Holding the Dream (10 page)

He strolled toward the door. The sound of “Miss, could you show me these earrings?” was music to his soul.

Byron didn't like to interfere with his department heads, but he knew—and wanted them to know—that at Templeton problems rose to the top. His interest in hotels and all their crosshatched inner workings had begun during a summer stint at Atlanta's Doubletree. Three months as a bellman had taught him more than the proper way to handle a guest's luggage and had earned him more than enough cash to buy his first vintage car.

He'd learned there were dramas and tragedies playing out daily, not just behind the closed doors of rooms and suites, but behind the front desk, in sales and marketing, in housekeeping and engineering. In fact, everywhere within the buzzing hive of a busy hotel.

It had fascinated him, had pushed him toward sampling other aspects, from desk clerk to concierge. His curiosity about people, who they were, what they expected, what they dreamed of, had given him a career.

He wasn't the doctor his parents had not so secretly hoped
he would be. Nor had he been the travel-weary trust-fund kid his circumstances could have made him. He had a career he enjoyed, and the constant variety of life in a big hotel continually intrigued him.

He was a problem solver, one who considered the individual as well as the big picture. His choice of moving into the Templeton organization had been a simple one. He'd spent a great deal of time studying hotels—the luxurious, the opulent, the small and tidy, the chains with their brisk pace, the old Europeans with their quiet charm, the Las Vegas ones with their flash and gaudiness.

Templeton had appealed to him because it was family-run, traditional without being stodgy, efficient without sacrificing charm, and above all, personable.

He didn't have to make it his business to know the names of the people who worked with and under him. It was simply a part of his makeup to take an interest, to retain information. So when he smiled at the woman currently checking in a guest, called out a casual, “Good morning, Linda,” he wasn't aware that her pulse picked up several beats or that her fingers fumbled on the keyboard as she watched him pass through on his way to the offices.

Another section of the beehive was here. Ringing phones, clicking faxes, humming copiers, the clack of keyboards. He passed stacks of boxes, crowded desks. He exchanged a few greetings as he went, causing several pairs of shoulders to straighten and more than a few female employees to wish they'd checked their lipstick.

The door to his destination was open, and he found Laura Templeton with a phone to her ear. She offered him a harried smile and gestured to a chair.

“I'm sure we can arrange that. Mr. Hubble in Catering . . . Yes, yes, I understand how important it is. Mr. Hubble—” She broke off, rolled her eyes at Byron. “How many extra chairs would you like, Ms. Bingham?” She listened patiently, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “No, of course not. And I'm sure you'll have plenty of room if you
make use of the terrace. No, I don't believe it's calling for rain. It should be a lovely evening, and I'm sure your reception will be elegant. Mr. Hubble—” Now she gritted her teeth. “Why don't I talk to Mr. Hubble for you and get back to you? Yes, by noon. I will. Absolutely. You're welcome, Ms. Bingham.” She hung up. “Ms. Bingham is insane.”

“Is she the orthodontist convention or the interior decorating?”

“Decorating. She has decided, at the last minute, that she simply must give a reception tonight for sixty of her closest friends and associates. For reasons I can't explain, she doesn't trust Bob Hubble to pull it off.”

“Templeton,” Byron said and smiled at her. “The trouble is, your name is Templeton. Which puts you in a lofty position.”

You wouldn't know it from her office, he thought. It was tiny, cramped and windowless. He knew she'd chosen the position and the work space herself when she had decided to squeeze out time for a part-time job at the hotel.

Byron didn't know how she managed—her family and home, the shop, the hotel. But she seemed to him to be the soul of serenity and quiet efficiency. Until you looked close enough, at the eyes. There, shadowed in their lake-gray depths, were doubt and worry and grief. Remnants, he thought, of a shattered marriage.

“You didn't have to come down here, Byron.” She finished scribbling notes to herself as she spoke. “I would have made it up to your office this morning.”

“It's all right. Problem with the tooth soldiers?”

“You'd think orthodontists would have a little decorum, wouldn't you?” With a sigh, she pulled papers out of a file. “We've had complaints from both bars, but that's nothing I can't handle.”

