Inheritance (71 page)

"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

Judith Michael

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.

Judith Michael

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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show, and who had agreed, in response to Laura's suggestion, to donate to the hospital a percentage of the profit.

Laura stayed in Philadelphia the first week the hotel was open, helping with the myriad small details she could anticipate from openings in Chicago and New York. Clay was away that week, too, talking to manufacturers in the South about a problem with the linens they had been receiving. So it was the manager of the New York Beacon Hill who greeted Leni Salinger when she arrived on a warm Wednesday afternoon and was seated at the antique desk in the small lobby where the concierge arranged her registration for the penthouse suite. "If there is anything I can do, madame," he said, handing her the plastic card that took the place of keys in all Beacon Hill hotels, "please call me. I am always here, or one of my assistants. And one of them will now escort you upstairs."

As Leni turned to go, a dark man with a brilliant smile came to the desk. He turned his concentrated smile and intense look on her, and she knew he was the kind who never missed an attractive woman. She was the one who turned away, pausing to view the lobby.

"Ah, Mr. Serrano," she heard the concierge say. "Here are your messages, and there was a call just a moment ago. Mr. Sam Colby would like to see you this evening. He would like you to call him. His number . . . one moment . . ." He wrote on a piece of paper and held it out.

"Not tonight; impossible. You will please call him for me; tell him sometime next week I will try to . . ."

Leni heard no more as she was led to one of the elevators at the back of the lobby. There were four of them, paneled in the same mahogany that alternated with French tapestries on the walls. Leni remembered that wood: Owen told her once it had been his favorite extravagance when he built the hotel. The tapestries were new—a splendid idea—but Leni saw that Laura had kept all the best things. Approvingly, she saw it again in the upstairs corridors: broad, brightly Ut by antique wall sconces, the fleur-de-lis carpet new but retaining the air of a bygone time, the picture moldings intact and framing large landscapes from the last century.

She foUowed the assistant concierge to the end of the corridor, where he led her into her suite: two rooms in mint green

Judith Michael

and ivory, her favorite colors, with an arrangement of thaleon-opsis orchids, the flowers she loved best, on the French coffee table. Beside the flowers was a tea service, the teapot steaming beneath its cozy, and a silver tray with a porcelain plate of finger sandwiches and petits fours. Propped against the flowers was a handwritten note on a card embossed with an iris. "I hope you enjoy your stay. Laura."

There was a discreet knock at the door. "Your maid, ma-dame," said the assistant concierge as he went to open the door. "If you need other assistance, please call us." He was gone before Leni could tip him. But of course it would not be^ done at this time; she knew that. All of them would expect something when she left, and it would be much larger than the small amounts dribbled out in most hotels.

She stood at the window overiooking Fifty-eighth Street while the maid unpacked her bags, hung her (kesses and blouses in the closet, and put her lingerie and sweaters in the antique bureau. One dress and two blouses she kept out. "I will have these ironed and returned within a few moments, madame," she said and quietly left.

Leni wandered through the rooms, picking up books that would provide her poetry or short stories, even crossword puzzles, if she wished. In an armoire she found a television set, videocassette recorder, and stereo; a compartment in the lower part concealed a refrigerator stocked with food and wine, including her favorite duck and cognac p^. Opening the antique desk, she discovered that one side held a small computer and printer. In each of the two nuui)le bathrooms were men's and women's velour robes monogrammed with the same iris that was on Laura's card, and a polished rosewood box containing shaii^x)os, shaving materials, and a variety of soaps. A booklet on the desk told her she could have a dinner party in her suite or in the private dining room on her floor, prepared by chef Gerard Lyon of the Beacon Hill EHning Room; if a larger diimer party was required, the hotel had made arrangements with several three-star restaurants which would give preference to Beacon Hill guests and their parties; the Be^n Hill stenographers, hairdr^sers, seamstresses, tailors, and maids would come to her suite when called; the newspapers of her choice would be at her door each morning;

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the hotel limousine was available for service to and from the airports, and arrangements could be made to use them at night for dining and the theater . . . The list went on and on, and Leni read it several times.

Where did she learn all this? We couldn*t have taught her because we don't do these things in our own hotels. We do them in our homes, but we've never—And that was the answer. Laura had bought Owen's hotels and made each of tfaem—^Leni assumed they were all the same—into the home s^e remembered.

And it was wonderfully effective. As she stood in the luxurious living room, glimpsing through the doorway the wide bed with its satin comforter, she felt as pampered as she did in her own home, with her own belongings and staff. Leni Salinger, world traveler, had never felt that in any hotel before, not even in the ones that bore her name.

She had allowed herself three days to find out what kind of a hotel Laura ran. As she bathed and changed, using the Henn^ bath oil she found in the rosewood box, she thought she could stay a month, getting away from everything she had to worry about at home, simply being a tourist in Manhattan and a cosseted guest of the Beacon HiU.

1^ ought to have her working for us, she thought.

She was due at a fund-raising meeting in Rockefeller Center at four, and at three-thirty she left her room and rode the elevator to the lobby. She stopped at the concierge's desk to arrange for theater tickets for the evening; she would call one of her friends to join her.

The concierge was answering questions asked by a short, powerfully buUt man with a large head and a deep, aknost gruff voice. Leni waited, glancing around the lobby. She recognized Daniel Inouti, a Hawaiian developer Felix had once tfiought of woiking with, one of San Iiancisco's most successful winery owners, a Colombian billionaire who often stayed at the Boston Salinger, a European king and queen temporarily out of a throne. But why not, she thought with amusement. Who else can afford Laura's prices?