IN ROOM 33 (6 page)

"Did he say anything about how much he loved me?" Lana asked.

Joy blinked, confused by the jump from money to heart. She glanced down at the letter. "Yes. And I quote, 'insanely.'"

Lana looked blandly pleased.

"It seems his
love,"
she accented the word and started to read again, "is the reason he dragged me back into the picture. He wants us to 'be friends at the very least' and to 'heal our fractured relationship' before it's too late." Late for what, Joy didn't know, and she didn't bother reading aloud the part that said her mother needed her. It was ludicrous.

"Was there anything else?" David asked, his gaze on the letter.

"Oh, yes." And she didn't need to read it to remember his words. "He says he hopes, by involving me in my mother's future, Lana need never be alone, as he was." Joy shook her head. Stephen must have been on a diet of magic mushrooms, because the odds of Lana staying alone for a second longer than she had to would be measured in zeroes. "He says he's sorry he doesn't have more to leave us, but he's certain I can 'build on' what's left."

"May I see that?" David asked.

Joy handed him the letter, slumped back in the sofa.
Look after her mother.
She was forty-eight years old, and Stephen portrayed her as a dotty centenarian—or an irresponsible, profligate spender. The latter, more likely. Obviously even the frivolous, besotted Stephen had managed a peek or two through the lust.

She heard David curse under his breath. "What?" she said, straightening.

"Stephen took out a mortgage on the house two years ago. A big one." He looked at Lana. "I'm sorry, my love, but unless you come up with major cash flow—and fast—you could lose this place."

Joy had nothing to say to this, but she didn't miss the "my love" in David's expression of regret. She wondered if there were odds of
less
than zero.

The mortgage news dazed even the endlessly self-possessed Lana. "I don't understand it. Where did all the money go?"

Joy kept her voice calm, had no idea what her eyes said. "My guess? You spent it." She stood, walked to the bar, and poured herself a glass of mineral water. "Let's face it, Mother, you and Stephen made spending an art form. You should have expected this."

"Well, I didn't. I thought there was lots of money. Stephen never said otherwise." She looked abused and uncomfortable—both beautifully done.

David went over, perched on the arm of her chair, and touched her hair. "It's all right. Everything will be all right." When she grasped his hand, he kissed it, before he switched his attention to Joy. "Can we be honest here?"

"No, let's all play let's pretend. That would make me ecstatic about assuming financial responsibility for my mother while she's barely past child-bearing age—and her delighted by the prospect." Okay, it was bitchy and sarcastic, but it was all she could come up with. Hard to think when your head was in a vise.

David Grange said nothing for a moment, then, "Okay, I get the picture. You and your mother don't want to be in each other's faces. Fair enough." He waved the letter. "Fortunately there's an easy way out, and we can all benefit from it."

Joy stopped pacing, instantly curious. Lana gave him an adoring look. Adoring looks were a specialty of hers.

He went on."Joy, you've inherited a hundred thousand dollars and the Hotel Philip, right?"

"So it seems."

"Now, a hundred thousand dollars isn't much."

Joy looked at him as if he were nuts. She could live on that kind of money for years—not a lot of years, but years.

"But there is value in the hotel. Before this"—he waved the letter again—"I was prepared to buy the Hotel Philip from your mother, assuming it would be her who'd inherit. Given that's not the case, here's what I propose. You keep the hundred grand. I buy the hotel from you, for cash. You give it to your mother and go about your life. I think that scenario not only satisfies the intent of Stephen's final request but offers the best solution for everyone, don't you?" He again sat on the arm of Lana's chair as if the whole matter were a
fait accompli.

Joy rubbed her brow. This arrangement would solve all their problems—he was right about that. But Stephen was barely cold in his grave and the sale of the hotel was already set up? "Exactly how long have you two been seeing each other?"

Obviously it was a question neither of them expected, and one neither was prepared to answer. Finally, Lana took a stab at it. "David has been a friend of Stephen's and mine for some time. It's only natural that since he died, we've become closer."

"Natural for you."

Lana ignored her barb. "David has my best interests at heart." She smiled up at him, dropped the smile when she turned back to face Joy. "I'd prefer you not read any more into it than that."

Joy shook her head in wonderment. She was a force of nature, her mother; her instincts for survival—and continuing prosperity—honed to perfection. Stephen may not have told Lana directly about his failing health, but Joy suspected her mother sensed it, flagged it as a danger to her financial well-being. Enter David Grange, no doubt willing—and, more important
able
—to ease Lana's way. Like a replacement part for a failing organ.

"I'm not reading anything into it," she said, careful to keep her voice flat. "Simply curious."

Lana tilted her head and a mass of thick gold hair, the same color as her own, tumbled over her shoulder. Her striking azure blue eyes settled on Joy. "Such a waste of time, curiosity."

"When it comes to you, Mother, it's difficult not to be curious—even morbidly so—considering your love life moves at the speed of light. "Joy wanted to bite her lip. Fifteen minutes in her mother's company and she was a smart-mouthed sixteen-year-old again.
Civil, she had to stay civil. Figure a way out of this thing.

"You're being sarcastic. It isn't attractive."

Before Joy could answer, David interjected, "Look, why don't we give Joy time to adapt to her new situation, think on things. And when she's done that, we'll talk again."

