Inheritance (45 page)

I went to a divorce lawyer who squeezed a few millions out of his skirt-chasing hide, and then I went to a spa—twenty-four spas, to be exact—and here I am, one of Manhattan's few hundred thousand thin, single women looking for a good man. I may bring a friend to your shindig; he's fun in small doses and, after all, there's no way I can go to movies and hotel openings alone ... oh, by the way, speaking of going places alone ... but you're probably not interested in gossip about the Salingers anymore."

Laura frowned. "I didn't know you knew them." "Oh, just a tad. I see Leni and Felix now and then at benefits, and we smile ever so politely. But when I'm around Boston and New York I hear about them; people love to talk, you know. There was that publicity over Owen Salinger's will—you probably know more about that than I do; I was in Europe when it happened. I'll bet if it had been a trial about Felix finding Leni with somebody—or vice versa, but who can imagine Felix romping in the hay with anyone but another hotel?—well, then there would have been lots of talk, the way there is now about Allison Salinger engaged to an absolute unknown, somewhere in Europe. They're getting married this Christmas, and it seems her parents haven't even met him! And that's not all; it's been a bumper year for— "

"Wait." Laura's voice was husky and she cleared her throat. "Do you ... do you know the name of the man she's marrying?"

"I didn't pay much attention because nobody ever heard of him. I believe he works for one of her father's hotels. Manager? Something like that. I'm afraid I didn't listen as closely as I might have, because I heard it about the same time I heard about her cousin getting married, and I was surely much more interested in that, because I know the lucky lady." Laura's stomach contracted. "Which cousin?" "Paul Janssen. He married Emily Kent, an absolutely gorgeous and very proper Boston girl. If I were the betting kind, I'd put my money on Paul. Allison's taking a real flyer, but Paul knows exactly what he's getting into: found a girl from his own background so he doesn't have to worry about bombshells."

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There was a silence. "Oh, my," said Ginny. "Fve talked your ear off, and you're at work and all. I do eulogize; am I forgiven?"

"Of course," said Laura automatically. She was leaning over the desk, her head resting on her hand, her eyes closed. "Please let me know when you'll arrive, so we can have a drink together."

"I surely will." She paused. "You sound a mite upset, honey. I didn't say anything out of line, did I?"

"No." She tried to make her voice natural. *Thank . . . thank you for coming to the opening; it means so much to me. I'll see you soon."

When she hung up, she was dizzy, hot and cold by turns. I'm going to faint, she thought. But I've never fainted. I don't even know what it feels like to be about to faint.

She clutched the edge of the desk. It's just that what Ginny said was such a surprise.

Surprise. Surprise. The word echoed. A long time ago I asked Ben not to rob the Salingers — and he did. Last February I asked him not to marry Allison, and now ifs November and he's set the wedding date.

She closed her eyes, thinking about Ben. It was easier to think about Ben than about Paul. Just when I thought we might find each other again, after so marry years . . .

Surprise. Surprise. The word jeered. But it wasn't about Ben; it was about Paul. She couldn't keep her thoughts away from him. Emily Kent. Paul and Emily. Paul and Emily Jans-sen.

Damn it, it was supposed to be me! Damn it! Damn him! And damn his whole family!

But why shouldn't he marry? A man wants a woman and a home and a life without bombshells. A man wants children.

They were supposed to be our children.

She sat at her desk until the dizziness receded and her thoughts slowed. Automatically, she straightened the piles of papers and books on her desk: plans for the opening weekend, the stack of invitations, invoices, catalogues. So much work to do, such a full life to lead. Her life, in the present.

Wes. Qay. Kelly and John. Memories of Owen. The Chi-

Judith Michael

cago Beacon Hill. And three other Salinger hotels that were going to be hers.

A full life to lead. The doors had closed on what had gone before. Once she had thought she was free of the past. She knew now she never would be. The past was part of her: part of her heart, part of her thoughts, part of her future. But the doors had closed on it, and she would not look at it again. She would look only at today and tomonx)w. The past was done.

art IV

Chapter 18

/ / Ti irY oh my," Rosa marveled, surveying the guests %/1 in the lobby of the Chicago Beacon Hill as Laura 1 T 1 came to greet her. "What an impressive way to celebrate a hotel opening; I must say, the Salingers never did anything like it. Hello, my young miss; it's wonderful to see you again."

