Paul shoved his plate aside. Something new, he tfaougfat, something different but not so different it's completely foreign. Something I can be proud of. Emily won't mind living here; she can live anywhere and still get work. And we'll be better off away from that danmed merry-go-roimd we've been on, with no time to ourselves, no time to find out what it is we've got together. I owe it to her to make the best marriage we can, and I owe myself a life I can be satisfied with. And if I do all that, and do it well, there won't be any room for the past.
He finished his coffee. "Sorry, Larry, I didn't hear that"
"I said we'll choose the subject matter of the films together. I just happen to have a few story proposals in my pocket, but anything you want to add we'll talk about; I'm open to anything as long as it's controversial and visual and, of course, brilliant."
And so, because of high society in Manhattan and a crab salad in Los Angeles, Paul Janssen became a documentary filmmaker.
That week, while he and Emily were in Los Angeles, they bought a house in Bel Air, high above the city; lawyers began drawing up the p^)ers that would make Gould-Janssen ^x)-ductions a reali^; and two weeks later woric was already under way on tla& company's first outline when Paul flew to Boston for his cousin Allison's wedding to Ben Gardn^ and found the family waiting in the terminal at Logan Airport
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"Quite a reception," he said as his mother kissed him. "But I gather it's for Allison and Ben."
"Mainly," said Thomas, putting his arm aroimd his son. "But we came early to meet you."
Paul counted his relatives, including some cousins he had not seen in years. "Eleven. It looks like a show of force."
"Morale boosters," Thomas said. "Your Aunt Leni thought it was necessary, since Felix is less than enthusiastic."
"Felix," said Paul, looking for him.
"He's making a telephone call," Leni said. She hugged Paul. "I'm so glad you'll be here for a few days; we'll have a chance to talk. When does Emily arrive?"
"In three days. Four at the most."
"Where is she?" Patricia asked.
"Scottsdale. A spring feature for Vogue. She's been there for two weeks; she's almost finished."
"On time, I see," Felix said, returning from the pay telephone. He took charge of the family. "We'll wait in the airline lounge; I told Allison to meet us there when they get through customs." Shepherding them down the corridor, he seemed to Paul to be nervous and even vaguely alarmed.
"Bad news on the telephone?" Paul asked casually.
"Of course not." The answer was automatic. "Some confusion at the office; this is a transition time for us, and it's difficult to get people to follow orders."
^Transitionr
"Everything changes," Felix replied obscurely. *Those who don't realize that and act on it fall by the wayside." He stopped beside an unmarked door and pressed a tiny, almost invisible doorbell. The door swung open, and he led the way inside, to a far comer where upholstered chairs were grouped around a table shaped like an airplane wing. "Drinks?" he asked, and relayed his family's requests to one of the retired stewardesses who staffed the airline club.
"I didn't quite follow that," said Paul as the others began to talk among themselves. "Do you mean you're changing the way the company operates?"
"We're getting rid of dead wood," Felix said. "Old properties, old people, stale staff. We'll end up leaner and more efficient, and bigger than ever."
Judith Michael
Paul took the drink being offered him. "How many are you laying off?"
"Twenty percent overall, including—"
"Twenty!"
"—natural attrition. Why not twenty, if it makes us more efficient? Your stock will go up when our balance sheets show it."
"How many of those people are longtime employees?"
Felix shrugged. "We've been in a rapid expansion program; we have to cut overhead. Some people always get caught by progress."
"I heard about the expansion," Paul said musingly, recalling letters from his parents. "You're tearing down the old buildings? Or renovating them?"
"I told you: we're getting rid of them; the lots are too small for what I want to build, and I won't be saddled with a style of building that may have mesmerized my father but doesn't impress me. We sold off the Chicago hotel a year ago, and I've had queries on the ones in New York and D.C. That only leaves Philadelphia and a couple more in Memphis and Fort Worth that the company picked up somewhere, God knows where; I've already got an offer on them. And we've been building steadily; I'm projecting ten new hotels in the next five years."
