Forbidden Fruit. Erica Spindler
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 check for flaws. Even the tiniest is unacceptable.” He lifted his utensils in turn, inspecting each carefully, a ritual they had been through dozens of times before. “There should be no fingerprints, no water spots. God forbid it should be soiled.”
He did the same with the crystal. She followed his lead, studying, inspecting, pursing her lips ever so slightly as she did, in a perfect mimicry of him. She saw her reflection in the soup spoon and smiled, liking how grown-up she looked.
“The linen should be spotless and crisp,” he continued. “And the flowers must always be fresh. If one droops, it must be removed.”
“The china can’t be cracked or chipped,” she piped in. “Even the tiniest chip is…” She stopped, searching for the perfect word, the one he always used.
He helped her out. “Unacceptable.”
“Right. Unacceptable.”
He leaned toward her once again. “At the St. Charles people pay for the best, and the best is perfection. We must give it to them. If we don’t, they’ll take their business elsewhere.”
After that, they ordered, then enjoyed their meals. While they ate, her father talked more about the hotel, sharing stories about his father and grandfather, telling her about the early days of the hotel. Even though Glory had heard most of what he said many times before, she never grew tired of hearing him tell her again, and urged him to share even more details with her.
It wasn’t until their dinners had been cleared away and her dessert and his coffee served, that Glory thought again about her mother. She realized she hadn’t seen her since her punishment.
“Where’s Mama tonight?” she asked, licking a drop of strawberry sauce from her thumb.
Philip took a sip of his coffee. “She went to mass.”
“We went this morning, too.” Glory looked glumly down at her ice-cream sundae. “She must still be angry with me. About the flowers and Mr. Riley.”
His mouth tightened. “That’s all over now, poppet. She just made a mistake about those flowers. Remember?”
Glory looked up at him, then away, her heart hurting.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Your mama loves you very much. She just wants you to grow up to be a good person. That’s all.”
“Yes, Daddy,” she murmured, though she didn’t believe it was true. She peeked up at him and knew he didn’t believe it, either. She knew, in her heart, that he, too, wondered what was wrong with Glory that her Mama didn’t love her.
That hurt so much, she wanted to die.
“Poppet? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Daddy,” she said, the words small and sad.
For a moment, he said nothing, and she silently begged for him to ask her the question again, silently wished for him to insist she tell him the truth. Instead, in a voice that sounded false, he said, “Have you thought about what you want for your birthday?”
She didn’t look up; the tablecloth swam before her eyes. “It’s still two months away.”
“Two months isn’t long.” His coffee cup clicked against the saucer as he set it down. “You must have given it some thought.”
She had, Glory thought bitterly. She wanted the same thing she had wished for last year, the same thing she wished for every year.
That her mother would love her.
“No,” Glory whispered without looking up. “I haven’t.”
“Well, don’t you worry.” He reached across the table and covered her clenched hands with one of his own. “Your daddy has something special in mind. Something fitting his precious poppet’s eighth birthday.”
When