The Willard
Authors: LeAnne Burnett Morse
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
© 2013 by LeAnne Burnett Morse. All rights reserved.
First edition 2016.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by Bluestocking Books. Bluestocking Books is an imprint of Bluestocking Media, LLC.
Library of Congress Control Number 2016901173
ISBN 978-0-99664-15-0-0
ISBN 978-0-9966415-1-7 (ebook)
For Kelly—in this or any other time.
44.
P
ROLOGUE
In another place and another time he would have been a proper English butler. Like Mr. Carson from
Downton Abbey
, doing things the “right” way because that’s what one does. Knowing where the scandal lies and how to keep it under wraps. And always presenting an immaculate façade to the world. Just watching him walk up 14
th
Street there’s an obvious air of the dandy about him. Perfectly coiffed, every seam pressed, and just the right break of the trousers over his freshly polished wingtips. But it’s the tilt of his head and the purpose in his stride that makes him look like he belongs. It would be hard to imagine a place in the world where a man with his confident demeanor would be out of place and that’s no accident. Even his standing out makes him blend in because no one would think to question his presence.
Not a single person noticed him standing on the sidewalk that day as President Kennedy’s funeral procession marched by. How touched he had been when little John had saluted his father. And why would anyone pay attention to another well-dressed white man in the gallery of the Supreme Court during final arguments in the Brown v. Board of Education hearings? Even as crowds had swarmed the White House the night of Andrew Jackson’s inauguration, he wasn’t noticed as he tried in vain to keep the raucous crowd from tearing off souvenir pieces of the East Room drapes.
But today he doesn’t seem to have anywhere pressing to be. At the crosswalk, he waits patiently for the walk sign among tourists in fanny packs and fourth graders in matching t-shirts and their exhausted chaperones. When the light changes, he crosses Pennsylvania Avenue and takes a sharp left along with the touring masses. But he’s not going the two blocks to see the most famous house in the world. Under the leaded glass awning, up the granite stairs, and through the brass-laden revolving doors, he walks into an elaborate lobby and crosses with his purposeful stride to an imposing wall of mahogany behind a desk of carved wood and marble. From this vantage point, he has been going about his work diligently all of his adult life. The antique clock above the cubbies tells him he’s right on time, naturally. Below the clock in elegant brass letters is one word. One word that sums up his life’s work. CONCIERGE. Yes, he belongs here and fits in so well that in a busy lobby no one has seen his entrance. No one notices him settling in behind the massive desk. No one except the elegantly dressed lady with the rolling Louis Vuitton luggage and the slightly travel-worn look about her. Her name is Catherine Parker and she is the reason he has come to work today. He gives her his best smile and sets into motion a series of events that should have happened 151 years ago. Better late than never.
“Good morning,” he says to the businesswoman. “Welcome to the Willard.”
C
HAPTER 1
CATHERINE PARKER
Sixteen dollars plus tip for a cab from the airport to the hotel. It could have been worse, but really it was
ten times
more than the buck sixty she would have spent taking the blue line from Reagan to Metro Center and hoofing it the three blocks to the front door. Normally that’s exactly how she would have done it, but
normally
she wouldn’t be checking into a hotel of this caliber and frankly, nobody cared how you arrived at the Best Western. But this trip was different and that’s why she had sprung for the pricey luggage (secondhand of course, Craigslist) and the designer heels she had regretted by the time she got to her departure gate in Dayton.
Now I understand why office workers wear running shoes with their business suits on the way to work. Who cares how you look on your way somewhere if it keeps the blisters away?
It’s not that she wasn’t a fashion-conscious woman. She loved designer clothes and fancy hotels as much as the next girl, but for all the stretching she had done to it, her wallet refused to support more than TJ Maxx and seasonal sales at the mall. This trip could change all that and that’s why Catherine Parker was determined she would not set foot in Washington, D.C. without the full benefit of an upgraded wardrobe, fresh highlights, and professionally-tamed brows no matter how painful it was to her bank account. Here she would look the part.
Fake it until you make it
. How many times had she heard that? This time she would try out the old maxim and see if it worked. All she had to
do now was get the job, but before she could do that she needed to ditch the luggage and freshen up. She thanked the doorman and casually waved off the bellman who offered to help with her bags. The “LV” bags were part of her carefully crafted new look and, besides, that was just another tip she could keep in her pocket. But for all her attempts at nonchalance, her first steps inside the lobby of the Willard Hotel left her a bit stunned. The expanse of marble and the fine French furniture. The chandeliers hanging from a ceiling that looked like a work of art. And the smell.
Is that lilies? Or is it money?
The Best Western this was not.
Don’t act like a bumpkin, Parker. You’ve checked into hundreds of hotels
. Snapping out of her reverie she strode purposefully across the massive lobby to an ornate concierge desk.
“Good morning. Welcome to the Willard,” said the man behind the desk. He was exactly the type of person she expected to find working in a place like this.
They probably recruit them right out of boarding school
, she thought. “Are you checking in, madam?”
“Yes. Catherine Parker. I’m here for one night.”
“Excellent, Ms. Parker. Let me see to your reservation.”
The concierge quietly typed in a few words and responded in his velvety patrician English. “Everything has been taken care of by the ambassador. There’s no need for you to go to the front desk. I have your room key here.” He retrieved a small envelope from a wall of cubbies that looked like old-fashioned mail slots. As he reached to hand her the envelope she noticed his nametag. “Edward Chase” it said in deeply engraved brass.
