Inheritance (19 page)

"So you do. Can you tell me a little more about the new hotel we are building in St. Kitts?"

"What about it?"

*The rooms are small."

A tight defensiveness pinched Felix's face and he bent forward, explaining in clipped words why they had chosen to put money into the conference rooms and goLf course instead of larger bedrooms. Laura watched him: the small but urgent gestures he made with his hands, the ramrod back inclined toward Owen, his anxious eyes, and suddenly she felt she was seeing him for the first time. He's desperate for Owen's approval, she thought, astonished at the humanity of a man she had always thought of as unfeeling. For a moment she pitied him. But then, as Owen made a comment about gracious surroundings, impatience flashed over Felix's face and his grat-

Inheritance

ing voice became even harsher. "Just because you like nineteenth-century bedrooms it doesn't mean our customers do. They don't. They want frills: swimming pools, exercise rooms, golf courses, marble lobbies, French chefs. And we give them all that, but it costs money. It makes money, too. What other reason is there to do anything, unless you're stuck in a swamp of sentiment? The way you're hanging on to those old hotels of yours—being romantic about bricks and mortar —when any fool could tell you we should be tearing them down and building new ones ..."

Owen slowly shook his head. "Romance is the only magic we have left, and I have plans for those hotels." His somber look settled on Laura. "One of these days you and I will see what we can do with them. I've always wanted to, you know, but we were busy building up the chain and the years passed, and so did much of my energy. But now, with someone young to stimulate me . . . well, we'll see what we can do. Otherwise, FeUx will wait until I'm dead and then tear them down and build fancy high rises with swimming pools and tiny rooms."

"And profits," Felix said shortly.

**Those four hotels break even; they've never lost money." Owen contemplated his son. "Why does this bother you so much? Four hotels, Felix, out of fifty-eight Salinger Hotels in this country and Europe."

"Four of the top markets in the country—New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington—where we don't have modem hotels because I can't go into competition with you by building new ones. Four cities where the Salinger name means shabby and second-rate."

Owen nodded. "A good point. Our name should indicate excellence. And something will be done about it."

"How? You won't let us touch those hotels; you keep them locked in your own damned private corporation, separate from the rest of the hotels. It makes no sense! It's not good business!"

"But it might be good romance." Owen smiled at Laura. "And maybe I'm not too old to try to mix a httle romance with business. It's worth a try, wouldn't you say, Felix?"

Felix shrugged. "Whims," he muttered. "If you'll excuse

Judith Michael

me, I have a busy day. Someone from Security Systems is supposed to be here and I want to see him."

"He's here," said Laura. "He asked for Asa and I sent him upstairs."

"Problems with security?" Owen asked.

"Not a big problem yet, but it might be. Two guests in the past month have had their pockets picked in front of the hotel. We hired a detective and he stood around for two weeks, but the second incident occurred five feet from him and Fve got to find a way to prevent any more from happening."

"Yes. Good God, people will see us as unsafe; it has to be stopped. You're hiring more detectives?"

"I'll hire a dozen if I have to. I want to get some suggestions from an expert first."

"Why don't you have your detective sit down?" Laura asked.

Owen and Felix frowned at her.

"I mean," she said nervously, "standing up is no good; his eyes are at the wrong level. If he's sitting down he's looking at pants pockets and he can see better."

"By God!" Owen roared, causing nearby guests to turn in disapproval. "Wonderful! Who would have thought of that? Eh? Felix, get a chair for your man!"

"He'd attract considerable attention," said Felix dryly.

"What about that?" Owen asked Laura.

Wanned by his praise, Laura ignored Felix. "Put him in a wheelchair."

"With a tin cup!" Owen exclaimed. "And a monkey!"

"Let's not overdo it," Felix murmured, but for the first time his interest was caught. "It might work."

"It's worth a try," Owen said. He grinned at Laura. "It takes a creative mind to think like a pickpocket. Thank you, my dear—"

A woman screamed.

