and acquisitions. He acknowledged it with a smil smile. "If you need me, I'll come right away."
*Thank you," she murmured, then walked through the small lobby. It was not a place to linger, but a sumptuous space, like the foyer of a mansion, with the lounge on one side, the restaurant on the other, and two paneled elevators at the back. In a recess along one wall was a mahogany reception counter; opposite it stood the concierge's antique desk; and in the middle of the lobby, beneath the gold and crystal chandelier, was Myma Appleby, in a mink coat.
She was walking away and did not see Laura. "Hi," Clay said, appearing at Laura's elbow. He followed her gaze as Myma went through the wide glass doors that led to Walton Street. "Christmas present," he said. "Doesn't she look sensational?"
"Did you steal it?" Laura asked bluntly.
He reared back. "Goddam it, what the hell way is that for you to talk to me? I'm your brother—remember?—and I love you. I also happen to be your assistant manager, and it's a hell of a thing for you to talk to me that way."
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"I asked you a question. Did you steal it?"
"Shit, Laura, if you haven't got any faith in nie—^'
"Where did you get the money for that coat?**
"I earned it.**
"Not in this hotel. Not working for me.**
"You don*t know how much I save.*'
"I know what your salary is; I know what your rent is because I helped pay it a couple of times before Myma found a job; I know the high-priced places where you buy your clothes. Where did you get the money for that coat?**
After a moment, he shrugged. "At Sy*s loft in Printer's Row. I had a lucky week.'*
"At poker.**
"Mosdy. We throw in some blackjack now and then so things don't get dull.'*
"And you play for big stakes; big enough for fur coats."
"It takes big stakes to keep Myma interested."
"Don't be ridiculous; she wouldn't leave you. She's been trying to get you to marry her for almost two years.**
He shrugged. "It takes big stakes to keep me interested."
"I didn't know you were bored."
"Not with you," he said quickly. "You've got a lot going on, and I like being part of it, but, what the hell, Laura, you've got to admit it's just a job—even if it is your hotel and terrific—and everybody needs something more than that, something risky or free or whatever. I mean, everything seems different when you're risking a lot and you don't know how it's going to come out. Do you know what I mean?"
I'm in debt for five million dollars and you're asking if I know what you mean.
But it isn't the same, she thought immediately. I'm gambling to get back Owen's dream and build my future. Clay gambles for excitement and money.
But what if he does? He's twenty-four years old, he's holding down a job and doing it well, he's Uving with a woman, he attracts friends and he's generous with them, and with me, and if he chooses ways to play that I wouldn't choose, that's his business. He's a man who's living his own life, and I'm not his mother. "Just so you know who's across the table,** she said lighdy. "It's dangerous to play with strangers.**
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A broad grin, mostly of relief, creased his face. **For that, my dear sister, you get an early Christmas present, too." Reaching behind the reception desk, he whipped out an oval box wrapped in silver. "Open it now; I hate it when women open my presents without me being around to see their faces.'*
Laura slipped off the paper and lifted the hinged lid. Inside, coiled to fit the oval box, was a belt of gold mesh, the buckle an oval tigereye that matched her chestnut hair. It was exactly the kind of dramatic accessory she had begun to wear after she had learned how to dress. A lucky week in Sy's loft in Printer's Row. What the hell has Clay gotten himself into? She reached up and kissed him. "It's beautiful, Clay; the most elegant belt I've ever had. Thank you. I love you."
"Runs in the family," he said, his grin now one of pleasure. "I love you, too. How's the big party going in there?"
**The party's fine; the chef seems to be acting up. I have to get to the kitchen. Would you check on the limousines for tonight? I told them quarter to ten, to make sure we get out of here on time; the show at Chez Fromage starts at ten-thirty. Oh, and call the First District station again to make sure they've told the police on the street we'll have cars lined up for the whole block at quarter to ten and between twelve-thirty and one."
