Inheritance (44 page)

Other manufacturers came when Laura sent for them, and

Inheritance

from the best she chose television sets, radios, and videocas-sette players, terrycloth robes, carafes and tumblers for bedside tables, hairdryers and built-in makeup tables with illuminated makeup mirrors for the dressing rooms, and built-in refrigerators to be stocked with cheeses, pat6s, soft drinks, wines and liquor.

Restaurant suppliers came and Laura chose, for the Beacon Hill restaurant, Villeroy & Boch china, Sambonet flatware, and Lenox crystal. The cost was close to three hundred dollars a place setting. "Do it right," Currier had said; he did not believe in spending millions and then cutting comers on small items, especially in a highly visible place like a dining room that he anticipated would become one of the city*s top restaurants.

Finally, Laura and the design consultants worked out the plan of each room. She knew what she wanted: each one had to remind her of her rooms in Owen's house. They were the first to fulfill the fantasies of space and beauty she'd had in the tenement she had shared with Clay and Ben, and she still remembered the warmth that engulfed her each time she entered them. It was that warmth and spaciousness she wanted to give her guests.

"It should feel like a home," Laura said to Currier one night in February as they dined at Le Perroquet. It was her twenty-fourth birthday, and they were sipping Dom Perignon and sitting close together on a banquette in a comer of the long room. "It doesn't matter whether it's for a few hours or a week or a month. It should feel like home."

"Do you think people really care?" he asked. 'They're not fooled, you know; they know the difference between a hotel and a home. All they want is to be comfortable."

"I don't know. . . ." With her fork she swirled a tiny bay scallop around her plate to pick up some of its lobster sauce. **Name your favorite hotel," she said.

*The Mayfair Regent," he replied promptly. "But I don't remember what it looks like, only that you were with me."

She smiled. "Name some others."

"Other favorites?" He reflected. *The Ritz in Paris, 47 Parte Street in London, the Salinger in Amsterdam, Stanford Court in San Francisco. And the Beacon Hill."

■ f,

Judith Michael

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You haven't stayed there."

"And I don't intend to, unless my welcome wears out in th^ DePaul neighborhood. What does that have to do with it being one of my favorites?"

She smiled again. "What do they all have in conunon?'

"Small size, superior service, comfort, serenity."

"Just like a well-ordered home."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Is that what our hoi would be like?"

"It's what every wonderful home would be like," she saic calmly. He had not mentioned marriage since New Year's Eve, but occasionally, especially since she had moved into hei apartment and made him part of it when he was in Chicago, he found ways to let her know he had not forgotten. But neithe had she forgotten what she intended to do. And so she did n( let the talk turn to marriage.

Currier refilled their glasses. "We haven't toasted yoi birthday." The soft lights of the tranquil room decorate with arrangements of fresh flowers turned the pale champagne to gold, its tiny bubbles glinting as they burst to surface.

*Thank you," Laura said. "You've made it a lovely birthday."

"How can that be, when you don't yet have your present?'

*1 got my present in December. You gave me a chance to dc what I most wanted to do."

I gave you the chance to woric a hundred hours a week." But that's what impressed me," she said, her eyes dancing. You could have given me a microwave oven, or a featherbed, or something else to make my Ufe easier. Instead you invested ten million dollars in me so I could borrow twenty million more and work harder than I ever have."

He chuckled in appreciation. She had a way of deflecting the points he tried to score, and she did it without making hii feel diminished. That was rare in anyone, especially in woman as young and inexperienced as she. And what a plea^ sure, he thought, to enjoy a woman outside of bed as well in; to find her challenging and independent even as he press her to become more dependent on him. "I bought you a ring,' he said. "Will you wear it?"

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She shook her head. "Fm sorry."

He had expected it. "Fortunately, there is an alternative.'* He laid a small velvet box on the table. *To remind you that I want you to save some time for me."

Laura opened it and took out a slender gold watch, its face outlined in tiny diamonds, two diamonds forming its hands. "How beautiful," she whispered. She fastened the small gold clasp and turned her wrist to catch the light. "Fve never seen one like it."