It cut like a sword through the morning crowd. For an instant the lobby froze. Then it came to life. Everyone was milling and talking at once, as if a film had speeded up and might soon be out of control.

Felix had shot out of his chair and was gone. "I must go," Laura said to Owen. "Jules will want me."

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"Yes, yes, go." His bushy eyebrows were drawn together. "We've never had violence here. Never . . ."

Laura kissed the top of his head and quickly made her way through the milling confusion toward her desk. But before she got there she saw Felix bending over a woman sprawled on a love seat; he looked helpless and enraged. "Can I help?" she asked.

His mouth was tight. "She won't say what happened. She doesn't want a doctor; she doesn't want the police."

The woman's hands were clasped tightly beneath her chin and her eyes were closed. Late fifties, Laura thought, too much makeup, bleached hair, expensive suit, fine pearls. Her nails were manicured and she was crying. Jules arrived but held back as he saw Laura bend over and gently push the woman's hair firom her eyes. "I've ordered tea for you," she said quietly. "Can you sit up?"

Her eyes still closed, the woman shook her head. Laura gestured to Felix, who struggled briefly with his desire to ask her who the hell she was to be giving orders, then decided a peaceful lobby was more important. "Jules," he said, "get tea. And something to eat."

Jules went through the same struggle, then turned furiously on his heel and marched away without a word. "I'm going to help you sit up," Laura said, her voice low. "If you can't manage it, we'll have to carry you to the lounge until we know how badly hurt you are."

"Not hurt." The woman struggled to sit up. She opened her eyes and looked at Laura. "Knocked around, but I should be used to . . ." She closed her eyes, then opened them again. "Do you work here?" Laura nodded. "Well. Sorry I made a noise in your lobby." The nonchalant pose failed and she closed her eyes again. "My God, my God, what will people say?"

*That doesn't matter."

"It does, it does, you don't understand, you're too young." She sat up with Laura's arm aroimd her, once more opening her eyes, and her tears returned, spilling over and leaving wavering tracks in the thick powder on her face. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I knew I shouldn't come. I told myself a hundred times I was better off in Dallas not knowing what he was up

Judith Michael

to, but then I just found myself here, and of course he had her in his room after he promised he wouldn't see her again, ever ..."

"I don't think you want to talk about this here," Laura said firmly.

"She was in bed—nude, the little slut—waiting for him to come back from running." The woman laughed harshly. "Good healthy activity, first thing in the morning. Nobody ever said Wylie Starrett doesn't take care of himself. He's in top form, they say. . . . Oh, God, what got into me that I had it out with him here, in the lobby, when I knew he'd use his fist; he always uses his—^" She bent over in a fit of coughing as Jules and a bellhop arrived with a tray.

Laura smiled absently, as if it were perfectly natural for Jules to wait on her. "Thank you ... if you'll just put it here . . . Oh, good, you brought something to eat." She filled a cup. "I want you to stop talking, Mrs. Starrett, and drink this and eat some biscuits. And then we're going to put you in a room upstairs. I assume you have luggage."

She nodded, her eyes startled. The puf^ half-moons below them were streaked with mascara, and Laura wiped them gently with her handkerchief. "Drink your tea, Mrs. Starrett," she said softly.

"It's Virginia. Ginny. I want you to call me Ginny."

Laura smiled. "I'm Laura Fairchild. Will you wait here while I get you a room? We can talk later, if you like, when you've had a chance to clean up and rest."

"I want to talk. You'll take me to my room." The authoritative voice contrasted oddly with her red eyes and tear-streaked face, but it was obvious that she was used to giving orders.

"Of course," Laura said, standing up.

She saw Jules make a quick gesture. His staff went only where he directed. Laura looked at the woman on the couch and spread her hands slightly so Jules could see she had no choice. "I'll take care of your room," she said to Virginia Starrett, and crossed the lobby to the reservations desk.

"Very efficient," Felix said to Jules. "You're lucky she was here."

