Forbidden Fruit (7 page)

Now, from all those years of careful listening, she knew a great deal about the hotel, from its history, to its worth, to how her father kept it running smoothly, day in and day out.

The St. Charles had one hundred and twenty-five rooms or suites and a penthouse that encompassed the entire top floor. Three presidents had slept under its roof: Roosevelt, Eisenhower and Kennedy, as had every Louisiana governor, at least once during his tenure, since the hotel first opened its doors. Countless movie stars had chosen accommodations at the St. Charles during their visits to New Orleans. The list included Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe and Robert Redford. Just this year the rock star Elton John had stayed here, although her daddy hadn't been too happy about the hordes of squealing teenagers who had descended on the hotel, all determined to get a glimpse of the star.

Glory and her father crossed the foyer into the main lobby. The registration desk was located up ahead and to the right; to the left was an open lobby bar. High tea was served there in the afternoon—Glory liked the scones and jam best—cocktails in the evenings. Situated beyond both, its entrance set back in an alcove, was the Renaissance Room.

As she knew he would, her father stopped at the front desk. The woman behind the counter smiled. “Good evening, Mr. St. Germaine. Miss St. Germaine.”

“Hello, Madeline. How are things tonight?”

“Very good. Quiet, considering occupancy is seventy-five percent.”

“And the dining room?”

“Brisk tonight, I understand.”

“Where's Marcus?” he asked, referring to the night manager.

She hesitated a moment. “I think he's in the bar.”

Philip inclined his head. “We'll be in the dining room. If he happens by, send him in.”

They walked away from the desk, and Glory peeked up at her father. “You're mad at Marcus, aren't you?”

“Not mad, Glory. Disappointed. He's not doing his job.”

Glory pursed her lips. “He drinks too much, doesn't he?”

Her father looked down at her in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“He was in the bar the last time we were in.” She shrugged. “I do know about things, Dad. After all, I'm not a little kid anymore.”

He laughed. “That's right. Almost eight, already. Almost grown-up.” She frowned at his amusement, and he ruffled her hair. “Here we are. After you, poppet.”

They crossed through the alcove to the maître d's stand. Philip spoke to the man, waving aside his offer to escort them to their table. As they made their way through the dining room, Glory watched her father. He swept his gaze over the room, and she knew that his dark gaze missed nothing, no matter how small or insignificant. He nodded at the patrons who caught his eye, stopping and greeting many—some of whom he knew, some of whom he introduced himself to. Of each he inquired as to their satisfaction, each he wished well and expressed the hope that they would return soon.

When they reached their table, he pulled out Glory's chair for her, waiting for her to be seated before he took his own place at the table. That done, he leaned toward her. “Everything must be perfect,” he said softly. “That's what people expect from the St. Charles. You must never forget that.”

“I won't,” she promised breathlessly. “You can count on me.”

He smiled at her response. “Remember, too, the importance of the personal touch. We are not a chain hotel, Glory. We must treat each patron as if they are personal friends, guests in our home.”

She nodded, hanging on his every word. “Yes, Daddy.”

“You see the table before you? Always check for flaws. Even the tiniest is unacceptable.” He lifted his utensils in turn, inspecting each carefully, a ritual they had been through dozens of times before. “There should be no fingerprints, no water spots. God forbid it should be soiled.”

He did the same with the crystal. She followed his lead, studying, inspecting, pursing her lips ever so slightly as she did, in a perfect mimicry of him. She saw her reflection in the soup spoon and smiled, liking how grown-up she looked.

“The linen should be spotless and crisp,” he continued. “And the flowers must always be fresh. If one droops, it must be removed.”

“The china can't be cracked or chipped,” she piped in. “Even the tiniest chip is…” She stopped, searching for the perfect word, the one he always used.

He helped her out. “Unacceptable.”

“Right. Unacceptable.”

He leaned toward her once again. “At the St. Charles people pay for the best, and the best is perfection. We must give it to them. If we don't, they'll take their business elsewhere.”

After that, they ordered, then enjoyed their meals. While they ate, her father talked more about the hotel, sharing stories about his father and grandfather, telling her about the early days of the hotel. Even though Glory had heard most of what he said many times before, she never grew tired of hearing him tell her again, and urged him to share even more details with her.

It wasn't until their dinners had been cleared away and her dessert and his coffee served, that Glory thought again about her mother. She realized she hadn't seen her since her punishment.

“Where's Mama tonight?” she asked, licking a drop of strawberry sauce from her thumb.

Philip took a sip of his coffee. “She went to mass.”

“We went this morning, too.” Glory looked glumly down at her ice-cream sundae. “She must still be angry with me. About the flowers and Mr. Riley.”

His mouth tightened. “That's all over now, poppet. She just made a mistake about those flowers. Remember?”

Glory looked up at him, then away, her heart hurting. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Your mama loves you very much. She just wants you to grow up to be a good person. That's all.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she murmured, though she didn't believe it was true. She peeked up at him and knew he didn't believe it, either. She knew, in her heart, that he, too, wondered what was wrong with Glory that her Mama didn't love her.

That hurt so much, she wanted to die.

“Poppet? What's wrong?”

“Nothing, Daddy,” she said, the words small and sad.

For a moment, he said nothing, and she silently begged for him to ask her the question again, silently wished for him to insist she tell him the truth. Instead, in a voice that sounded false, he said, “Have you thought about what you want for your birthday?”

She didn't look up; the tablecloth swam before her eyes. “It's still two months away.”

“Two months isn't long.” His coffee cup clicked against the saucer as he set it down. “You must have given it some thought.”

She had, Glory thought bitterly. She wanted the same thing she had wished for last year, the same thing she wished for every year.

That her mother would love her.

“No,” Glory whispered without looking up. “I haven't.”

