""So did you solve your problem?** Giimy asked as they sat at a comer table in the Beacon Hill restaurant.
"Halfway solved," Laura said. **How did you know?"
"You get a dark look in your eyes, and when you lock at people you don't quite connect with them. What's the problem?'
Laura told her. "What I need is something that will make him think he has to sell quickly to protect his investment in the hotel."
"Meaning he couldn't sell to anyone else?**
Inheritance
**Not at a price close to ours. And he has to think he might not even get that if he doesn't sell in a hurry."
Ginny sipped her soup. "If you knew something was wrong with the hotel, something dire, like that other one in Philadelphia where people were dying of Legionnaire's disease, he*d sell at any price.'*
Laura laughed. "Yes he would, but nobody's dying."
"What a shame. Well, what if he finds out it's falUng apart? Defective plaster or something that can't be fixed. Ever. So who'd buy it?"
"No one, including me," Laura said with another laugh. "Wait a minute." She put down her soup spoon and gazed out the window, then slowly mmed back to Ginny. "What if he thought no one would be allowed to tear it down or noodemize it?"
"It wouldn't be worth a hell of a lot to anybody. Old buildings are only good investments if they can be spiffed up. But that doesn't do you any good; anybody can do anything to that building."
*They can't if it's a landmark."
Ginny frowned. "It isn't a landmark."
"But what if the Philadelphia city government decides it is? Then it can't be torn down and the facade can't be changed. The interim could be renovated, but not the exterior. What would that do to its selling price?"
"Drop it to the basement. Did anybody ever talk about making it a landmark?"
"It was on a list of buildings the Landmaik Commission was considering. They decided it didn't qualify; the architecture is good but not historically significant. But that's not the point. What if Felix believes the conmiission is about to change its mind?"
"Why would he believe that if it's not true? Oh." They looked at each other, their eyes bright, hke two young girk with a secret. "Somebody tells him it's true."
"Somebody very reliable tells him it might be true. And since Felix believes in fast decisions, without consulting anyone—"
Ginny was smiling broadly. "I love it. It's deliciously sly. Who gives him the news?"
Judith Michael
**I don*t know yet. Do you know anyone in government in Philadelphiar'
**Not a one. I know some Bucks County society, but they*re no help. Architects? Contractors?**
Laura shook her head. "It has to be someone who*d know what goes on in the commission's meetings. Maybe someone who covers them . . .** Her voice trailed away. *Tank Bos-warth,** she murmured.
"I beg your pardon?"
**A newspaper reporter in Boston. I knew him a long time ago.-
**You need someone in Philadelphia, not Boston."
**But he might Imow someone in Philadelphia. Gmny, excuse me. I want to call him; I can*t wait. Fll be right back."
She had not seen or heard from Yank since £e trial. But that last morning after the verdict was announced, his hands had held hers tightly and he had smiled to let her know she had a friend. If you ever need me, you know where to find me.
**Boswordi here," he said, answering his telephone when Laura called.
**Yank, it's Laura Fairchild," she said. *1 know it's been a long—"
''Laura! My God, how the hell are you? Where are you? What're you vqp tor*
*'rm m Chicago, and Fve got a small problem. Have you time to hear a quick story?"
''Stoiies are my business. Shoot." He listened, tapping a pmcil on his tee&, his conunents an undercurrent as Laura talked. Suddenly he sat straight. '"Son of a bitch! He won't sell just because you're part of it? Why's he so uptight? After all this time . . ."
"I don't know, but—"
'^ut it doesn't matter. Right. The thing to do is get him to change his tune. You think a nunor will do it?"
**U might, but it can't sound like a rumor, Yank; it has to sound real."
''Right. So who do I know in Philly who might do the deed? No, wait a minute. Do we really need Philly? Hey, Laura, I want to do this myself. Okay with you?"
"You don't write about Hiiladelphia, and you don't write about architecture."
