"Yes, I have. This has been fun, not work. The work starts when I get home and try to use everything I've learned."
**Weli, tiien, our last day has to be extra fun. Dinner tonight
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at Ledoyen; it's quite luscious: all velvet and lace and cande-labras, and the food is sublime. Then jazz at New Morning; it's quite the place to be these days. And after lunch, the Pompidou, since we're in the neighborhood. Unless you've had too much art."
"No. It all sounds wonderful."
Ginny nodded with satisfaction. "I do appreciate traveling with someone who approves of my plans. It gets so difficult when one has to make endless compromises."
Laura laughed and did not say diat the next time she came to Paris she would have her own schedule. This week was Ginny's, and it had been like an enormous platter of hors d'oeuvres, giving her a taste of everything in that glorious city that she would want to savor on her own terms, in her own time. Paris seemed very special to her, it had its jumbled neighborhoods, like any other city, its jarring architecture, its slums and litter and graffiti, but, unlike many other cities, there was a sense of design: streets planned for the vistas they provided, neighborhoods and vast structures like the Place des Vosges built with an eye to harmony and scale, open space designed with gardens, not just urban greenery. And since Laura spent so much time trying to keep her emotions in check and her life in order, she felt at home in Paris after only a week; she knew she would come back, most likely alone. She had discovered, in traveling for her hotels, that she didn't mind being alone on a trip. Often she missed having someone to nudge and say, "Oh, look, look how beautiful that is," but the rest of the time she was satisfied to be on her own, learning about the world on her own terms.
But this trip to Paris was Ginny's, and after lunch she let her lead her through the vastness of the Pompidou, at some displays elbow to elbow with people, but even more crowded wi^ its own collections. "It's a tossed salad of a museum," Ginny pronounced. "I love it 'cause it's as chaotic as the world out there. Paintings and sculptures and television and films and radio all mixed into one— *'
"Laura!" a familiar baritone boomed. "Goddam if it isn't my sweetheart in the middle of Paris!" Dozens of people turned to look as Britt Farley swept Laura into an embrace and then put out an arm to include Ginny. "Two lovely ladies in
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Par-ee! What are you doing here? Small world, right? Hey, this is the damnedest piece of luck, you're just in time! Would you believe it, there's a film contest downstairs—documentaries— Cinema du Riel,*' he brought out in mangled French. "It's a big deal here, and we've won first place! How about that! Well, truth to tell, Paul won; I haven't even seen it yet, but what the hell, I'll love it, ri^t, since it won? You will, too; you're just in time; they're showing it this afternoon. Isn't that the damnedest piece of luck? You can si^ with me and hold my hand if I'm nervous. Come on, you wouldn't say no, would you?'*
"I can't say anything," Laura laughed, pulling out of his clutching arms. Paul is here. He must be; it's his film. Of course he's here. "I don't think so, Britt . . ."
She hadn't let herself think about Paul for more than fleeting moments since that evening in the ballroom. Now, as Farley asked her again, she was torn. / can't see him; it would be crazy; what good would it do?
"Ginny has other plans," she said. "I'm sorry, but we really can t.
"A'course you can! It's only an hour—one little hour out of your vacation—Ginny, tell her you'll come."
"It's up to Laura," Ginny said.
"Shit, Laura, how many times am I gonna have a movie about me? This is it, and I want you to sit with me. Come on."
He was holding her hand, and Laura let him pull her toward him. I could just stay long enough to see the film, she told herself. It would be interesting to see what kind of work he's doing.
Watching her face, Ginny made the decision. Laura had told her about Paul, not a great deal, but enough to give Ginny clues to what she was feeling now. Scared to go, Ginny thought, and dying to go. "Well, why not?" she said briskly. "As long as we're out of here by six; we do have plans for dinner."
"No, no, you'll eat with us. I'll take care of it. Come on, come on. Goddam, if this isn't the damnedest luck . . ."
Us. Paul and . . . who else?
"Coked to his cowlick," Ginny was murmuring as they followed Britt to a doorway that led to the exterior escalators,
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enclosed in glass tubes that allowed a panoramic view of the Marais. "But he seems more or less under control." She glanced at Laura. "How about you? We won't stay if you'd rather not."
/ want to stay. I want to go. Damn it, it's such a big world; I go for years without seeing people I've known in the past; why can't Paul and I just disappear from each other's lives?
Paul and I. Her heart sank at the sweetness of the phrase.
One more time won't matter.
"It's fine," she said to Ginny as they came to the bottom of the escalator. "It should be interesting."
"Interesting," Ginny repeated. "What a word." They reached the entrance to the auditorium, and Britt grandly led them past the guard and down the aisle to the seats reserved for his party. "Paul!" he boomed past the row of people sitting there. "Look who I found! How about this for fantastic?"
Paul stood, his eyes meeting Laura's in surprise. But then, reflexively, he looked down to the woman beside him, and Laura followed his look. She was blond and lovely, with a slightly petulant sophistication and perfect skin: a woman Laura had seen dozens of times on magazine covers and in stories on haute couture. Emily. Staring at Laura in puzzlement, wondering who it was who'd gotten Britt so excited.