"Impressive," Paul murmured, hearing the defiance in Felix's voice and tying it to the other things he had heard: transition . . . leaner . . . twenty percent . . . cut overhead . . . rapid expansion. He wondered if they were in for stormy times. He had a lot of money at stake; his income depended mainly on the trust Owen had established when he was bom, and a good part of it was stock in Salinger Hotels Incorporated.
The door to the club opened and, in a rush, Alhson was with them, kissing Felix and Leni, reaching for Paul. He had time to see her radiant smile before she was in his arms and they were holding each other tightly. "Welcome home," Paul said softly, and as the others pressed around them they smiled together and became part of the crush. But Leni stood apart, frozen, her gaze fixed on the man who had followed AUison through the door and stood apart: tall, golden blond, with
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classic features and blue eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. His mouth was hard; his gaze flicked rapidly over the circle around Allison. "Judd," she breathed. His eyes met her stunned look and held it. Allison, standing within Paul's arm, held out her hand, and Ben came and took it, shaking hands with Paul with the other. Then he turned to Leni and took her hand between his. **At last," he said. 'I'm so glad to meet you. Allison's kept us as a surprise for each other for a long time."
"Yes,** Leni said. She was ensnared in memories and could not speak.
Ben frowned, then he smoothed it away. "Allison didn't want us to meet earlier. I went along with that, so the responsibility is mine, too, but I hope you won't hold it against us. She said her father wasn't happy about us, but I hope you'll wish us joy."
"How do you do," Felix said thinly, his hand out, forcing I Ben to turn from Leni. He was annoyed that Ben had gone first to Leni, he was annoyed that Ben was young and had the kind of golden blond looks he hated most, he was aimoyed that his daughter was greeting everyone as proudly and happily as if she had brought home a member of European royalty i instead of someone who dropped out of the sky and was satis-I fied with being vice president for security. Who the fiick did he think he was—being satisfied with a top-level job he would have groveled for, and been refused, if he'd been on his own? "And Allison," he said as she put her arms around his stiff shoulders and kissed him. "One of my staff is here; he'll bring your luggage; we'll go on in our car."
"Fine," said Allison. "Ben, you haven't met my cousins. . . ." She introduced them in a blur of names and then stood expectantly, ready to leave.
Ben was gazing at Leni with a puzzled frown. "I hope we'll have time to talk today, to get acquainted."
"I'm sure we will." Leni's face once more was serene, her hands clasped before her. He really didn't look like Judd at all; she couldn't imagine what had gotten into her. His face was more rugged, less sensitive than Judd's; his jaw was more square, his forehead not as high, his hair less wavy. In fact, when she thought about it, the resemblance was really very
Judith Michael
slight. "Please forgive me for being rude; I get nervous in crowds. We'll have tea when we get home, and you and I will have a quiet time to become friends."
Ben's face cleared. "I'm glad. I was afraid I'd done sonae-thing to offend you, and I would have hated that; I already feel so close to you, as if I've known you for a long time."
A wave of dizziness passed over Leni, and she put her arm through Ben's as they all walked down t
he wide corridor toward the parking garage. Of course there was a resemblance, she thought; she couldn't talk herself out of it; it was real. And there was something else: an odd blend of gentleness and toughness, almost cruelty, that jarred her memory and made her nervous. Because if he really was Judd's son—and she didn't know who else he could be—she had no idea whetho" or not Judd had told him about her. She didn't understand how it could come about that he had found their family, or what he would do now that he was here, or what he wanted from them.
Periiaps nothing, she told herself as the chauffeur held the doors for them while the rest of the family went on to find their own cars. Tlie world is full of coincidences that make us look for meanings where there are none. If he wanted to go into hotel work, the chances of his finding us were very goc^ And I'd be very surprised if he knew anything about me; he was nine when I last saw Judd; he wouldn't remember even if Judd had been so lonely for companionship he told his little boy about us.
