Inheritance (62 page)

So Clay owed everything he had to Laura. Well, almost everything. He had his own talents, too, and he was doing fine with them: he was driving a new Corvette, he had a stereo system that could knock over the Empire State Building, and on his last trip to Europe to check out some new ideas in hotels for Laura, he'd bought two Rodolfo suits that made him look like the high-powered executive he'd always known he was.

He put his legs over the edge of the water bed and heaved himseff out. The young girl made protesting noises as the waves he'd made tossed her back and forth, but she slept on, and she was still asleep when Clay had showered and dressed

Inheritance

and left for his new office on the top floor of the New York Beacon Hill.

The minute he walked in the door, it was a real high. Everything was happening at once; walls were knocked down, floors were stripped to the bare concrete, old toilets and bathtubs lay in comers like porcelain corpses, Ught bulbs dangled, and a haze of dust hung over everything. Within half an hour, the luster of his Rodolfo suit had faded, his hands were grimy, his nose itched, and his eyes watered. But he was grinning because he loved it: things were changing before his very eyes, he couldn't predict today exacdy what everything would be like tomorrow, and there were mysteries—what*s behind the wall that's being torn down, or under the carpet that's being pulled up, or inside the closets being ripped out?

It was woncterful, and he hated to leave it to go to his office on the top floor, a dump if he ever saw one. He knew it was temporary and someday they'd have a decent place, but still it was a dr^ to go there and leave the bustling activity below.

He could hear them all day. While he and Laiura and the small staff planned the redesign of the Philadelphia and Washington hotels and the opening of the New York Beacon Hill by the end of the year, they could hear the workmen moving closer, one floor at a time. Now and then Clay cookln't stand it any longer, and he'd drag Laura with him for an inspection. They would check on the two- and three-room suites being put together from individual rooms; the double baths in each, of sea green marble with white fixtures; the sculptured pattern in the lobby ceiling that was newly traced m gold leitf, with a chandelier that had been rescued from some crumbling castle in England; the Victorian sconces found in a jumbled pile in the basement that had been polished and installed in the corridors where they'd been when Owen built the hoiei sixty years before. And they would end their inspection back on the top floor, half of which was being transformed into the dining room, a secluded pastel aerie, a French garden in the middle of the city.

By now the ideas were Laura's, going far beyond the ones she and Owen had worked on when they sat opposite each other at his Chippendale desk. Everything he had planned was being done, but it was not enough for her. She had been trav-

Judith Michael

eling about on weekends, staying in other hotels, studying them; she read hotel industry magazines; she dreamed of new fantasies that could become reaUty in her own hotels. As the weeks went by, the luxuries multiplied; so did the costs. And she was in a hurry; that sent costs up even more.

But it didn't matter. The stunning success of the Chicago Beacon Hill and her vision for her other hotels outweighed eveiything else. So far, when she'd needed money, she'd gotten it. She'd used it with great success in Chicago, and she would everywhere else, too. And when she needed more, she would find it.

It had become easy to believe the tap would never run dry.

"Reporting for duty," Clay said, walking into her office at exactly nine o'clock. He knew she'd been there since seven, sometimes even earlier, but she'd never asked him to show up at the crack of dawn, and so he didn't. He figured if he couldn't get his woric done in a regular day, he had too much work and ought to have an assistant. "You look beautiful and deep in thou^t."

She smiled at him as he kissed her. *'How was the movie last night?"

**Good. You should see it."

"I will sometime."

You don't get out enough." He sat on a comer of her desk. It isn't good for you to sit home and brood."

**I don't brood," she said with a laugh. "I woik.**

"You woric too much. Where's Wes these days?"

**On one of his consulting trips. I'll see him when he gets back."

"Is diat still onr

**What do you mean?'*

"Well, you don't date anybody else— **

"Yes, I do; I just don't talk about it."

"I know vihsu you do; you have dates for dinner parties and tbost fancy benefit parties you go to. I meant r^ dates— dinner and a nightclub and then bed. How many of those do you have?"