Inheritance
««i
*I write about whatever*s news as long as it*s in cities. Pm a city reporter, remember? Listen, I can do this; it'll make me feel good all over; I never did like the bastaid and I had a crush on you, so what could be better? C^y? No charge, either, though you might buy me a drink if you're ever in Boston."
^ril buy you one in New York. Fm moving there next month."
"'No shit! I might take you up on that. Listen, Tm going to call him. Okay? Then I'll call you back."
"I don't know, Yank; if you're not in Philadelphia . . ."
**rm in Boston, which is better all around. Trust me; I won't let you down. I'll get back to you sometime today."
He rubbed his hands as he hung up. The only drawback to being a reporter was reporting dramas instead of acting them out. Now he'd act one out—an act of chivahy. He wondoed how much she'd changed in the past four years. He remembered her stricken eyes, her cold fingers between fais hands, her face like stone. He'd wanted to cuddle her and tell ba everything would be okay. But a gentleman didn't take a lady in distress to bed. Besides, he had a wife and a little boy, and he was crazy about both of them. But this much he coukl do for Laura. And taking even a tiny gouge out of Felix Satinger was a noble act worth the doing.
Here we go, he thought, and picked up the telephone.
**Yank Bosworth of the Boston Globe/* he ssdd briskly to Felix's secretary, and then repeated it to Felix when he came on. **rm gadiering information for a possible series on architecture of the ei^ties, specifically on the strug^ between classic buildings and more cost-effective use of urban land. In that connection, I wondered if you have a conunent on landmark status for the Philadelphia Salinger."
'There is no such status. It was rejected."
''Yes sir, that's correct. But I understand there's talk of expanding landmark status m order to keep the scale of the cities; in oth^ words, architectural excellence may not be the only—"
"Where did you hear thatT'
"I spoke to a potential purchaser of an older building just a few minutes ago, a person very aware of the problems of
Judith Michael
landmark status, who told me the issue should be taken seriously." His voice picked up speed and he rattled along. "Of course I'm going to research this more fully, and if you like rU get back to you in a few weeks, but I was hoping I could get a comment firom you today; one never knows how quickly these designations may be voted, especially since there always will be resistance from owners, some of which, of course, is very rational, but not always treated so by landmark conmiis-sions, which have their own mandate, and of course you know Philacte^ihia is a very special city, keenly aware of its historic heritage, our founding fathers, the Declaration of Independence, ttie thirteen colonies—"
"I have nothing to say," Felix said and slammed down the telephone. He was breathing hard. Impossible. But just the kind of thing these half-assed city governments did when they wanted to look good for the media. Potential purchaser worried about landn^Dlc status. Resistance from owners. Philadelphia and its historic heritage.
He'd waited too long. He couldn't get a decent price for the place now; he'd have to come down to—
But he'd been offered nine million for it.
A smile came to Felix's tips. She'd pay him nine million and then find herself stuck with a hotel sbt couldn't do anything with. She'd pay him nine miltion for the privilege of owning a dump nobody wanted. Let bsr have it, be tho^^t. I'd aknost give it to her.
He called his Realtor m
Philadelphia. "Did OWL withdraw tneir offer for nine miltion?"
"No," the Realtor said. His voice was startled. "But I told them you'd rejected it, and they won't go any higher."
**Do they laK)w about a Landmark CommissioQ ruling on the hotel?"
The Realtor opened his mouth, and thai closed it. Somebody was spreading a rumor. Somebody was always spreading some rumor or odier, but this one was a miracle. It had be^i a slow month for real estate; if he sold the Salinger, he and his wife could take the vacation in the Bahamas they'd beeo dreaming of for three slow years. "I don't know what they know," be said honestly.
"I want this settled today. Go to Chicago if you have to; get
Inheritance
it done. 1*11 expect to hear fix)m you tonight; call me at home. Is that clear?**
'Terfectly. May I congratulate you, Mr. Salinger; it*s a very wise move."
*Tes/* Felix said. He hung up, his face flushed with triumph. The Philadelphia Salinger was sold.