"Your parents,** she said, clearing her throat as she turned to Ben. He was on the jump seat in front of Allison, who sat with her parents on the wide, deeply upholstered seat "Allison told us they're dead."
He nodded. "My father died when I was thirteen, my mother some years later."
Judd, Leni thought, trying to recall the look in his eyes when he lay on her and told her he loved her. Dead. She had never thought of him as dead. When she allowed herself to think of him, she remembered the line of poetry he had quoted when Felix asked him where he wanted to go— Where I can pick the golden apples of the sun and the silver apples of the moon —and she would picture him in a misty paradise filled with luminous gold and silver apples, and peace.
f
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Judd, Leni thought, with a painful longing she'd thought
i she had banished forever. What we had wasn't right, I know
i that; it wasn't right for either of us and it couldn't last, but.
If oh, it was so lovely when it was good, it was such pure joy
... I think I've been trying to rediscover it ever since.
Ben's color was high, and she realized she was staring at him. Abruptly, to fill the silence, she said, "Felix and I have decided to give the two of you Owen's house as a wedding present."
"Oh, Mother!" Allison cried. She leaned across her father to kiss Leni's cheek, and then Felix's. "Thank you, thank you! Ben, wait until you see it—it's a wonderful house. We'll have Grandpa's rooms ... of course they're a little dark; lots of mahogany and dark velvet drapes; we'll have to redo them. ..."
"How big is it?" Ben asked.
"Twenty-two rooms, thirty-three thousand square feet," Felix said.
"We don't need that much room."
"Not yet," Allison said serenely. "But it's a wonderful place for children."
"And we can't afford to maintain it," Ben went on.
"Of course we can; it won't be that expen—^" She stopped. "We'll talk about it, all right? It's worth talking about. And you really should see it before we decide. We'll go there tomorrow, is that all right? Just to look at it?"
After a moment, Ben shrugged. Allison's eyes met Leni's, both of them thinking they'd talk to him and work it out. Because Leni wanted them in that house, and Allison wanted to live there. And Ben would agree, Leni reflected, because Allison was determined and because he would love it. She didn't know how she could be so sure of that, but she knew Ben Gardner would love Owen Salinger's house and would want to live in it as much as his bride did.
They'll be all right, Leni thought, sitting back and watching the gray coast flash by as they drove north to Beverly. Whatever Ben wants, it can't be to harm Allison; it's clear he loves her and she adores him. It will be good for all of us to have him here; we need someone fresh, an outsider, in the family and in the company, too. Her thoughts caught on a memory.
Judith Michael
Did Owen think that, she wondered, when he brought Laura into their midst? Someone fresh, an outsider . . . and it proved to be disastrous.
What did he want? It really was hard to believe his meetingj Allison was accidental; it seemed more likely that he had] sought them out. It didn't make sense, and it might turn out to] be a coincidence, but just then she couldn't think of any othei explanation.
And I can't ask him about it, she thought. All I can do isl watch him and try to figure him out. Vm sure nothing disas-l trous will happen. Why would it? They love each other,] they're young and happy, and I won't do anything to ruin what ought to be a happy time. Anyway, Ben isn't really an outsider; he and Allison have been living together and she knows him. They're going to be very happy, and so are we all.
The car came to a smooth stop in their driveway. Ben opened the door before the chauffeur could step out and do it for him, and held out his hand to Allison. The sky was dark, with a sliver of a moon, and Ben's face was strangely contoured in the light from the car. Leni could not help herself; she shivered.
It really was such a strange coincidence.
Chapter 20
THE first theft was in New York. Few people other than Flavia Guameri's friends, her insurance company, and the New York Police Department paid much attention; it was shortly before Christmas, and everyone was busy. But Flavia took action: she fired her maid and butler. They hadn't been in her Fifth Avenue apartment when it happened—she'd given them a month off while she visited relatives in Chicago, San Francisco, and the south of France—but since there was no sign of forced entry into the apartment, who else could be responsible? So she fired them, gave the police and the insurance investigator all the information on the three Toulouse-Lautrecs that had been stolen, and went to an auction at Sotheby's and bought herself, for Christmas, three new paintings to fill the blank spaces on her walls.
