Forbidden Fruit

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 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.