Qay gave her a mock salute, then bent and kissed her cheek. "You're a hell of a lady," he said, and as she walked away she was smiling, feeling good about Clay once again. It was easy to love Clay, she thought as she reached the restaurant and walked toward the kitchen between the tables set for dinner, each with a single flaming ginger flower in the center. As infuriating as he often was in his persistent childishness, he could always disarm her with his sweetness and by reminding her that he was her family and he loved her. And the gambling wouldn't go on forever, she told herself as she swung open the kitchen door. Even his need for excitement would take new directions. One of these days Myma would get her way: they'd be married, and Clay would settle down. Myma would see to it.
"No one lectures Enrico Garibaldi on how he is to create!" the chef thundered the moment Laura appeared in the gleaming stainless steel kitchen. "Enrico Garibaldi, chef to popes
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and kings, is not one to be lashed with the tongue by a focking accountant who thinks a veau awe champignons is as ordinary as one of his focking bottom lines!'*
Laura*s lips twitched, and she forced them to seriousness. "Banker," she said gently. "Mr. Currier is an international banker, not an accountant, as you well know, Enrico." Enrico hadn't ever been a chef to popes or kings, either, but she let that pass. "No one wants to lecture you; we admire you and rely on you. Now tell me what is the problem."
"Money!" he roared, unmollified. "The focking almighty dollar! I discover only two hours ago what it is that the concierge, that focking Frenchman, earns per month, and it is almost as much as Enrico, who is a genius, and the focking concierge will get tips and I do not, and therefore he will be making more than Enrico and I am enraged!"
"I see that," Laura said. She was aware of the sous chef and the pastry chef, standing quietly to the side, ready to demand more money if Enrico got more. But of course Enrico would not get more. "You picked a poor time to discuss salaries, Enrico. If you want to come to my ofhce on Monday, after the guests leave— **
"I pick the time and I pick now," he said flatly. "Enrico does not wait."
"And I do not let anyone hold me up three hours before I give a dinner for two hundred guests! You may ask my secretary for an appointment on Monday." She turned to go.
"No, no, no, you do not walk out on Enrico! I can walk out, too!"
"We'll talk about that on Monday," Laura said icily. "We may decide it would be best for you to do that."
*There is no need! It is just a matter of money!" A frantic note in his voice convinced Laura he wanted to stay at the Beacon Hill; his instinct probably told him its restaurant would be more prestigious than the one he had left. "We can agree on money and then all is serene! We can talk; we are alike, you and I. Yes, yes, it is true! Listen! Enrico was poo
r and hungry as a boy, dreaming of fame and fortunes, and this you can understand better than others because you knew poverty and hunger, too—^I know, I have heard from my friends in other hotels—you knew poverty, you stole and went to jail
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and robbed people you lived with because you were hungry and—"
"Stop! How dare you! How dare you?" Laura's face was burning; her nails were cutting into her palms. / have heard from my friends. Who else knew? How much did they remember of newspaper reports from almost three years ago? What whispers were trailing her like long shadows that might make powerful people turn away rather than take a chance on her?
The kitchen was filled with a blood-red light. Enrico's face wavered before her like a detached balloon with a tall chef's hat that wobbled absurdly and thin lips that were saying something she could not hear. Get him out of here! Everything else fell away. Get him out of here! She wouldn't let the past ruin the life she was making. Nothing was going to ruin it, not a stoned television singer, not a blackmailing chef—nothing was going to stop her now that she'd gotten started. This was her home, her real home, and she'd do anything to keep it free of the tentacles of the past that reached out to choke her when she least expected them. "None of that is true—not one word! Lies! Lies! But it doesn't matter; you're through here! Get out!"
"But—wait—you must understand! I tell this to no one! I keep your secrets! We can talk and agree—it is only money! We setde it, we keep our secrets, we understand each—^"
"No! God danm you, you whining, blackmailing son of a bitch, get out of here!" Her voice shook with fury. "We'll send your money—whatever we owe you—but you're through! Get out! And stay out!"
"But you cannot—! You need me! You are desperate without me! At eight o'clock is dinner—" He saw Laura's face and took a step back. "Hungry people in the dining room—!"
Almost blindly, she strode across the room and picked up the telephone. "I told you to get out! If you don't—if you're not out of here in one minute—^I'll call the police and have you arrested for attempted blackmail."
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