Laura kissed her soft cheek and closed her eyes for a brief moment as Rosa's plump arms encircled her. "You still smell like fresh bread," she said, smiling but somehow also looking sad. "I'm so very, very glad you're here."

"Well, and so am I; I wouldn't want to miss this elegant party." She took a step back and eyed Laura critically. "You've changed. Grown up and gotten all sophisticated and smooth."

"Outside," Laura said. "I'm still having trouble with the inside."

"Good. At my age, I get confused by too many changes at once." She patted Laura's hand. "I do thank you for writing to me; I've so wanted to talk to you but I confess I didn't know how. After that snake-in-the-grass lawyer made me sound so mean in the courtroom, I kept thinking I'd call you and say I missed you but I didn't know if you'd talk to me."

A young couple interrupted as if Rosa were not there. "Lovely job, Laura, our rooms are just perfect, such a good idea to have a weekend like this, we're looking forward to all of it."

Judith Michael

*Thank you," Laura said. "May I introduce— **

**We're having a New Year's Eve get-together at our place in Lake Forest; is it too late to ask you? Do come—so many people you'll just love, and if you're going to be part of Chicago there's no better way to get the right start. Otherwise you could waste months meeting the wrong kind of people. We'll send our chauffeur to pick you up, if you'd like. We'll talk about it in a few days, all right? Such a lovely weekend ..."

They drifted off. Laura and Rosa looked at each other. "I've fed those two a dozen times at parties Felix and Leni gave," Rosa said thoughtfully. "In fact, I've fed more than half the people here. I'm afraid I belong on the other side of the kitchen door, my young miss."

"You belong here," Laura said firmly. *This is my party and I've invited my special friends. The rest of the list was put togetiiier by a friend of mine."

"Well, they're all lovely people, just perfect, such a good idea to have them," Rosa said with a twinkle. "I'm proud of you, you know; you got them to come for a weekend in December—a busy social month, you know that—and you've got photogr^hers here; my goodness, everyone must think this is going to be a major hotel. And you're the manager! What a good job for you to have!"

Laura nodded, feeling guilty because she had lied—again —to Rosa. But she still was keeping her ownership a secret, especially from Felix, and she would as long as possible.

"So when you sent me the invitation," Rosa said, continuing the conversation that had been interrupted, "I told myself, She does want to talk to me. She's foigiven me for messing up her case in court. But I don't want to talk if you're going to start with a lot of explanations. You never did me any harm, my young miss; you loved me and I knew it, and I've missed you something fierce. And if I don't ever know the absolute truth, it doesn't matter anymore. It was so long ago, and I've always known, from day one, you were telling some lies and some truths, and since everybody does that why shouldn't I just go on loving you the way I always did?"

"Thank you," Laura said, her voice husky. She looked around as Qay came up behind her.

"Small problem with a table seating. Could you help?"

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She nodded and hugged Rosa—almost clinging, it seemed to Rosa—and kissed her again. "Cocktails in the lounge and dinner at eight. F11 try to get back to you, but there's so much to do . . ."

"Go on, go on," Rosa said. "I've done it in my time; I know it's the little things that can ruin a party or make it perfect. I'll be fine; I'll just look around and be impressed."

It was impressive, she thought as Laura left with Clay. And so were the two of them; Clay had grown a mustache and looked positively handsome, his blond hair smoothly waved, and Laura glowed with a polished beauty she'd never had before. Walking through the lobby, Rosa wondered what was behind it: if she was happy, if she had friends and a new lover, if she'd gotten over everything that happened. Maybe she has, she thought; she's certainly got a peach of a job, and if she helped with the decorating she's got more talent than I ever knew.