'^Dinner and a nightclub once in a while."

"That's alir

"That's all."

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**Wsll, that's what I meant. You don't date, you still go out with Wes when he's in town, and the two of you are sort of. . . close when he's in the office. So are you going to marry him one of these days after all?"

**No. But we are close—we've been together for a long time—and it's nice to have someone to go out with." And sleep with now and then — even though I once said I didn't want to anymore — and talk to and share my worries with. "What about you and Myma?"

"I haven't decided. But if you're lonesome and want my scintillating company more than once a week, you can call me up, you know. I don't like the idea of you alone all the time."

"I'm not alone all the time, but thank you. Clay. You have your own Ufe; once a week with your sister is enough, I think,"

"Just let me know; I'm yours if you want me." He stood up. "I need some coffee. Is there anything to eat in that refirigera-tor of yours?"

"Sweet rolls and fruit. Help yourself. And then would you check these purchasing reports? They just came in from Chicago, and it looks as if Henry's using some new suppliers; you may have to go out there and talk to him." She pulled her desk calendar to fc^r. "I want you at a meeting with the lighting people at three; there's a problem with the fixtures we chose for the conference room. And at five we're meeting with Gerard about the dining room tables and chairs—did you say something?"

"I was about to conmient on the idea of having a meeting at five o'clock, but I guess you don't want to hear that."

She smiled. "I guess I don't. And I'd like you to go to Philadelphia on Thursday to talk to our suppliers—here's the list—anid make sure we're getting everything we ordered. It shouldn't take more than a couple of days."

"Great idea. I was thinking of it anyway; the architect's been calling with a lot of changes—not big ones, but they ought to be looked at. Then I may go on to Chicago for the weekend; see how Myma's doing. And then there's that quality control convention Monday and Tuesday in Denver. I could go there from Chicago."

*That sounds all right."

Judith Michael

"Good." He grinned. "You won't see me for a whole week. But ru caU in."

*'Just a minute, Clay, there's one other thing. Did you fire a security man yesterday?"

**Oh, shit, did I forget to tell you about that? Right. I didn't like the way he worked, he didn't know how to take orders, so I let him go. I thought, when I'm in Chicago this weekend I'd talk to some of the guys on the security sti^ and bring one of them here next week. If that's okay with you."

"I thought we agreed you wouldn't fire anyone without checking with me."

"Right, we did. I should have. He really got to me. I'm sorry, Laura; it won't happen again, I promise. I do know who I'm woiking for: a wonderful lady who's understanding and tolerant and very loving to her brother. You should meet her sometime; you'd like her."

Laura smiled. "I don't want it happening again, Clay."

"Right. Is it okay if I have my breakfast now?"

"Clay, for heaven's sake—! You don't have to ask permission; go get your breakfast. Here, don't forget these reports."

He gave her a small salute, took some food from the refrigerator and left. Laura rested her head on her hand and gazed out the window. She shouldn't have reacted that way to his joke about breakfast. But he made her feel frustrated and impatient just when she wanted to rely on him. One minute he was a man, handling a job that was already complicated and would get more so as they opened the three hotels that were all being renovated at the same time; the next he was a little boy looking gleeful over the chance to get away from the office for a week. He was smart but lazy, and he resisted growing up. It was one of the reasons she still did not confide in him. When they had dinner together. Clay told her about his giris, his loft, even his card games, since she no longer criticized him for them, but he asked few questions about her and none about the finances of the business that she ran and he worked for.

Laura knew he didn't want details; he didn't want to worry OT know that she had worries. In many ways, he liked being her little brother. Or a son, she thought; children don't want to know if their parents have worries, either.

But maybe that was partly her fault. K Clay liked being a

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little brother or a son, she liked being an older sister or even a mother; it made her feel as if she had a real family. And even if he did ask about her finances, she probably wouldn*t tell him very much since she really confided only in Cunier about money. Not even in Ginny, though she knew she could.