“I've yet to come across anything you can't handle.”

“I appreciate that. But there's a delicate situation. One of the doctors apparently was having a, let's say, intimate
moment with one of the other doctors when her husband decided to pay an unannounced surprise visit.”

“God, I love this job.” Byron settled back. “It's like a long-running soap opera.”

“Easy for you to say. I spent an hour this morning dealing with the penitent woman. She sat where you are, spilling out tears and the whole sordid story of her marriage, her affairs, her therapy.”

Weary with the memory, Laura pressed her fingers to the inside corner of her eye, almost relieving the tension that was living there. “This is her third husband, and she claims to be addicted to adultery.”

“She should go on
Oprah
. Women who are addicted to adultery, and the men who love them. Do you want me to talk to her?”

“No, I think I sent her off steady enough. Our problem is, the husband wasn't too thrilled to find his wife and his”—she winced—“his brother-in-law wrapped in matching Templeton robes.”

“It just gets better. Don't stop now.”

“The husband popped his brother-in-law—who, I should add for clarification, is married to our heroine's sister—in the mouth. Knocked out several thousand dollars' worth of caps and so forth. There was some damage to the room, nothing major. A couple of lamps and crockery.” She waved that away. “But our problem is that the guy with the broken mouth is threatening to sue the hotel.”

“Another victim.” If he hadn't been so amused with the scenario, he would have sighed. “What's his rationale?”

“That the hotel is responsible for letting the husband in. He—the husband—called room service from a house phone, ordered champagne and strawberries for his wife's room. He had a dozen roses with him,” she added. “Then he waited until the wine arrived, slipped into the room behind the waiter, and—well, the rest is history.”

“I don't think we've got any real problem here, but I'll take the file.”

“I appreciate it.” Relieved, Laura passed the torch. “I'd talk to the man myself, but I get the impression he's not too keen on women in authority. And, to be honest, I'm swamped. The orthodontists have their banquet tonight, and the cosmetic people are coming in tomorrow.”

“And, of course, Ms. Bingham.”

“Right.” She checked her watch and rose. “I'd better get down to Catering. There was one other little thing.”

Standing up himself, he raised an eyebrow. “The decorators are wrestling in the atrium?”

“Not yet.” Because she appreciated him, she smiled. It was second nature to Laura to hide nerves. “It was an idea I had for the shop, but since it involves the hotel, I wanted to run it by you.”

“Laura, it's your hotel.”

“No, at the moment I work here, and you're the boss.” She picked up her clipboard and passed it from one of her hands to the other. “Last fall we put on a reception and charity auction at the shop. We intend to do it every year. But I was thinking we could plan another event. Straight advertising, really. A fashion show, using clothes and accessories from the shop, during the holiday season. The White Ballroom would be ideal, and it's not booked for the first Saturday in December. I thought we could feature gala attire, formals, ballgowns, in addition to accessories, all from the shop. We'd advertise it in both the hotel and the resort, with percentage-off certificates issued to Templeton employees and guests.”

“You've got marketing in the blood. Listen, Laura, you work conventions and special events.” He put an arm around her shoulders as they left the office. “You don't need my go-ahead.”

“I like to dot my i's, so to speak. After I've talked it over with Margo and Kate, I'll work up a proposal.”

“Fine.” She'd given him the opening he'd been hoping for. “So how is Kate?”

“She's holding up. Of course, she occasionally drives Margo and me crazy. A born salesman Kate isn't,” Laura said
with feeling. “But she's competitive enough to make it work.” Her smile softened, spread. “And if Margo or I so much as breathes on the books, she hisses. So that's a blessing. Still . . .”

“Still?”

“They damaged something inside her. I don't know how seriously yet, but she's too together, too controlled. She won't talk about it, won't even discuss what should be done. Just closes up when any of us try to draw her out. Kate used to be a champion tantrum thrower.”

Now her fingers fidgeted restlessly, tapping a pencil, plucking at papers on her clipboard. “She's taking this without a fight. When Margo's career blew up and she lost her spot as the spokeswoman for Bella Donna, Kate wanted to organize a protest. She actually talked about going down to L.A. and picketing on Rodeo Drive.”

