Inheritance

by Judith Michael

  "I wonder, though," said Ben ruminatively. "Maybe it's not a good idea to get rid of those hotels and put everything we've got into the huge ones; we may be going against a new trend in this country."

  "A new trend," Felix echoed contemptuously, raising his voice in the close-packed room where the din of conversation forced everyone to speak louder, increasing the noise even more. "You've been here fourteen months, hardly enough to be an expert on a country and its trends."

  "Maybe Ben's been paying attention," Leni said mildly. "You can learn a lot about any place in fourteen months if you pay attention."

  "What trend?" AUison asked.

  "Small and elegant," Ben replied, ignoring Felix's contempt. "People seem to be turning away from massive things. It's as if they're reaching out for a way of life that lets them feel more in touch, more in control of their world. Small dinner parties, small movie theaters and boutiques; maybe small hotels."

  "Very fanciful," Felix said. With his napkin he dabbed scotch from the mustache he had grown soon after Owen died. "Dinner parties and movie theaters may be able to survive if they're small; hotels can't. With the costs of building— '"

  "Renovating is cheaper. That's why I think we shouldn't be in a hurry to get rid of—^"

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  I

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  **With the costs of building " Felix repeated, to ensure he would not be interrupted again, "we've got to get the highest possible return per square foot. But it's not only building costs, and you know it: you've heard me say it before. The public doesn't want small and elegant; most people wouldn't know elegant if it bit them. They want big, splashy buildings, bright lights and noise, swimming pools, video games, heated garages, and a place big enough to hide for a quick afternoon with the secretary."

  "Oh, Daddy, for heaven's sake," Allison said. 'There aren't enough men like that to keep us in shoes."

  "You know all about it, of course. Hotels are full of men— and I daresay women, too—looking for a quick lay between lunch and going home to the family."

  Leni was watching Felix intently. "Is that true?" she asked.

  "I said it was."

  "You don't like people, or trust them, either," Allison said.

  "I understand what they want. And what they want has to do with quick and easy; it hasn't a damn thing to do with elegance."

  Ben shrugged. *The Regent International chain wouldn't agree. And that new hotel in Chicago, the Beacon Hill—it used to be ours, didn't it? And now it's got one of the highest occupancy rates in the city, with the highest room rates. Somebody must like it."

  "And no one likes Marriott," Felix said sarcastically. "Or Hyatt or Hilton."

  "I didn't say stop building the big ones; I only said I thought we might do both."

  Felix preserved a disapproving silence as their dinners were served, and then Leni changed the subject.

  Ben watched her as she talked about the apartment she and Felix finally had bought in New Yoric, after two years of looking and never being able to agree on one. Her face and voice were serene, but he thought she seemed uncomfortable. It was difficult to be sure about Leni; Ben didn't understand her at all. Whenever he asked her questions about her background, she changed the subject, and he wondered about it: why she had married Felix and what their marriage really was like. He wondered what she thought of his marriage to Allison; he

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  wondered what she thought of him. She treated him warmly, but often he found her watching him with puzzled eyes and a strange kind of longing, as if she would have been different with him, somehow, if he did—something. He didn't know what she wanted him to do. He didn't know what she wanted him to say. He would have done it or said it if he could have figured it out, because he wanted her to be his ally, but all these months had gone by and he still didn't know whether she was watching him because for some reason she didn't trust him and was waiting for him to trip up, or because she just wanted to figure him out and he didn't talk about himself very much.

  Felix was easier—and more difficult. His contempt stung Ben and made him want to strike out, but he forced himself to shrug it off. He was unfailingly civil, reminding himself every day that Felix was his father-in-law and his employer and he couldn't afford any kind of breach, but his hatred for Felix must have shown in ways he wasn't aware of, because from the first day, it was clear that Felix hated him and could barely hold it in.

  Maybe I remind him of my father, Ben thought, as he often had since arriving in Boston, but on balance he didn't think he did. It had been over thirty years since Felix had stolen the company from Judd, and Felix seldom paid much attention to people he used, or abused. Ben thought it unlikely he'd ever given Judd much thought after Judd came back from the war and found his company gone and Felix's door closed to him.

  But the main reason Ben didn't know if he reminded Felix of his father was that he couldn't remember exactly what Judd had looked like, and he had no pictures of him. He had some of his mother, and he knew he resembled her, but how much of him was Judd? Every time he got to this point in his thinking, he gave it up. He couldn't know. Anyway, even if he did remind Felix of Judd, so what? Nothing would come of it, because he and Allison were married, and now that she was pregnant he was more a part of the family than ever. He was also damned good at his job and everybody knew it.

  From the day he moved into his new office, he'd acted fast, knowing he had to make a place in the company as secure as his place with Allison so no one could force him out the way

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  they'd forced out Laura. And within a year, with a speed that impressed hotel experts, more than half the Salinger hotels had new key locks, safes in the rooms, national computer checks on maids and lobby personnel, television cameras in the corridors, and expanded plainclothes staffs. Ben had made special trips to the hotels to talk to the newly enlarged security staffs, sitting in on their lunch breaks, making suggestions on what to look for, and where. Felix heard about it in monthly reports from the managers, who said that, thanks to Ben Gardner, they had higher morale, tighter security, and fewer problems to report.