“Well, don't you worry.” He reached across the table and covered her clenched hands with one of his own. “Your daddy has something special in mind. Something fitting his precious poppet's eighth birthday.”

When she didn't respond, he squeezed her hands, then drew his back. “Let's do a quick tour of the hotel before we head home.”

She shrugged, still battling tears. “Okay.”

At first, as they strolled down the halls, Glory's hurt and feeling of betrayal prevented her from enjoying this ritual, one she usually found such pleasure in. But as each minute passed, those feelings dimmed and the magic of the St. Charles, the magic of being with her father, swelled inside her. Her father loved her, she knew. They shared this, their love of the hotel. Here, her mother couldn't come between them.

When they had checked each floor and made sure everything was in perfect order, Philip summoned an elevator, their tour over. “Occupancy is the key,” her father said as they stepped into the empty elevator. He punched the lobby button. “You must keep the hotel booked. Empty rooms are not only lost revenue, but lost capital, as well. The staff and the premises must be maintained to the same standard, whether the hotel's occupancy is twenty percent or one hundred percent. Do you understand?”

She nodded, and he continued, “You must never abuse your ownership. Guests' needs must always come before the owner's needs. Never give away a room or service you can sell.

“It will be tempting, I know. It's fun to give away dinners, to throw lavish parties for your friends, to do favors for people you like. But over the years I've seen hoteliers get into trouble that way. They've lost either all or part ownership of their hotels. That must never happen to the St. Charles. We have kept her strong and in the family by being good businessmen, and by being determined to hold on to her. The needs of the hotel come first. Always.”

“I couldn't bear for us to lose the St. Charles,” she said softly, lifting her face to his. “I love her.”

“That's good. Because someday she'll be yours.” The elevator doors slid open, but her father didn't make a move to get out. Instead, he caught her hand and held it tightly. “The St. Charles is in your blood, Glory. It's as much a part of you as your mother and I. It's your heritage.”

“I know, Daddy.”

He tightened his fingers more, meeting her eyes, the expression in his fierce. “You must never forget, family and heritage are everything. Who you are and who you will be. Never forget,” he said again. “Family and heritage, no one can take them away from you.”

G
lory awakened suddenly but without a start. She didn't open her eyes but even so, she knew her mother stood beside the bed, staring down at her. Glory felt her presence, felt her gaze burning into her, marking her like a brand.

Seconds ticked past, becoming minutes. Glory kept her eyes shut tight. She didn't want to alert her mother to the fact that she had awakened, she didn't want to see her mother's expression. She knew, from countless times before, just what that expression would be. And how it would make her feel.

Glory began to sweat under her light blanket; her heart thundered so heavily against the wall of her chest, she was certain her mother must be able to see its beat. Time seemed to stop and hold its breath; her every sense, every nerve ending strained, focusing on her mother, waiting and wishing for her to go away.

But her mother didn't go away. Instead, she moved closer to the bed. Glory heard the soft scrape of her slippers on the floor, felt the mattress move as her mother's knees connected with it. Her mother bent over her, the rhythm of her breathing changing, deepening to a sort of pant.

Fear turned Glory's mouth to ash. What if it wasn't her mother beside the bed? What if it was a stranger gazing down at her, or a monster?

What if it was the devil himself?

A cry raced to her lips; she held it back—barely. The fear squeezed at her. She pictured The Great Red Beast there beside her, waiting for her to open her eyes so he could steal her soul.

Glory curled her fingers tightly into the damp bedsheets, the darkness closing in on her, her imagination creating vivid, frightening movies in her head. Finally, she couldn't bear the unknown another moment; finally the
what ifs
overwhelmed her. Terrified, she cracked open her eyes.

And wished with all her heart that she had not.

Her mother stood beside the bed, gazing down at her, her face twisted into an ugly mask, her eyes burning with an emotion, a light, that made Glory's skin crawl.

Glory shuddered, even as tears built behind her eyes. Her mother looked at her as if she, Glory, was the monster she had feared only moments before. As if she, Glory, was the devil.

Why, Mama?
Glory wanted to scream.
What about me is so ugly? What have I done to cause you to look at me this way?

She swallowed the words, though not without great effort. A moment later, without so much as blinking, her mother turned and left the room. She snapped the door shut behind her, leaving Glory in total darkness once again.

Glory's tears came then, hot and bitter. She curled into a tight ball, her face pressed into her pillow to muffle the sound of her shame, her despair. She cried for a long time, until her tears were spent, until all she could manage was a dry, broken sound of grief.

She rolled onto her back, bringing one of her soft, plush animals with her. She clutched it to her chest, remembering the first time she had awakened to find her mother above her, looking at her in
that way,
her face almost unrecognizable with hate. Glory had been young, so young she couldn't recall any other details of the experience.

She could recall, however, the way she had felt—ugly and afraid. And alone, so very alone.

The way she felt right now.

Glory hugged the toy tighter to her chest. Why did her mother look at her that way? What had she done to cause her mother's face to change into one she barely recognized? One that was ugly and frightening?

Why didn't her mother love her?

It always came back to that, Glory thought, tears welling again, slipping down her cheeks.

At least her father loved her.

Glory clasped that truth to her, much as she did her plush toy, denying the little voice that taunted, the one that insisted he loved her mother more. That didn't matter, she told herself, thinking of their evening at the hotel, of their dinner at the Renaissance Room and the things he had said about family and heritage.

Glory ran his words through her head, holding on to them, letting them soothe and comfort her. They made her feel less alone, less frightened. She was a part of her mother, a part of her father. She was a part of the St. Germaine family and of the St. Charles.

No one could take that away from her. Not her mother's burning gaze, not the darkness of her own fear.

She wasn't alone. With family, she never would be.