Forbidden Fruit. Erica Spindler

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t care if she had to wear mousetraps on her feet, she still wanted to go. She threw her arms around her father, unable to suppress her excitement. “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you!”

      Glory did, indeed, wear the shoes that pinched. She and her father had only just arrived at the hotel, and already her toes hurt. Ignoring the discomfort, she gazed up at the St. Charles’s balconied facade, her chest tight with a combination of pride and awe. Glory loved the St. Charles, everything about it, from the old, paneled elevators that creaked as they took passengers up to the thirteen guest floors, to the constant flow of people moving through the lobby, to the way it always smelled, of furniture polish and flowers.

      Everyone here liked her. Here she could laugh and skip and have as many yummy minty chocolates as she wanted; here she could roam about at will, without worry of a scolding.

      And, too, she loved the hotel because it was completely her father’s. Everything here had been touched by him, and in a strange way, to her, bore his resemblance. She felt safe in the hotel, as if her father’s arms were wrapped protectively around her.

      Sometimes Glory thought that as much as she and her father loved the St. Charles, her mother hated it. Because she had no influence here, no say in how Philip ran the hotel. On a couple of occasions, Glory had heard her mother make a suggestion concerning the hotel, and Philip had responded sharply, in a way Glory never heard him speak to his wife.

      The valet rushed over and opened her car door. He smiled. “Hello, Miss Glory. How are you tonight?”

      She returned his smile, feeling very much like a grown-up lady. “Very good, thank you.”

      Her father came around the car and handed the valet his keys. “We’ll be a couple hours, Eric.” Her father took her hand. “Ready, poppet?”

      She nodded and they crossed the sidewalk to the hotel’s grand, leaded-glass doors. The doorman greeted Glory with a wide grin. “Evening, Miss St. Germaine. It’s nice to see you again.”

      She returned his greeting, acting as adult as she knew how. “Thank you, Edward. It’s nice to see you again, too. We’ve come for dinner.” She lowered her voice reverently. “We’re going to the Renaissance Room.”

      “Very good.” He opened the door for them. “I hear the strawberry sundae is excellent tonight.” He winked at her, and she giggled.

      Her father laced their fingers and together they stepped into the St. Charles’s sweeping front lobby. As always, her first moment in the hotel took her breath away. It was so beautiful, so grand. Above their heads, a huge chandelier sparkled like a thousand diamonds; under their feet, thick oriental carpets cushioned each step. The brass fixtures gleamed, the solid cypress woodwork had been waxed to a high shine.

      Her mother called the hotel’s decor tasteful opulence; Glory thought it, simply, the most beautiful place in the world.

      “You did very well out there, Glory,” her father murmured, squeezing her hand lightly. “I’m proud of you. You’ll be a wonderful general manager one day.”

      Glory beamed up at him, feeling about to burst with pride. Her father had been bringing her here since she had been old enough to walk beside him; he had talked her through almost every aspect of the day-to-day running of the hotel. Many of those she didn’t understand, but she always listened raptly, enthralled as much by what her father was saying as by the fact that he was saying it to her.

      Now, from all those years of careful listening, she knew a great deal about the hotel, from its history, to its worth, to how her father kept it running smoothly, day in and day out.

      The St. Charles had one hundred and twenty-five rooms or suites and a penthouse that encompassed the entire top floor. Three presidents had slept under its roof: Roosevelt, Eisenhower and Kennedy, as had every Louisiana governor, at least once during his tenure, since the hotel first opened its doors. Countless movie stars had chosen accommodations at the St. Charles during their visits to New Orleans. The list included Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe and Robert Redford. Just this year the rock star Elton John had stayed here, although her daddy hadn’t been too happy about the hordes of squealing teenagers who had descended on the hotel, all determined to get a glimpse of the star.

      Glory and her father crossed the foyer into the main lobby. The registration desk was located up ahead and to the right; to the left was an open lobby bar. High tea was served there in the afternoon—Glory liked the scones and jam best—cocktails in the evenings. Situated beyond both, its entrance set back in an alcove, was the Renaissance Room.

      As she knew he would, her father stopped at the front desk. The woman behind the counter smiled. “Good evening, Mr. St. Germaine. Miss St. Germaine.”

      “Hello, Madeline. How are things tonight?”

      “Very good. Quiet, considering occupancy is seventy-five percent.”

      “And the dining room?”

      “Brisk tonight, I understand.”

      “Where’s Marcus?” he asked, referring to the night manager.

      She hesitated a moment. “I think he’s in the bar.”

      Philip inclined his head. “We’ll be in the dining room. If he happens by, send him in.”

      They walked away from the desk, and Glory peeked up at her father. “You’re mad at Marcus, aren’t you?”

      “Not mad, Glory. Disappointed. He’s not doing his job.”

      Glory pursed her lips. “He drinks too much, doesn’t he?”

      Her father looked down at her in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

      “He was in the bar the last time we were in.” She shrugged. “I do know about things, Dad. After all, I’m not a little kid anymore.”

      He laughed. “That’s right. Almost eight, already. Almost grown-up.” She frowned at his amusement, and he ruffled her hair. “Here we are. After you, poppet.”

      They crossed through the alcove to the maîitre d’s stand. Philip spoke to the man, waving aside his offer to escort them to their table. As they made their way through the dining room, Glory watched her father. He swept his gaze over the room, and she knew that his dark gaze missed nothing, no matter how small or insignificant. He nodded at the patrons who caught his eye, stopping and greeting many—some of whom he knew, some of whom he introduced himself to. Of each he inquired as to their satisfaction, each he wished well and expressed the hope that they would return soon.

      When they reached their table, he pulled out Glory’s chair for her, waiting for her to be seated before he took his own place at the table. That done, he leaned toward her. “Everything must be perfect,” he said softly. “That’s what people expect from the St. Charles. You must never forget that.”

      “I won’t,” she promised breathlessly. “You can count on me.”

      He smiled at her response. “Remember, too, the importance of the personal touch. We are not a chain hotel, Glory. We must treat each patron as if they are personal friends, guests in our home.”

      She nodded, hanging on his every word. “Yes, Daddy.”

      “You see the table before you? Always СКАЧАТЬ