*The ring is in my other pocket," he said, watching her.

Once again she shook her head. "I>on*t press me, Wes; we'd both be unhappy if you did. Let me just thank you for the watch. You do mean so much to me. . . ."

He smiled and deferred to her. She would marry him, and it would take no pressing. He had known this was not the right time, even though he couldn't let the evening go by without trying; she had to get closer to the completion of her hotel. There was something mystical about it, he knew, that went beyond her need to get back what Felix had stolen from her: it had to do with Owen Salinger, what he had done for her, how he had made her feel about herself, how she wanted to feel about herself in the future. She wanted revenge on Felix and to be worthy of Owen's trust. Currier would not fight such powerful needs; he would wait. Wes Currier was known throughout the world for his patience—and also for his triumphs.

They talked like close, comfortable friends through the perfect courses of the meal. Currier had ordered Laura's favorite raspberry souffl6 for dessert, and the chef served it himself, with a small silver candle trembling in the center. She bent over it. But suddenly all she could think of was Ben. She always thought of him on her birthday, remembering how he had tried to make it cheerful for her in the dark years after her parents were killed. And even after they had parted in anger after the robbery of the Salingers, he always had sent birthday greetings, with bits of news about himself. This year there had been nothing. So she thought of Ben, and as she blew out the candle, her wish was that someday they would find a way to be brother and sister again.

Judith Michael

And when she and Currier got home at midnight, a cable from Amsterdam was on her front porch, with a note from a neighbor saying that he had accepted it for her.

"I didn't know you knew anyone in Amsterdam," Currier said.

"Ben. My brother ... I told you about him ... I usually get a letter on my birthday, not a cable. . . ." Oddly, her hands were shaking as she tore it open, and she sat on the sofa in the living room to read it.

Happy twenty-fourth — hope ifs a great birthday and wonderful year — lots of news — I'm Security Director at hotel and marrying Allison Salinger — how's that for first step to sweet revenge — love Ben

She stared at it, rereading the few words again and again. The paper quivered in her hand.

"Is there anything I can do?" Currier asked.

Laura looked up, barely seeing him. "What? Oh, I don*t think so. Yes, there is. How do I send a cable?"

'To Amsterdam?"

"Yes."

He reached for the directory, found the number and wrote it down. "Shall I wait for you in the study?"

Through the turmoil of her thoughts, Laura felt a rush of affection. "If you would. Thank you, Wes." And then she turned again to the cable in her 1^. How did he meet her? The world was so big, how could Allison and Ben meet? And fall in love? But he wasn't in love; he wanted revenge. What for? What could be so terrible he would—? But it made no difference what it was. Ben wanted revenge. He always had. That was why he had robbed the family so many years ago.

She sat still, letting memories engulf her. Allison on the tennis court, her arms around Laura as she taught her how to hit backhand and forehand and how to serve; Allison in restaurants, translating menus and listening to Laura repeat the phrases until she was perfect so no tuxedoed waiter ever would look down at her with the scornful hauteur that could

Inheritance

wither inexperienced diners; Allison darting in and out of the boutiques of Newton and Boylston streets, trying to find the perfect blouse for Laura; Allison crying furiously— something about Thad—her head on Laura's shoulder, thanking her for listening and not calling her a damn fool; Allison's bewildered face in the library as Felix hurled his accusations and Laura did not fight back.

She felt empty inside. Allison, I miss you.

But Allison had turned away. She'd turned her back on her friend.

So what? She felt betrayed. Just as I did.

She could have waited. There's always time to turn away. She could have waited.

Well, she didn't. But that didn't wipe out all the years when she'd been a friend, a sister, a teacher to Laura.

Nothing Allison Salinger had done deserved her being used as a weapon of revenge—for whatever reasons—in Ben Gardner's hands.

Laura shook herself as if waking up, swiftly wrote a message on the pad of paper Currier had left her, and picked up the telephone. *To Ben Gardner," she said and gave his address in Amsterdam.