**It was an excellent dinner,** Laura said to G6rard Lyon, the chef of the Washington Salinger restaurant. ''And this is a pleasant room. It seems to be the only part of the hotel that*s busy.**
'Truly,** Lyon agreed. "The hotel does poorly; my restaurant thrives.**
"You would think,** Laura said carefully, "that in a major city, a hotel so well situated would be very successful.'*
Lyon put out his hands, palms up, in Gallic resignation. *Theie is, shall we say, not the best management. Also, we hear for some time the owner is looking for a buyer, but the price is high. Meantime, it is like an oiphan: it gets little attention. I, however, have nothing to do with it; my restaurant and some personal matters take up all my time.**
"Personal matters,** Laura repeated. "Fd like to hear about ttiem. Can you join me for coffee?**
Lyon glanced swifdy around the restaurant. It was ahnost midnight, and the few customers who remained had been served dessert and coffee. "With pleasure,** he said and to<^ the armchair opposite Laura. Immediately the maitre d* appeared. "Coffee, and more for Madame Fairchild. And two apricot brandies. If you like,** he said to Laura.
She nodded. "Thank you. Your English is perfect; have you been in this country long?**
"Seven years. But I learn English in school, when I am ten. It is essential that a world-class chef know English.**
Laura smiled. "When you were ten you wanted to be a chefr*
"I did not want,** he corrected gravely. "I knew it was my destiny to be one. So I prepared myself.**
She glanced at the large room, too brightly decorated for her taste, but in4)eccably maintained. "And everything happened as you wished.**
Judith Michael
"Many things, madarae. Life does not give us everything; if it did, we might become proud, and then the gods would punish us for being like them."
They smiled together. A waiter served coffee and liqueur. Lyon looked sharply at the small balloon glass. *This is not apricot," he snapped.
The waiter looked startled. "No, sir. It*s peach."
"That I can see. And why is it peach?"
"Because the maitre d' gave it to me and said you ordered it."
"I ordered apricot! Is this a place of imbeciles? Take this back and bring what I ordered!" He turned to Laura. "My apologies. One should control one*s temper. We were discussing—r
"Whetfier life gives us everything. Which of your wishes did not come true?"
"Ah." He hesitated, but she asked again, leaning forward in her chair, and he found himself talking to her as he did not talk to many strangers, and almost never to women, whom he considered more interested in themselves than in others. But this woman seemed different. Besides being beautiful, she listened. She sat quietly, she did not wriggle or cross her legs, she did not suddenly pull out a mirror to put on lipstick. She kept her eyes on him, and her mouth ctid not twitch as if waiting for a chance to talk. And so he talked.
The waiter had brought the proper liqueurs, and he sipped coffee and brandy as bd told Laura about his boyhood in the south of France, his training as a chef widi the legendary Roger Verge, and his move to America. "It is, of course, not all that we hoped. I dreamed of my own restaurant, with my wife running it, instead of what you see: a room gaudy widi diese colors I do not like and a careless maitre d* who does not know apricots from peaches, and management I never see: they are off in Boston."
"Why do you stay?*' Laura asked sofdy, and it struck Lyon that this was somediing she had been waiting to say. "You must have many offers to go elsewhere."