Beside Emily were Tom and Barbara Janssen and then Leni, looking at her with astonishment.
Behind Laura, the aisle was filled with people finding their seats. There was no place to run. She wasn't even sure she wanted to. She shivered at the challenge. She wasn't the same person; she was their equal now. If they didn't want her, let them say so.
But Leni was perfect. "Laura, my dear, how delightftil. I almost wouldn't have known you; you're so very lovely. Please sit down; we can have a chat before the film begins."
Britt had put up his hand, ready to make introductions; now, as Thomas and Barbara also greeted Laura, he looked conftised. "You already know each other. Goddam, small world. Ginny, do you know everybody?" Without waiting, he introduced them. "Now if you'll excuse me," he said. "I have a httle friend waiting for me outside. Be right back."
He strode up the aisle, parting the crowds as if they were
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the Red Sea. Paul leaned forward. **Laura, Fm glad Britt found you. Are you on vacation? Fm glad you're here." He cleared his throat, wondering why he was acting like an adolescent.
Congratulations on your film/* Laura said, her eyes meeting his. "Britt told me about the award."
**Thank you." He paused briefly. "Fd like you to meet my wife. Emily Janssen, Laura Fairchild."
"How do you do," Emily murmurecf; a small frown was between her eyes.
"Fm pleased to meet you," Laura said and reached forward, holding out her hand.
Emily, eyebrows raised, stood up, awkwardly reaching across Leni and Thomas and Barbara, and the two women shook hands.
"Fve admired you for years," Laura said. "You have wonderful style."
Emily smiled. She didn't understand how everyone seemed to know Laura, or what her sudden appearance meant to them, but she recognized genuine praise when she heard it, and that was always enough for Emily. "So very kind . . ." she said and sat down again, and after a moment Paul sat beside her, separated from Laura by all the others. Thomas and Barbara Janssen leaned forward and greeted Laura. "You're looking marvelous," Thomas said. "Marvelous," Barbara echoed.
*Thank you," Laura said gravely, and then there was a silence and Thomas and Barbara sat back in their seats, concentrating on reading the festival program.
; Leni and Laura looked at each other. "You're the one who has style, my dear," Leni said quietly. When Laura did not respond, she said, "How long has it been?"
"Seven years," Laura replied evenly. "Or six, since we did see each other at the trial."
Leni gazed at her. She looked older, certainly older than her twenty-eight years. She was the same age as Allison, but her face had more experience in it, more pain, more control. But who would have guessed she would turn out to be so stuiming, with such poise, wearing a suit whose designer Leni recognized and wearing it as it was meant to be worn, with a straight back and a proud head? "You've done well," she said
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quietly. "We hear about you, of course, quite frequently. I do congratulate you on your hotels."
"Thank you." Laura turned to look straight ahead, at the large screen on the stage. Nothing had changed: she still loved Leni, still wanted her to love her, still wanted to be like hen cool, serene, unmaiked by passions or even passing fancies. Why can't I just think of these people as part of my past?
*Tell me about the hotels," Leni said. "It does seem strange that they're yours, though I want you to know Vm glad they are. That was a terrible time we went through, my dear, and none of us acted well, especially those of us who were silent. It always amazes me how easily we forget that being silent is as much an action as doing something. I've wanted to apologize to you and tell you that perhaps we were too hasty in judging you ..." She made a small gesture with her slender, manicured hand. *This is hardly the time or the place, but—^**
"How is Allison?"
"Oh, very well. Very happy. She's married, you know, or did you? To a fine young man named Ben Gardner. I wasn't sure of him at first, but he's very fine, very direct and honest, and very much in love with Allison. You'd like him; the two of you are rather alike. There's something about the way you hold your head and look at everyone as if you're studying them . . ." She gave a small laugh. "Isn't it strange, I hadn't thought of it before, but you and Ben are really quite alike in that way. He and Allison have a baby boy, a lovely child, he'll be a year old in May, and she's running an art gallery with a friend. She wanted to be here today, but she just couldn't get away. She'll be so sorry when I tell her you were here. She still misses you, I think; I know she'd agree that we ought to put those bad times behijid us."
"Felix, too?" Laura asked evenly. "Felix wants to forget the past?"
"No," Leni said. "But Felix and I—" She stopped. "Please tell me about you. I can hardly believe all the things I've heard about your hotels, and your corporation. It's quite amazing; it sounds as if you've done the most astonishing things in an incredibly short time."
Laura looked at her in silence. Amazing. Astonishing. Incredible. Poor Leni, what a lot of trouble she was having with
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the idea that a thief and kitchen maid could do what Laura Fairchild was doing. And she had the nerve to apologize for perhaps acting too hastily in the past! She still thought they'd probably been right about Laura Fairchild: a thief, a liar, a fortune hunter who got Paul to propose and then manipulated and terrorized a dying man into naming her in his will.
"Why don't you see for yourself?" she asked icily. "Isn't that the best way to find out how amazing they are? Tell me when you'd like to come, and I'll make a reservation for you at the New York Beacon Hill. Stay as long as you'd like; we'd be so pleased to welcome you there. As our guest."