Ginny asked no questions about money. She and Laura talked about almost everything else, and she figured when Laura wanted to talk to her about money, she*d do it on her own. She could even ask me to invest in OWL Development, Ginny thought as she stopped at Laura's office to pick her up. It*s probably a good investment. But there aren't many times when friendship and money make a good mix, so we'll let that go, too.

*'I just had an idea," Laura said as she sat beside her in her limousine. *Tell me what you think of it."

It was one of the hottest days of August, but air conditioning kept the gray velvet luxury of the limousine cool and quiet as they drove from Laura's hotel to Greenwich Village. A foldout silver tray with iced Perrier and lime was in front of them, and Ginny was filling their glasses. She handed one to Laura, noting the brightness of her eyes. "You always have an idea," she said. "Or a dozen. What's this one?"

"Well, I do have a few. Shall I save the best for last?" Her smile was mischievous, secretive, pleased with herself and the world. Ginny smiled back. No one could help but smile back when Laura looked like that. In fact, Ginny had never met anyone whose excitement was as contagious as hers. As Laura talked about the design of the suites in the hotel and the antique wardrobes in the corridors that would hold linen and cleaning supplies so maids would not have to push unwieldy, unlovely carts around, she was so involved in what she was saying that her face lost its cool reticence and glowed with pleasure. Shoot, Ginny thought, a man ought to nuike her look like that, not a hotel. But of course it was more than a hotel: it was Laura's work, her dream, almost her whole Ufe.

"Now—are you ready for this?—the best ictea of all," Laura said, her smile wide and happy. "I really want your opinion of it."

"You already told me it's the best of all," Ginny murmured.

Laura laughed. "I want to make the New York Beacon Hill

Judith Michael

so exclusive that no one can stay in it without a recommendation from a former guest."

There was a silence. Ginny contemplated her. "Very bold. Very risky. Very clever. There's a little place in London that does that, and I must say, it's comforting, even for a tough Texan who can take anything, to know you're sleeping in a bed that's only been slept in by somebody you know or have heard of."

*T'm counting on others feeling that way, too," Laura said. She leaned forward, filled with nervous energy, as if she could push the limousine faster down Seventh Avenue, through the crowded garment district where men pushing racks of clothing made better time than they did. The chauffeur calmly swung the wheel, slipping between a car and a delivery truck, weaving around a taxi picking up a fare and another letting one off, and in a few minutes passed Madison Square Garden and then was in Chelsea, where the traffic eased and he could speed up.

Watching Laura's nervous energy, Giimy shook her head. "What're you going to do with yourself when you finish your hotelsr

**Oh, buy another one, maybe. Or, better yet . . ." She hesitated, as if she were still unsure of hersetf. **rve been thinking the past few weeks—and I haven't told anyone yet, not even Wes—what I'd really like to do when I've got the hotels running smoothly . . . what I really want is to buy into the Salinger Corporation."

Ginny stared at her. Still wanting to even scores, she thought, and be as big as Owen told her she could be. When the blue-eyed devil would Laura start to live just for herself? She'd told Ginny the story about the Salingers soon after the Chicago Beacon Hill opened, when Ginny was spending a lot of time in Chicago, trying to mother h^. She hȣi't made it a long story, and she hadn't told it with a lot of emotion, but Ginny had gotten the picture: there was plenty of emotion there, even after all this time, especiaUy about Faul. Laura had talked about him even more briefly than about his family, which made Ginny sure she was still in love widi him, since stories tend to get longer the more removed we aie from tibe subject. But to try to buy into the family conqKUiy . . . that seemed to be going a mite too far.

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"What for?" she asked bluntly. "You'd he damned uncom-d fortable sitting on that board with your few little votes against b tbt rest of them."

"Fd be part of the company, the way I was supposed to be. ] I'd be voting the way I think Owen would."

"And if you don't know how he'd vote?"

"I'd vote the way I want."

"Well, that part is sensible." Ginny thought for a minute. "Flying pretty high, honey."

"I didn't say I could do it. I only said I want to."

"So far, what you've wanted you've managed to get. But even if you found somebody to sell you some shares, my guess is you'd need a heap of money."