imagine couples descending for dinner back in the old days, the women’s gloved hands on the arms of their tuxedoed escorts, their silken skirts trailing behind them as they made their entrance.
And she found herself wishing she had someone to see it with.
The polished brass doors of the elevator opened to reveal a spare-looking elderly man. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said, pulling back the accordioned metal gate. “My name’s Lester. Where can I take you?”
“Third floor, please.” Hadley stepped on and watched him shut the gate. The control panel had no buttons, just a lever, right below the inspection certificate. “So just how old is this elevator?”
“Original to the building.” He beamed. “Mr. Cortland wanted all the modern conveniences when he built the hotel. Got his friend Tom Edison to wire it for electricity.” The car began to rise smoothly. “Hot and cold running water and fire sprinklers in all of the rooms, even. That was a big deal back then.”
“How long have you worked here?”
He considered. “Oh, about fifty years. I started when she was in her prime and saw her through some dark times before Mr. Stone bought her and started turning things right.”
She should have expected it, but the name still jolted her. “You mean Whit Stone?”
“The same. Top drawer, a prince of a guy. He spent a week here every summer for almost as long as I can remember. ‘Course, when he started, I was on outside staff.” He gave a raffish smile. “These days, I have to take it easy a little.” The car stopped at her floor and Lester opened the gate. “Enjoy your stay, miss. I hope to see you again.”
A prince of a guy. Top drawer. Not exactly the way her father described Whit. Hadley crossed the octagonal elevator lobby, her mind buzzing, and went through the double doors that led to her wing. Even the third floor boasted ten-foot ceilings and hallways twice as broad as any she’d seen at a hotel before. Antique fixtures on the walls cast a soft light over the striped wallpaper and rich floral hall runner. Brass plates engraved with room numbers in curling script adorned the doors.
Hadley unlocked hers to a spill of golden sunlight through the windows that ran across nearly the entire wall. The room was enormous, bigger than the living room in her loft at home. She caught the scent of freesias from a small clutch sitting in a little vase on the bureau. A feather duvet covered the bed. Again, attention to detail. Someone cared about the guests. And in some obscure way she felt comforted, and some of her soul-sickness ebbed as she settled into one of the overstuffed wing chairs by the window.
Gabe sat at his computer. The screen displayed the previous month’s occupancy charts, but he stared into space, remembering a pair of sober gray eyes sparking into laughter. Sometimes a small taste stuck with a person longest. Amid the quiet of snow and winterscape he’d talked with her just enough to know he wanted more.
And then there was that instant when her eyes had darkened and something flashed between the two of them….
He blinked and shook his head. What he needed was to finish preparing for his department heads’ meeting, not think about guests. Off-limit guests, he reminded himself firmly. And unless his little winter faerie had some pixie dust that would help bolster his midweek occupancy, she needed to be off his mind.
The project to winterize the hotel for cold weather business five years before had cost a bundle. With Whit’s agreement, Gabe hadn’t tried to pay it off all at once, but continued to do the kind of necessary renovations a century-old building required. Whit had happily plowed most of his profits back into upkeep, hoping to rescue the Mount Jefferson from the decay it had been in when he’d bought it.
Who knew what the new owners had planned?
“Mr. Trask.”
Gabe glanced up to see his administrative assistant at the door. “Yes, Susan?”
“I just wanted to see if you needed anything before I go home.”
He glanced at his desk clock, stunned to see it was already after seven. “You were supposed to be off two hours ago.”
“What about you? You were here when I got in.”
Twelve hours and counting, to be specific. “Goes with the territory,” he said with a shrug and rose. “Anyway, I’m just about finished here. I’m going to do a quick walk-through and head out myself.”
“Mr. Trask?”
He turned in inquiry.
“You’ve lost your badge again.”
Gabe glanced down at his lapel and bit back a mild curse. He’d gotten the magnetized name tags to save wear and tear on clothing, especially his own. Unfortunately, they didn’t stick so well to jacket lapels if a person wasn’t careful about putting them on. And that afternoon, he’d been a little bit rushed and a little bit distracted by a pair of gray eyes. “Looks like the magnet flipped off again.”
Susan clicked her tongue and looked around the floor of the office for it. “Want me to see if the shop has another?”
“If no one’s turned it in by Monday. No sense in worrying about it now, though. I’m not likely to forget who I am. It’s Saturday night. Go home and relax.”
“Yes, sir.”
Someone had once said that the octagonal dining room was big enough that each end was in a different area code. It was Gabe’s last stop every night. There was something about the glow of the pale salmon walls in the soft light of chandeliers and candlelight, the semicircular Tiffany windows ringing the upper gallery where the orchestra had played back when the hotel was first open. When Gabe looked at the unapologetically opulent room, he forgot his ongoing struggle to find plasterers who could restore the complicated capitals of the pillars and the ornate ceiling medallions. He just appreciated the reminder of a more gracious time.
“Good evening, Mr. Trask,” said the maître d’.
“Good evening, Guy. How’s everything going? Full house?”
Guy’s Gallic shrug was expressive. “Eh, if I had a roomful of tables by the window, everyone would be delirious. As it is, they are merely very happy.”
“That’s the way we want to keep them.”
In the background, a four-piece combo played a complicated, syncopated tune to an empty dance floor. It wasn’t an easy composition; a tune more likely to inspire indigestion. Gabe looked over. “What exactly is that?”
“Miles Davis, I think.”
Gabe frowned as the trumpet player wandered off into a spiraling solo. While he could appreciate it as a music aficionado, he wasn’t crazy about it as a manager. “No one’s going to dance to this.”
“Just as well. Dancing…” Guy sniffed in disapproval. “People getting up, sitting down, complaining about overcooked meals because of the rewarming. We should stop it, you know.”
“Not a chance. There’s always been a dinner orchestra at the Hotel Mount Jefferson.” And there was nothing like walking in to the sound of soft music to make a guest truly feel transported, he thought.