Leni winced at her anger, but she admired her, too. The invitation was bold and clever; it showed a woman who could control herself and take the offensive. No wonder she was talked about as a superb executive. And the invitation was intriguing. Why shouldn't I stay in her hotel? Leni thought. It would enrage Felix, of course, if he heard about it, but that was no longer a consideration. "I think—" she began, when the lights in the auditorium faded out and a spotlight picked out a man on the stage.
As he welcomed the audience and spoke briefly about Paul Janssen's film, the first-place winner in its category, Farley and a young girl slipped into the end seats. The stage went dark, and the film began.
It was titled An American Hero, and Laura heard Farley's jubilant sigh as the words appeared over a wide view of the jammed Washington mall, with Britt Farley on stage. But as the film unfolded, she forgot he was there; she forgot her anger at Leni and the closeness of Paul and his wife and parents. She was caught up in the story.
It unfolded like a novel, the camera and the unseen narrator following Farley from his eariy days in television to the Tour for the Hungry that had ended only eight months ago. Gasps were heard fiom the audience when his eariy days were shown, and everyone was reminded of the charm of his rugged good looks and boyish smile, and the easy strength of the baritone that swung between singing and talking, to tell a tale. Those who had known him along the way reminisced; photos were shown from old albums, pages from People and Esquire, and scenes from late-ni^ talk shows. In the back-
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ground was the music Farley had sung in his teens and college years, imperceptibly shifting to the harder beat and lyrics of his television series, when he combined acting and singing, and then shifting again to a still harder beat, with a dark tone, while the lighting grew harsh and starkly shadowed.
It was the fall of the hero: first a scene from the tape of the disastrous rehearsal that had led to his series being abruptly halted, then his displays of temper and erratic mood changes in press conferences, and finally the long struggle of the Tour for the Hungry, with his effort to keep going and climb out of the depths to which he had fallen. In the final scene, on the Washington mall, Farley stood on a raised platform surrounded by hundreds of thousands of fans who had not forgotten what they had loved. He clung to the microphone, looking at the horizon beyond the mass of faces, and sang the songs they remembered, his voice strong one moment, slipping to a gravelly whisper the next. Suddenly, another Britt Farley stood beside him: in a double exposure, the young, vigorous, handsome singer of less than a dozen years before stood and sang in unison with the singer of today. And then the young Farley vanished, and all that was left to fill the screen was the haggard face of Britt Farley today, and his haunted eyes. And the silent question, which no one could answer, of what his future would be.
The image froze, the credits rolled across it, and the audience burst into applause; many of them had tears in their eyes. "My God," Ginny said to Laura, "that man is a genius.*' The applause continued as the lights came up, and the man on the stage beckoned to Paul, who joined him there. Leni and Laura turned to each other, applauding and smiling. For one perfect moment they loved each other, and they both loved Paul and rejoiced for him. And then the moment was gone. Laura stopped applauding and clasped her hands in her lap.
The audience was standing, giving Paul an ovation, and it was when she stood with them that Laura saw Britt*s empty seat. The young girl was still there, smiling at anyone who looked her way, but Britt was nowhere to be seen, and so he did not hear Paul's brief speech thanking everyone who had worked on the film, but most of all Britt Farley, for his courageous and generous cooperation.
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Thomas was talking about dinner, a celebration; Emily had joined Paul on the stage, taking his arm and accepting the congratulations of those who were surrounding him. Leni was answering a question from Barbara. And Laura knew she had to get out of there. She'd been sitting with the family, but she was completely separate from them, sharing nothing, certainly not Paul's triumph. It's their night, not mine, she thought; Ginny and I are going to our own dinner.
"Please congratulate Paul for me," she said to Leni, beneatlf the noise of the audience. "It's a brilliant film. We can't stay; will you tell him I think he's a superb fihnmaker?"
"Of course," Leni said. She and Giimy talked briefly while Laura said good-bye to the Janssens, then she turned to Laura. "Perhaps we'll see each other again."
Laura gave her a long look. "Soon, I hope. I did invite you
to my hotel."
"So you did." Leni hadn't forgotten; she'd simply not made up her mind. Now she did. With a smile, she held out her hand, and automatically Laura took it, their cool hands clasped together. "I accept with pleasure. I'm greatly looking forward to being a guest in your Beacon Hill hotel.'*
In May, the Philadelphia Hospital Women's Board held its annual benefit fashion show and luncheon as the first event in the new Beacon Hill dining room, one day before the hotel officially opened. The three hundred women who, alone or with husbands, could be said to run the city's institutions were given a tour of the hotel by Laura Fairchild, and their names were inscribed in the guest book so they could get a reservation at any Beacon Hill hotel, thus eliminating the necessity of being recommended by a former guest. The lunch was sublimely French, the wine a mellow Montrachet, and the blush pink roses at each place perfectly matched the tablecloth and napkins. The ramp for the fashion show was placed so that everyone had an unobstructed view without moving from her table, and the music was not deafening, as at too many fashion shows. The event was remembered as an afternoon of utter perfection in which a million dollars was raised for the hospital, and ball gowns, sportswear, and lingerie worth close to two million were sold by the designers who had mounted the
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