And Clay delivered the Toulouse-Lautrecs to the broker who had hired him to steal them, netting himself a nice pile to pay off a few gambling debts, buy a fiir-lined leather jacket he'd been wanting for a year, and get Myma and Laura something grand for Christmas.
Laura heard about the theft from Currier the night they arrived in New York for a vacation, the first she had allowed herself since the Chicago Beacon Hill had opened a year earlier. "I talked to Flavia yesterday," Currier said after reading the paragraph in the morning New York Times. "She says the
Judith Michael
police haven't a clue, and those were three of her favorite paintings, but I think she's far more concerned about finding a new maid and butler."
Laura smiled absently. She had picked up a Chicago newspaper from the stack of papers from five cities Currier had delivered to his apartment every morning, and was reading an item on the society page.
The Place To Be Seen these days is the Chicago Beacon Hill, an intime hotel with a clubby bar that's a haven for the famous (when you go, don't gawk; just soak up the ambiance of power and wealth), a restaurant with continental cuisine that's to die for, and guests straight out of the rarefied heights of international society, culture, and mega-corporations. If you want to impress your visiting in-laws, buy them a weekend in one of the heavenly suites with decor supervised by general manager Laura Fairchild, who keeps the place running as silkily as a sybaritic spa. But be sure you book at least two months in advance; otherwise you haven't a prayer of getting in.
Laura handed the paper to Currier. "A little coy," she said dryly.
He skinmied it. "Perfect. She spelled the names right, yours and the hotel's, she got in the bar and the restaurant, and she gave you the credit. It couldn't be better."
"I wonder." The butler was pouring coffee and serving hot croissants and spiced pears, and Laura gazed out the window at Manhattan's spires and domes and rooftop terraces that seemed to sprout evergreens and winter-bare trees. Here and there a network of girders was visible, hinting at a new office or apartment building that soon would be completed, then occupied, then taken for granted as newer buildings appeared, seemingly overnight, like plants thrusting up to reach the sun. The whole c
ity was like that, Laura reflected—eager, restless, pushing up and out, and at the same time pulling newcomers in, daring them to keep up with it, match its aggressiveness, master its intrigues, and keep on growing, like the city itself. I have so much to learn, she diought. About hotels, about business, even about New York. I was bom here and grew up
I
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ri here, but I never saw it from this angle, and I don't think I
i know it at all. "I wonder," she said again, turning to Currier.
? "Our guests want privacy. If I were paying five hundred dol-
i lars a night, twenty-five hundred for a suite, I wouldn't appre-
2 ciate this sort of thing."
He shrugged. "If you had the money to pay those prices,
V you'd be used to it; you'd ignore it. The people who pay t attention are the ones who don't have that kind of money, r They'll never stay at the Beacon Hill, or put their relatives b there, either, but they'll damn well make sure they visit, to rub 2 shoulders with the mighty, and they're the ones who'll keep
1 your bar and restaurant profitable when the hotel has slow q periods." He broke apart a croissant and spread honey on it. *' "As good as money in the bank. It has been, from the first
V weekend."
When Rosa and Kelly produced a superb dinner, and no one
t ever suspected the evening might have been less than perfect,
J Laura thought. But she did not say it aloud. Currier had
b thanked them and praised them afterward, at the nightclub,
e and the two of them had been as pleased with themselves as if
b they'd been understudies who saved a Broadway play, so
J Laura never worried that they hadn't had a good time at her
0 opening. But Currier never mentioned it again, and neither did
2 she. They both knew it was luck, not professionalism, that i had pulled the evening off.
"It was a good beginning to a wonderful year," Laura said, 6 thinking that it also had brought her the friendship of Ginny
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