Behind him, Owen had been watching. As he saw Jules*s face darken, he put a friendly hand on his shoulder. "You've trained her well, Jules. She does you credit."

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"Ah." Jules let out his breath and reorganized his thoughts. "It is, of course, difficult, the responsibiUty for shaping a good and trusted staff. But your protegee, Mr. SaUnger, is a fine young woman. She learns well from Jules. I am proud of what she has learned."

And all three men, each pleased in his own way, stood guard over Virginia Starrett as she drank her tea in the nudst of a discreetiy murmuring lobby that had returned to normal.

After dinner m the kitchen bay of Owen*s house, Laura told Paul about her day and finished with a performance of Jules LeClair in action. "I am proud of what she has learned," she finished with a small precise bow, her French accent perfectly mimicking Jules's, her voice just deep enough to sound like

his. , ,._, -

"Exactly," Paul said as they laughed together. It s exactly

Jules. You're wonderful."

"How do you know? You told me you don't pay attention to

the hotels." j u ^

"Fm paying more attention now. I've stopped by a tew times, just to make sure your working conditions are acceptable."

Laura smiled but her eyes were serious. * What would you

have done if they weren't?" ,^. .

*Taken Jules by tiie scruff of the neck, dropped him mto the bay, and fed him to the lobsters."

"And been lynched by die lobstermen for changing die taste of Boston lobsters. Paul, you wouldn't have done anything."

He shook his head. "I just wanted to be able to picture you in your job when I think about you during the day. I do that quite a bit, you know. Go ahead, fimsh your story. How did you hear Jules congratulating himself for your skills if you'd gone off to get a room for the lady in distress?"

"I walked very slowly; I wanted to hear what tiiey said."

**Wise woman. Always know what's going on behind your back." He poured coffee for her. "You had a good time, didn't

you?"

*1 loved it. Jules doesn't let me work with people very often; I got to Ginny Starrett just before he did. If I could do - fliat kind of thing all day it would be wonderful."

Judith Michael

"You wouloii't want a steady stream of crises," he said, amused.

"Why not? Solving them is what makes heroines."

He laughed. "You're already a heroine to me." He looked more closely at her. "You don't really want to be a heroine to Jules LeClair."

"No, to myself. To know I'm perfect at a job."

"In this job?" he asked. "What happened to being an actress?"

"That was only an idea I had. Acting is a hobby."

"Wasn't Owen the one who said that?"

"I'm saying it. I can mimic people, and it's fun, but it's different to try to make it a whole life, and I haven't got time to find out if I really could or not. I can be successful much faster this way, and I do love it; it's something I can talk about and not hide—" She stopped. "It's something I can be proud of."

"Hide," Paul said musingly. "Why would you have anything to hide?"

"I hope I don't," she said, tossing it off. "But what if I tried to be a famous actress and failed and then turned to a life of crime?"

He smiled and shook his head. "You couldn't do it. You won't even pick up something in a department store to look at it, much less make off with it." He wondered what she really had meant. He wouldn't force her to tell him—she had a right to her own secrets—but it was a curious thing for her to say. "Anyway, let me help you become a heroine. Shall I register at the hotel and demand some exotic service and say you're the only one who can provide it?"

"We don't provide that kind of service," she said with a straight face. 'The international concierge association forbids it."

He burst out laughing. "Good for them. Well, then, you'll have to make it on your own; it's foreign territory to me."

"You mean a job is foreign," she said. "Any job."

"Probably. I've never had one, but I suspect I'd feel like a foreigner if I had to satisfy someone else's fantasies instead of my own."

"But you can satisfy your own fantasies; you have your photography. Why don't you do something with it?"

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"I don't need to."

"I didn't mean money. I meant doing something with your hfe, giving it a direction."

"Laura, my life is fine. Nothing is missing."

"You said—that night at my party—that you have everything you want but you'd like to want more."

"And you said you didn't understand what I meant."