In the lounge, she found a wing chair beside the fireplace, and that became her vantage point for the weekend, as she watched the guests and kept her eye on Laura, who rushed about from one task to another, never sitting down and resting. She never looked flurried or anxious, but she never relaxed, not even at dinner on Friday night. While two hundred guests feasted on caviar, pheasant, and raspberry sabayon prepared by Enrico Garibaldi, the Beacon Hill chef, Laura was everywhere, taking care of hundreds of small details. On Saturday it was more of the same. There was a lunch of northern Italian specialties that Rosa, the experienced chef, much admired, and then everyone was chauffeured by limousine down Michigan Avenue to the Chicago Art Institute for a private showing of the year's most sensational exhibit: a treasure trove of gold, silver, and gems found in an Italian trading ship that had sunk off the coast of Spain four hundred years earlier. Currier had been a major investor in the search expedition that found the ship and brought up its treasure, and he had arranged with the Art Institute to have the private showing a day before the exhibit opened to the public. The magazine photographers who were covering the Beacon Hill weekend for Town and Country, Vogue, Eye, and a dozen other magazines dedicated to the glossy doings of the rich and famous were there,

Judith Michael

too, posing television stars, countesses, and corporate magnates beside glass cases gleaming with goblets, coins, and fabulous coronets. They paid no attention at all to Rosa. She had been personally invited by Laura Fairchild, but that didn't imfness them; all they knew was that she was small and round and her shoes were sensible, and they'd never seen her before.

Kelly Damton received the same glazed looks of nonrecog-nition. She arrived on Saturday morning, and after the guests letumed from the Art Institute to the Beacon Hill lounge for tea and cocktails, she joined Rosa at her post besi(k the crackling flames in the fireplace. "It's obvious we're equally non-newsworthy," she said, and held out her hand. "Kelly Damton.*"

''Rosa Curren." Rosa took her hand, liking its strength and the direct look in her dark eyes. "Laura told me about your lodge. And she says wonderful things about you.**

^All true, probably. I hear good things about you, too. When Laura likes somebody, she's generous with her praise.'*

"And when she doesn't like someone?*'

"She gets very quiet," Kelly said. "Isn't that what she did when you knew her?"

"She was very young, but she was never very big on showing her feelings."

**Well, God knows, she's still like that. Hello," she said, looking up as Ginny Starrett joined them.

"I wanted to meet someone new," Ginny said, taking the third chair at their rosewood tea table without being ask^. "I do get tired of seeing the same people at every party." She introduced herself, noting Kelly's callused palm and Rosa's soft one as they shook hands. "Laura is still like what?" she asked, having heard the end of Kelly's sentence.

"Private," said Kelly. "Doesn't tik about her own feelings, or anyone else's, either. To anybody."

"But she must have made friends," Rosa protested.

The three of them looked at each other. They all thought of themselves as Laura's friend; Ginny and Kelly had confided in her; Rosa had talked to her freely about the Salingers and her feelings about them. But they were the ones who had done the talking; Laura had never really been open with them. They loved her, they knew she cared about them—but none of diem knew her intimately.

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Rosa sighed. "Is she happy, I wonder? She's got a good job here, and it's such a perfectly beautiful place. . . .*'

A hostess stood at their table. "Fd like more sherry," Ginny said. "KeUy? Rosa?"

Kelly nodded. "Tea, please," said Rosa, and then looked about the room. "She was always very big on beautiful things. And I knew someday she'd find a way to make something beautiful of her own."

Her own, Ginny echoed silently, and she knew then what it was that was special about the Chicago Beacon Hill: its beauty was very personal. The lounge where they sat was a large room with soft lights and colors that made it a soothing oasis on a gray Chicago weekend. Along one wall, minors reflected the fleur-de-lis carpeting used throughout the hotel and large panels of French tapestries on the opposite wall. A sky blue ceiling with gilt scrollwork from another age arched over the guests sitting in pale blue armchairs and sofas around small round tables. On a raised platform, a harpist played baroque music, the delicate melodies weaving through the hum of conversation that rose and fell throughout the room. Hostesses served from glass and silver carts, and Laura moved from table to table like a slender flame in a long gold dress that glowed amid the soft colors of the room.