Allison was good to me — don't hurt her — whatever happened so long ago can't be important anymore — can't you forget about revenge — Laura

The Chicago Beacon Hill was scheduled to open for Christmas, one year after the party at the Ninety-Fifth. In early November, while the wind swirled powdery snow in small vortexes along Michigan Avenue, and Christmas shoppers scurried from store to store, heads bent against the cold, Laura sat in her newly ftimished office at the hotel, working on menus for the private opening, while her secretary addressed invitations. A select list, from Europe and America, was being invited for a weekend stay as guests of the Beacon Hill before the hotel was open to the public. The dining room would be open for every meal; afternoon

Judith Michael

tea would be served in the lounge; and limousines would take guests to the opera, symphony, museums, and shops.

Currier had assembled the guest list from friends, acquaintances, and business associates, and Laura had designed the invitations, printed in gold on heavy linen, with Beacon Hill in gold on the envelopes, just above the hotel crest, the outline of an iris in blue and gold. As the secretary addressed them, she stacked them on Laura*s desk unsealed; Currier would add his handwritten invitation to many of them.

Three hundred names were on the list, and all but fifty had been addressed when Laura's telephone rang. Still writing the menu for Sunday brunch, she picked it up. "Laura Fairchild."

"Laura Fairchild," a woman's voice repeated in an unmistakable Texas twang. "My oh my, isn't it a very small world? This is Ginny Starrett."

Ginny Starrett. The name, and the accent, brought back a vivid scene: the lobby of the Boston Salinger, a woman's scream, Virginia Starrett lying on a couch, her heavy makeup streaked with tears, and Laura bending over her, wiping away the smeared mascara and ordering Jules Le-Clair to bring tea. Ginny Starrett. Laura had taken her upstairs, to her room, and they had talked, and Jules had scolded her for being away so long.

"Ginny, how wonderful to hear from you . . . where are you? How did you find me?"

"New York, and I found you because your friend Wes Currier—excellent taste in friends, my dear—told me he was sending me an invitation to your grand affair next month. He neglected to tell you about it?"

Laura glanced at the unfinished invitations. "We're still addressing them. Wes made up the list; I didn't know he knew you. Can you be here? I hope you can. It would be so good to see you again."

"Wouldn't miss it on a bet. How could I stay away from your coming out, or whatever you call it? I owe you so much this won't begin to pay it back."

"You don't owe me— **

"Pish-tush, child, don't tell me what I owe. I'm up there

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with the world's debtor nations; people are always doing me favors and I'm always vowing to repay them. Trouble is, I'm usually so busy making Ginny Starrett happy I don't have much time for anybody else. I didn't forget you, though; I looked for you, oh, about six or eight months after that boxing match Wylie and I had in your lobby, but you were gone and nobody knew where. You'll have to tell me your adventures, and about Wes. Is he behind the hotel?"

"Yes."

"He's a good man. Rides roughshod over people sometimes, but he frequently ends up making them rich so they don't stay peeved too long. Can you put me in one of your suites?"

"You'll have the penthouse." Laura's heart was pounding with excitement and at first she didn't know why. But then she did. Ginny Starrett was fh)m her past, and Laura was starved for the past.

"It's too late for me to get the penthouse," Ginny was saying. "Wes promised it to some friends of mine. He didn't tell you that, either?"

"No, but he's in New York and I haven't talked to him today. We have other wonderful suites. Is it just the two of you?"

"Just the one of me. Wylie and I fought our way through a divorce right after that day in Boston. I have you to thank for that, too. Do you recollect our talk together? Right after you wiped my tears and found me a room? Something you said that day sent me to a divorce lawyer. Know what you said?"

"I can't believe I would have told you to get a divorce."

"No, no, it was much more interesting than that. There I was, overweight, over-bleached, drinking more than was good for me, wearing enough makeup to float an Estee Lauder factory, moaning and groaning about that jogging jackass I was married to and saying I deserved better, and you said, *Isn't it odd how we give terrible people so much power over us?' And I thought to myself, that little girl is just about the smartest person I have met in all the hellish years I've given Wylie Starrett the power to make a mess of me. So

Judith Michael