"But now I think I do. You have all the things you want but there's no center, nothing that makes all the rest mean something. You don't have anything important in your life—"

"You're important."

"Can't you take me seriously?"

"I am taking you seriously."

"No, you're not. I'm talking about the Paul Janssen who does nothing all day but sports or sailing with friends or reading or taking pictures when he feels like it but usually not even developing the negatives, or . . . whatever else you do before you pick me up at work. You don't do anything that has a beginning and a middle and an end; nothing has a shape or a meaning; you can't look back at night and say, *I did something good today that I'm proud of, something that will last.'"

There was silence in the kitchen. "You're a passionate and wise lady," Paul said at last. "But you're talking about something I don't need. I find my shape, as you call it, in my own ways, 2uid I'm perfectly satisfied. But what does that matter to us? If we don't agree about work we'll talk about other things. Would you like more coffee?"

She hesitated as if about to say something more, then changed her mind. "Yes. Thank you."

Paul filled their cups, tlien turned away, looking beyond Laura at the fading streaks of a russet sunset, and at Owen's garden, daric in the shadow of its brick wall. He didn't want to argue. He'd learned long ago, from his father, that if one could avoid controversy and tension, almost everything eventually came out all right. It was quarrels that confirmed people in their ways, making them cling more tightly to ideas they might have shed or modified if they'd been left alone, turning them inward to protect the beliefs others were challenging. Nothing is worth a quarrel, Thomas Janssen had taught his son, and while Paul thought that probably was going too far,

Judith Michael

he wasn*t sure what really might be worth the fervor and involvement of controversy.

"Let's leave it alone," he said to Laura. "And maybe we*ll end up agreeing with each other."

She smiled and began to clear the dinner dishes. She didn*t think it was that easy, but she didn't want to quarrel. Everything was so wonderful between them; why think about disagreements? She moved back and forth between the table and the sink. Around them the house was quiet, the rooms dark and empty. Owen and Rosa were at the Cape; the housekeepers were on vacation. All the Salingers had finally left that morning, later in the season than usual. Laura would join them on the weekends; the rest of the week she would live in Owen's town house. This was the first night she would be there alone, and she was feeling uncomfortable. It was too big; it was too much. She felt like a fraud. What am I doing here? she thought; how can I have this whole house to myself when just three years ago I was living in a New York tenement and dreaming of a room of my own? Five floors, twenty-two rooms on Beacon Hill. I don't belong here.

"You're bustling," Paul said as she stacked and rinsed dishes and put them in the dishwasher. "You don't have to do that; the maid will do them in the morning."

"I can't leave dishes overnight," Laura said.

"Why not?"

Because of cockroaches and other things that crawl in the dark. "It's just not right."

"Is that what your mother taught you?"

"Of course. Don't all mothers teach that?"

"Did you do the dishes together?"

"Yes," she said. That was true; she could remember standing at the sink widi her mother. But she couldn't remember what they'd talked about. It was all gone, drowned in the torrent of tears she had shed when suddenly she had no parents and there was only Ben, saying he'd take care of them forever.

"Then I'll do the same," Paul said and carried the coffee cups to the granite counter with its stainless steel sink. He kissed the top of Laura's head, enjoying the silence around them. There was a charming domesticity to the scene, he re-

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fleeted; in Owen's home and Rosa's kitchen they were like two children playing house. But they weren't children, and as Paul watched the play of light on Laura's long chestnut hair he wanted her as if it were the first time, in that empty house in Marblehead Neck. That was new for him—usually his interest began to wane as the weeks of an affair passed—but the novelty wasn't important enough to distract him from his desire. "Laura," he said, his voice low, and she came to him and moved into his embrace.

"I was thinking"—her lips were beside his ear, her words as soft as a sigh of wind—^'*how strange it feels to be here alone. . . ."

His mouth covered hers and then, together, they left the dishes and went upstairs to her apartment.