Remembering put a smile back on Laura's face. “I never told Margo, because I managed to talk Kate out of it, but that's the way she is. She spits and claws and slaps when she's up against a personal problem. But not this time. This time she's pulled in, and I don't understand it.”

“You're really worried about her,” Byron realized.

“Yes, I am. So's Margo, or she would have strangled Kate half a dozen times by now. She wants us to fill out a sheet in something called a columnar pad every day.”

“Once an accountant,” he said.

“She carries one of those electronic memo pads in her pocket all the time. She's starting to talk about co-linking and getting on-line. It's terrifying.” When he laughed, Laura caught herself and shook her head. “Ask a simple question. . .” she began. “Does everybody dump on you this way?”

“You didn't dump. I asked.”

“Josh said you were the only man he wanted in this job. It's easy to see why. You're so different from Peter—” This time she didn't just catch herself, she clenched her teeth. “No, I'm not getting started on that. I'm already behind schedule
and Ms. Bingham's waiting. Thanks for taking the orthodontists off my hands.”

“My pleasure. You might not hear it very often, but you're an asset to Templeton.”

“I'm trying to be.”

As she walked away, Byron turned in the opposite direction, studying her careful and precise report as he went.
 

At the end of the day he met with Josh at Templeton Resort. The office there was a sprawling room on the executive level, with windows offering a view of one of the resort's two lagoonlike pools, surrounded by hibiscus in riotous bloom and a patio with redwood tables under candy-pink umbrellas.

Inside, it was built for comfort as well as business with deeply cushioned leather chairs, Deco lamps, and a stylish watercolor street scene of Milan.

“Want a beer?”

At the offer Byron merely sighed low and deep. He accepted the bottle from Josh, tipped it back. “Sorry to hit you at the end of the day. It's the first I could get away.”

“There is no end of the day in the hotel business,” Josh said.

“Your mother said that.” Byron grinned. Susan Templeton was one of his favorite people. “You know if your father would just step aside like a gentleman, I'd beg her to marry me.” He drank again, then nodded at the file he'd put on Josh's desk. “I started to fax this business over, then thought I'd just swing by personally.”

Instead of going behind the desk, Josh picked up the file and stretched out in the chair opposite Byron. He skimmed the reports with varying reactions. A chuckle, a groan, a sigh, an oath.

“That sums up my feelings,” Byron concurred. “I had a talk with Dr. Holdermen myself a few hours ago. He's still a guest. He's got temporary caps on and a real beaut of a black eye. My take is he doesn't have a case, but he's pissed off enough, and embarrassed enough, to pursue it.”

Josh nodded, came to his own conclusions. “And your recommendation?”

“Let him.”

“Agreed.” Josh tossed the file onto his desk. “I'll pass it along to Legal with that recommendation. Now . . .” Josh settled back, the beer bottle cupped loosely in his hand, his eyes curious. “Why don't you tell me why you're really here? You can handle this kind of nuisance in your sleep.”

Byron rubbed his chin. “We know each other too well.”

“Ten years on and off should be enough. What's on your mind, By?”

“Kate Powell.”

Josh's brows shot up. “Really?”

“Not in that context,” Byron said, a bit too quickly. “It was something Laura said today that got me thinking about the whole situation. Bittle made some serious allegations against her, yet they haven't pursued it. And neither has she. It's going on three weeks now.”

“I'm going to get pissed off again.” Feeling his temper bubbling, Josh rose and paced it off. “My father used to play golf with Larry Bittle. I don't know how many times he's been over to the house. He's known Kate since she was a kid.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Kate almost took my head off when I threatened to.” Scowling, Josh gulped down his beer. “That was okay, but then she just shut down. She seemed so shaky over the whole thing, I didn't push. Hell, I've been so wrapped up in Margo and the baby, I let it slide. We did this heartbeat thing at the doctor's today. It was so cool. You could just hear it, beating away, this quick little bopping.” He stopped when he caught Byron's grin. “Kate,” he began again.