  And whether he liked him or not, Felix had given Ben two raises, bringing his salary to sixty thousand dollars a year. Ben nodded somberly when he heard about the second raise, and Felix, irritated, said, "You might be appreciative."

  "I am. I hope you are. I thought my work was good."

  Felix struggled with his inclination not to praise anyone. "It is. You've read the reports."

  Ben smiled briefly at his small victory. "I've been thinking it's time for me to move out of security. We have no vice president for development, and I'd like to create that position."

  "We have none because I handle it; if you have any suggestions for new properties you can bring them to me. You'll stay in security; as you yourself said, you've done a good job."

  "I'd like you to consider the new post; perhaps we could bring it up before the board."

  Felix heard the threat behind the words and his face tightened. "I've considered it; I've rejected it. You've just been made a member of the board, and that's enough for now. And I think it's time you got back to work."

  In his own office again, Ben thought about his next step. He wanted the new position because development was at the heart of a large corporation and would put him in the best possible position for the future. But he also wanted it because development commanded higher salaries than security. Money was not a subject he could discuss with Felix, but it was something he thought about all the time. He didn't feel secure, and money was a big part of the reason, though there were others, too, mainly his worries about Laura.

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  He felt her presence in the house, and sometimes he went into the rooms that had been hers and sat there, thinking about her. Allison had told him the whole story while they were in Europe; he'd read the trial transcripts as soon as they got to Boston; and he kept thinking about calling her. But he didn't
know how. He was having enough trouble knowing how to behave with Allison and her family; he couldn't deal with Laura, too, not right away, anyway. And so the time slid away and he didn't call, and finally, in desperation, he wrote a long letter. It was easier to talk to a piece of paper than to talk to his sister and hear the anger he remembered in her voice while trying to say everything he wanted to say without interruptions or having to defend himself. So he wrote. He sent it to the Chicago Beacon Hill—he'd read in a hotel magazine that she was its manager—but he never received an answer. The hell with her, he bought, and didn't write again. But her presence was still in his house. It seemed nothing would change that.

  Even her rooms weren't changed. As angry as Allison was about Laura, she didn't redecorate her old rooms. She did the rest of the house, spending a small fortune on what Ben thought was just fine the way it was, but she left Laura's rooms alone. And then one day she asked Ben, "What do you think about putting the baby in here?"

  "And redecorate it as a nursery?"

  "No, it's fine. If it's a boy we might move him later to make room for his sister. If it's a girl, she can stay here. And the nanny can use the sitting room; we can get a daybed in there without any trouble."

  "Sure," Ben said casually, and that settled it.

  He and Allison agreed on most things as long as they weren't talking about money. It was when she started talking about all the things they would do that he got tight and edgy. She wanted more children; she wanted to travel—children, nanny, and all; she planned to enroll their ten-week-old fetus in Stoddard, the private school that would be full if they waited too long . . . and on and on while Ben calculated costs and knew he could never keep up.

  Even with his second raise, Allison's income from her trust was ten times his. He wasn't pulling his weight, and he told her so, over and over. She'd even sold him some of her shares

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  in Salinger Hotels Incorporated for a token sum because Felix hadn't yet offered him any, and Allison insisted that he should own at least a small amount. But he knew what they were worth and what he had paid, and that was another example of his not doing his part. And however much she waved all that aside, it nagged at him: he knew it would get worse as the years passed and their expenses increased and his salary lagged farther and farther behind. And it wasn't just the children they would have or the trips they would take as soon as Felix let him have decent vacations; they were becoming part of a young crowd that was fast-living, worldly and very wealthy, and that meant clothes and gifts and club dues and a host of expenses he hadn't dreamed of when they lay in bed in Amsterdam and talked about getting married.

  Of course he'd known that money would be a problem, and once they were settled in Boston he'd tried to do something about it, but the problem seemed to grow faster than the solutions he could think of. It all came down to a very simple fact: he knew he would never be comfortable as Allison's husband, or as one of the Salingers, unless he found a way to get more money.

  So, although he disagreed with Felix about ways to run the Salinger hotel chain, he seldom argued with him for long; he couldn't afford to. Even when Leni and Allison seemed to be on his side, as they were at Loch Ober's, celebrating Felix's sale of the New York Salinger, he let it go. They shouldn't have sold it, he thought, but it was gone. He would have liked to say they should seriously consider keeping the ones in Philadelphia and Washington, D.C., but he kept silent and he was quieter than usual for the rest of the dinner, at the same time tiiat Laura was being unusually quiet with Currier, in New York, where they were dining at Lutece.

  "You're very quiet," Currier said as the wine captain decanted the rare burgundy he had ordered. The airy room was like a garden, its trelliswork, white colunms, and palms in brass pots bringing thoughts of sununer rather than the raw February night held at bay by the high dome above. The diners spoke in low voices, the waiters moved efficiently and murmui^ as they discussed menu and degustation items, but as quiet as the room was, Laura's silence was noticeable, and

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  Currier studied her when the wine captain left them. "What happened to the excitement you had when we bought the Chicago hotel?"