That was the pattern of that golden summer. When Laura left work, Paul was waiting for her in his car outside the hotel, and they ate dinner at a restaurant or at the round mahogany table in the kitchen bay, where tall beeswax candles cast a warm circle around them. After dinner they went to a concert or a play, or walked through Harvard Square, browsing in the shops, watching the people, holding hands as they strolled, until desire sent them back to Laura's rooms, where they made love and slept and woke to make love again until morning, when they made breakfast in the kitchen, bright this time with sunlight. And then Paul drove Laura to work before going to his studio and darkroom because, as he told her casually one morning, he'd gotten interested in photography again and had begun to make a series of portraits of her.

On the weekends they went to the Cape, where Laura stayed in the cottage Owen had offered her just before the robbery and Paul stayed with his parents. "I can't spend the night with you with your whole family around us," she said when he objected. "It's like flaunting us in theh" face, and your father doesn't approve of me—"

"He approves of you. He likes you."

"He calls me your diversion and wonders how long you'll keep it up."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"Allison told me."

"Allison should keep her mouth shut."

Judith Michael

"Shouldn't I know what your family thinks?"

"If it matters. It doesn't."

"You love your father. You care what he thinks."

"Unless I know he's wrong. Laura, they know I stay with you in Boston."

"I don't care. I just can't walk out of the door in the morning as if I'm saying to all of them, 'Look, we just got out of bed.'"

"It would be honest."

"Sometimes it's better not to be honest."

He shrugged. "Whatever you want." But he had seen the sudden flash of worry in her eyes, and with a quick grin he put his arm around her. "Do you know how remaiicable you are? For the first time in my life I find Boston in July so attractive I stay there five days a week."

They laughed together, and by the end of the summer Paul had come to believe she was right: why force the issue with his family when there was nothing to gain? He had Laura's passion, whether all night in Boston or for the early part of the night at the Cape; he had his own fascination with her, growing deeper each day; and he had her love. Even if he hadn't been sure of that, Allison confirmed it.

She and Thad were traveling in Canada but she telephoned almost every day, talking to her family more often than when she lived with them. When she called others in the family she talked about scenery and weather; she and Paul talked about each other. "She adores you," Allison said when she called one morning from Lake Louise. "You must know that. She doesn't exactly hide it. You do know it."

"Yes," he said. "But I like hearing it from you. Are you having a wonderful time?"

"Didn't I send you a postcard saying I was?"

"You did; Laura and Owen got them, too. But you also told us you wished we were there and we got the impression that you meant it."

Allison gave a short laugh. "I did. Why didn't you come dashing up to Canada and join us?"

"Dear Allison, if you can't enjoy a vacation with Thad how can you marry him?"

"A good question. Are you going to marry Laura?"

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"I haven't thought about it."

"Bullshit."

"Fve thought about it but there doesn't seem to be any rush. Did Laura say something when you talked to her last week?"

"No, but according to everybody else it's been a hot and heavy summer. I'm sorry I'm missing it."

"According to everybody?"

"Well, Mother said you're very attentive and more settled down than you've been in a long time. Daddy said he sees you in front of the hotel every day, picking Laura up—does he spend most of his time peering out of his office windows? And a few of the cousins mentioned long walks on the beach, and boat trips to Nantucket and the Vineyard, and nuzzling on the veranda of the cottage. You two aren't invisible, you know. Do you love her?"

"Do you love Thad? As I recall, you're marrying him in October."

"Well, I don't think I will. Or I'm not really sure. Anyway, I won't have a wedding that looks like a coronation. If I decide to marry Thad it's going to be very quiet and maybe at the last minute."

"Will I hear about it beforehand?"

"Of course you will; I want you there. And Laura too. I wish you'd talk about her. Are you angry because I asked if you love her?"

"Dear Allison, I couldn't be angry with you." His voice was oddly gentle. "If I can help with your dilemma, will you call me? And when I want to talk about Laura, I'll call you."