Bless you, David, Joy thought, turning away from her mother's now-empty stare. "Good idea." She picked up her bag, which she'd dropped on the coffee table. "I'll meet you both at the hotel tomorrow morning. Say, ten. You can show me around. We'll talk after that."

"You want to see the Philip?" David looked surprised. "What for?"

"I inherited it. Makes sense for me to take a look at it. Who knows, maybe I can refurbish the place, turn it into a going concern. Give Mother a job." She said this to nettle her phlegmatic mother but received only a raised eyebrow in response.

David laughed. "A going concern? Maybe. If your aim in life is to be a slum landlord."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"Still, I'd like to have a look at it. Is there a problem with that?" she asked, irritated that the man thought her stupid enough to sell him something she hadn't set eyes on since she was a kid. Not likely.

"No problem at all." David lifted one well-tailored shoulder. "It's just there's not much to see. The value's in the land, not the hotel. I'm afraid the old Phil is long past its nineteen-thirties prime. The place hasn't functioned as a hotel for years. Now there's maybe twenty or so full-time tenants occupying the place. Misfits and criminals, mostly."

"Sounds lovely. But I still want to see it." Joy wasn't surprised by David's description. It backed up her own memory of the Hotel Philip rising from the single time she'd been there, with Stephen and his son, Wade. It was only a month or so after Stephen married Lana. An annoyed Stephen had been called to the hotel because of vandalism in one of the rooms—some kind of insurance claim. It was obvious he hated the place. The hotel was a mess then. No doubt it was worse now.

Her memories were spotty, those of a preoccupied young girl who hadn't wanted to be there in the first place. Impressions: cool marble in the foyer floor, small lion heads carved into the trim on the front desk, a towering lobby ceiling...

While Stephen bustled about with the insurance agent, Joy was handed over to his son, whom she'd only seen a couple of times before. He was impatient, and rather than stand around and wait in the dismal lobby, he'd taken her up in the clanking, jerky old elevator and shown her around.

He'd told her his grandfather had built the hotel during America's Great Depression, how he'd almost lost it years later. He'd sounded proud, respectful. Wade was maybe seventeen or eighteen then, and, from her almost-thirteen-year-old perspective, major cute. She'd listened to him as if every word from his lips was honey on a stick.

That same night he had a blowout with Stephen, left, and never came back. Joy never saw him again. Nor, she guessed, did Stephen or she wouldn't be standing here today. She wondered briefly what Wade would think of his father's bizarre will.

She pulled herself into the present. "How about we meet at the hotel at ten? If that's too early, we can make it later."

"Ten's fine." David pulled out a smart phone from his inside suit pocket and entered the appointment.

Lana rose. "Count me out." She pretended to shudder. "I was there once, a few years ago. It was cold and creepy then, probably worse now. I have no burning urge to go back." She met Joy's eyes. "Look around all you want, Joy, but remember, you have a responsibility to me, and I expect you to live up to it. David's suggestion is the obvious solution. It allows you to live your life and me to live mine—exactly the way I wish." Lana gave her a pointed stare.

On a perpetual spend-a-thon
... "I'll take a look at the hotel, decide what to do then." She told herself she was being practical, businesslike in taking the necessary steps to assess the hotel's worth, but underneath she knew it had something to do with having the upper hand with Lana for the first time in her life and wanting to hold onto it as long as possible. Childish? Absolutely. Because in the end, she'd do what had to be done to satisfy her mother, and she'd do it as quickly as possible.

Then she'd hop the next plane to... wherever.

What did she care if her mother was broke again in a couple of years? She would not let that, or a moldy, tacky old hotel, take over her life.

She absolutely would not.

Chapter 3

Wade grimaced while Sinnie perforated his thumb with a needle the size and sharpness of a hypodermic. What the hell ever happened to the concept of using tweezers to pull out a sliver? And judging from her determined expression as she dug into his flesh, Sinnie had a sadistic streak a mile wide.

"Ouch!" He pulled his thumb back, put it in his mouth, and tasted the salt of his own blood.

"Baby," Sinnie charged and stuffed her weapon back in its red tomato pin cushion. "Good thing you tough guys don't have to carry the kids into this world. We'd be a declining species, for sure."

He took his thumb out of his mouth. "We do our part."

"The fun part." She put her battered sewing basket on the shelf under her TV. The woman looked as if she'd had a side order of tacks with her breakfast. She stood and jabbed a finger in his chest. "You should buy the Phil. It's the right thing to do."

Wade gaped at her. "Where the hell did
that
come from?" Buy it? Hell. He couldn't wait to be free of the place. Another few days and he'd have things figured out, some kind of plan in the works. And saddling himself to the Phil wouldn't be part of it.

"You should go to that Lana woman and get your hotel back. Your grandpa would want you to have it. That poor man will be trembling in the dirt, thinking about his hotel in the hands of that greedy piece of baggage your daddy married." Her stare was python-mean.

Wade froze. Even Sinnie hadn't ventured into this territory before. He picked up his tool belt, wondered again what had possessed him to buy the thing. "I'm going up to four—Henry's doorknob has gone missing. I said I'd replace it for him. After that I'm going on mop duty."

"Henry's doorknob can wait and so can your darn mop." She clutched his arm. "What can't wait is this hotel. If you don't do something, we're all going to get our walking papers. The lot of us. Besides that, this place is rightfully yours. If you'd have made up with your daddy, maybe—"