"Truly. But we have a son, you see, and he has some . . . what we call . . . learning problems. Ife is a good boy, a good son, but he has trouble in school. Here we have a good
452
Inheritance
place for him; he is happy; he does well. My wife says we cannot jump him from place to place. And so we stay.**
"But there must be other schools/* Laura said. *There are special schools in every city.**
He shrugged. "I think the same. My wife says why change when he is happy and doing well?*'
They fell silent. The room was empty now except for the waiters quietly clearing the tables and resetting them for the next day. The maitre d' walked about, supervising, avoiding Lyon's glare. Laura held her brandy, breathing the fragrance of apricots before she sipped. It was heady; its warm& suffused her. Then she put down her glass and folded her hands on the table. "I've recently bought two hotels, one in Philadelphia and one in New York. They're both old and neglected, but I intend to make them as elegant as when they were young; Tve already done that with a hotel in Chicago. The New York hotel has a coffee shop and a bar; that*s all. I have plans for a dining room that will be one of the finest in the city, decorated in soft colors, with a piano or harp as background, a maitre d' who knows every fruit brandy that is available, and the most renowned chef, who will share in its profits and be given free rein to devise new dishes and menus. His wife would manage it if she desired.*' She paused. Lyon was gazing at her as if spellbound. "I would, of course, help the chef and his family in any way I could, to find a place to live and a school for their son. I would also pay their son's tuition for the first year.*' Again there was a brief pause. *The only condition is that the chef would have to begin working for me immediately, to help design the dining room, the kitchen, the new coffee shop, and so on. His salary would begin the day he arrives in New York even if the dining room won't open for a year and even if he takes a month off to move and get settled in his new home.'* She smiled at Lyon and let the smile linger. "I would like very much to have you join me in New York, monsieur.*'
"Madame,** Lyon breathed. "I am overwhelmed. To build a dining room! And in New York City! It is the dream of every great chef. I will discuss it with my wife, but I see no impediments, especially if you help us find a school for our boy. I see only happiness. A month here to give notice, that is all, and then—^"
Judith Michael
**Perhaps I wasn*t clear enough/* said Laura. "I need you immediately.**
**But madame, one cannot just vanish from a place of employment! One gives proper notice, perhaps helps a new chef begin—**
Laura was shaking her head. "We must be clear on this.** Her voice, Lyon noted, had hardened; everything about her was more businesslike. She was just as beautiful, but now it was as if she sat behind a desk. "I want you in New York next week, ril pay your hotel expenses while you find a place to live, and 1*11 pay for your traveling back here to help your wife close up your house. We'll find a school for your son as quickly as possible, so all of you can be together, but you must agree to begin working for me on Monday.**
"Four days fix)m now,*' Lyon murmured. He looked at his hands; he gazed about the room; he repeated her words to himself: share in the profits, free hand, wife to manage the toom. He met Laura's eyes; she was watching him steadily. I hope I am always on her side, he thought. She would make a formidable opponent. And then he nodded. "I will be at the hotel in New York on Monday mor
ning."
Laura smiled and held out her hand. "I'm very glad. Ws*re going to work well together, you and I.*'
Lyon took her hand and siniled back. 'Truly,** he said.
Three weeks later, with the Washington Salinger*s occupancy rate hovering at thirty-five percent and a dining room that had been closed since its chef *s abrupt departure, Felix put up barely a struggle. His board made tt^ decision, and the Washington Salinger was sold to OWL Development for ten million dollars.
The next night, Laura sat at diimer with Ginny and Currier at Windows on the World, looking out over Manhattan, New Jersey, Brooklyn, and Queens. *The last time we celebrated a purchase,** Currier said, "you were worrying about money.**
"I still am," Laura said dreamily. "But not this minute. I don't want to talk about money or worries or even work.** Holding a glass of champagne, she looked out the window. A hundred stories below, the green sward of Central Park looked like a green brush stroke in the center of the tighdy woven
Inheritance
s tapestiy of buildings that was Manhattan, crammed into an 1 impossibly small bit of land bounded by two rivers. A place of 9 mysteries, of hidden treasures and entanglements and snares, } a place Currier once said she would make her own.
Owen*s four hotels, she thought. My hotels. Giimy, Clay, ■ Kelly—and VfeSy waiting for me. Almost a family. My family.
Sparics of champagne danced against her lip as she drank; it was as heady as die brandy she had breathed when she was seducing G^ard Lyon into coming to New York. Everything she did these days was as heady as brandy and champagne, as ll if she were running toward a dream city through fiel£ thick widi flowers, a little dizzy from the perfumed brilliance around her and from the dream, first so close, then reachable, now hers.
It was a headiness intoxicating enough to make her believe she had all she needed. She didn^t need the kind of family she had once longed for; she didn't need children. She didn't need anything more than what she had now: work, friendships, and the realization, when she woke each morning, that she could do what she wanted, overcome any obstacle, reach any goal.
Inheritance Page 49