  "It sank in a sea of reality," she said with a small smile. *This time I know how much work is ahead."

  And how much money.

  "I've been thinking about the woric," Currier said. "I have a heavy schedule coming up, and I won't be able to get as involved as I'd like. I'll be in town as often as I can, but the more we get done this month, the better. Those architects we interviewed, for example . . ."

  / owe three million dollars to the three investors who came in this week.

  "I liked Simons best, but I think we ought to see him and Brewer again; see how they react to your idea of making the hotel all suites."

  And I already owed Wesfive million dollars.

  "It hasn't been done in mid-Manhattan, but it's the perfect town for it and probably the perfect time, with the swing back to older buildings."

  And to get the three million this week I had to give up control of OWL Development; the three investors could outvote Wes and me. And I used my stock in OWL as collateral for that loan; if the hotels do badly, if I miss a payment on my loans, I lose it all.

  "If we choose an architect in the next couple of weeks, there's a good possibility we can open around Christmas, just as we did in Chicago. We might be starting a tradition—part of your good luck."

  Wes warned me; he told me not to think about the other hotels, not to give up control. He wouldn't have gone along if I hadn't insisted. But I can't stop now. If I'm risking everything, then that's how it has to be. I'm halfway there, and nothing's going to keep me from finishing what I've started.

  "On the other hand, your good luck could be finding a dinner companion who's willing to carry on a monologue while you're so wrapped up in your thoughts you don't hear a thing he says."

  Laura's look focused on him. She gave a small laugh. "But I did hear you. You want to interview Simons and Brewer

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  again, and old buildings arc coming back. And you want to open a new hotel every Christmas."

  "God forbid. And what about my idea for a restaurant on the top floor of the New York Beacon Hill?"

  She frowned uncertainly. "I don't ... did you talk about that? I'm sorry, Wes, I didn't hear it."

  He smiled and shook his head. "I didn't. Somehow, and amazingly, you got most of what I said." He put his hand under her chin. "What are you worried about?"

  "Money."

  "Good. Smart businesspeople always worry when the numbers are large and the chances for success significandy smaller. It doesn't stop them; it just keeps them somewhat realistic. You're off to a good start." He lifted his glass and waited for her to do the same. "To the past and the future," he said.

  A little startled, she shook her head. "I never drink to the past; I thought you knew that."

  "Not the distant past," he agreed, "but the nearer one. The Chicago Beacon Hill, our partnership, our friendship . . ." He raised an eyebrow. "Not worth a toast?"

  "Of course," she said and drank some of the smooth wine. But once again her thoughts intruded, and when the waiter handed them menus, she held hers absently, half listening as he and Wes discussed the chef's specials. She was thinking about Ben.

  Ben was the distant past, and the near past, too. Because he had written to her months ago, a few months after he arrived in Boston and was married.

  "I wish you'd been there," he wrote in his letter.

  / thought of inviting you, but from what Allison told me, I figured you wouldn't want to be part of a small Salinger family gathering, and I'm afraid they wouldn't have made you welcome. They've got to change their minds about you — I'm going to make damn sure they do — but it'll take a while, and I have to be careful because they don't know I have a sister, much less who she is, and I can't do anything to make them suspicious. I hope you understand that: I really can't
take a chance and make

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  them suspicious of me. I wish I could move faster and do this for you, Laura, but I can't. So far they've all been cool but civilized to me, except for Leni, who's mostly friendly and warm, and Felix, who's a cold, fish-eyed son of a bitch I wouldn't trust for a minute. He acts like he doesn't trust me, either, which makes it kind of tense around the office. I'm vice president for security for Salinger Hotels — not a bad start, wouldn't you say? — with a fancy office down the hall from Felix's. It's a good job and I like it; the company is so big there's always a crisis going on somewhere and it's like solving a different puzzle every day, and that keeps me on my toes. The only problem is money, but I'm figuring out ways around that. No, there is another problem: you. I want to see you, Laura; I miss you a hell of a lot. Everything's changed in our lives, and I guess we have, too, but I don't know how much. When I got here at Christmas, and we went to the Beacon Hill house — you probably noticed from my stationery, thafs where we're living; Felix and Leni gave it to us as a wedding present — and when I saw the rooms you'd lived in, I couldn't believe how beautiful you'd made them. Remember when you used to say you wanted a place of your own away from me and Clay? You really got it; when I saw your rooms I knew why you never wanted to come back to live with me. But I wanted to cry, because they weren't yours anymore, and that's when I knew somehow I'd get you back here. Not to live, of course; you've made a new life, the way I did a few years ago, and you probably have another beautiful home now; but you ought to be able to come and go in this house and not feel you couldn't ever see it again, with all its memories. What I'm trying to say is, I could tell from those rooms how much you've changed, and your life has changed, but I don't have any idea how you feel about me now. Maybe you've changed enough to change your mind about never wanting to see me again. I've changed, too; I'd like to talk to you about it. Maybe we've changed in the same ways. There's a lot I'd like to explain and talk to you about; it's very strange being here, and I need somebody from outside, especially somebody I care