"She's good for you. You're a lot nicer these days. Not as impatient. And it's such a novelty having you with us for more than a week or two at a time. Paul, I love Laura and I love you; I don't want you to hurt each other. And I don't want to have to take sides. So be nice to each other, will you?"

"That's one of the things we do best." He was smiling as he hung up.

Nearly everyone in the family tried to talk to Paul about Laura to find out how serious he was. But Owen said nothing until September, when everyone was preparing to return to the city, and then he talked to Laura.

Judith Michael

They were packing the books he wanted for his library in Boston, and he leafed through each one before putting it in a carton. "What an interesting summer this has been," he murmured casually while studying an engraving in a history of Rome.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, Laura smiled. "Yes, it has been. I've learned so much from Jules; I can't thank you enough for getting me that job."

"I didn't mean Jules," Owen said, peering at her. "But if you want to talk about him I won't argue."

"I'm sorry," she said, ashamed. "I knew you meant Paul. But you've never asked me about him, so I thought you approved of us."

"Of your sleeping together or being in love?"

At Laura's quick look of surprise and embarrassment, he rested his hand on her head. "Did you really think I didn't know? I may be in my declining years, my dear, but my powers of perception are intact. Also, Leni told me."

Involuntarily, Laura smiled. "Does everyone talk about

usr

"Of course they do; can anyone resist talking about young lovers who walk around oblivious to everyone else? I did think you might come to me and tell me about your feelings."

"I'm sorry," Laura said again. "I wanted to, but I thought you'd disapprove."

"Of your sleeping together, you mean." She nodded. '*Well, I confess it is not a form of courtship I can speak about from experience. Leni says all young people do it these days; I find that surprising, but I don't pass judgment. Customs change, and it takes time to know whether for better or worse. But I have some nostalgia for the time when I was young, when a decent man wouldn't even try to kiss a young woman until tbey were engaged. Even tbe^ he asked b^ permission. He didn't always get it, either."

"Ehd you ask Iris's permission?"

Owen smiled. "As I recall, we both had the idea at the same time. TbCTe wasn't a great deal of discussion."

Laura's smik met his. "And then you asked her to many your'

He gazed across the room at a photograph of Iris standing

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beside a gnarled tree at the Cape. Her hair blew straight behind her; she was shading her eyes with her hand and laughing. "You know, I don't recall asking. One night we were sitting in her living room—we could see her father through the open door to his study; he was reading and I remember he held his newspaper in front of his face so we could kiss—and we just found ourselves talking about where we would live."

Laura's face grew wistfiil. "Did you always have ideas together?"

"A goodly amount of the time." Once again Owen put his hand on her head, this time stroking her shining hair in long slow movements that matched his recollections. "More and more, the longer we were together. I was a Uttle wild at first, not yet a man, and Iris was a woman who knew what she wanted. She didn't try to change me—at least not that I could see—but she was determined to shape her own life in a way she thought was good and important, and after a while I had the same ideas. I never knew what magic she woriced, but suddenly I was a family man, coming straight home from work, raising children, building up my hotels for my wife and sons instead of just for myself, and buttoning myself into tuxedos two or three times a week because my beautiful wife liked fancy balls."

He looked down at Laura. "She once told me," he said softly, "that she liked me best with nothing on, and next best in blue jeans and a lumberjack shirt, and then in a tux. I thought it was wonderfully daring of her to say that."

"It was. You must have had such fun together."

"You know, we never called it that. But you're right; we had fun. Oh, my dear, what we had was so joyful and good; it was as if a lantern lit our way through the years and it was always bright. When she died the darkness came. I stood beside her coffin and I couldn't see her because the light was gone. I could only see her in my memory, smiling at me when she lay beneath me, laughing as she danced through the house on Beacon Hill for the first time, nursing our baby in a rocking chair in our bedroom while I lay on the bed beside her, sharing the peace and beauty of that moment. Ah, my dear child, if I could make you feel what we had ... A man can sow his seed, he can build an empire, and none of it is worth a