slid into puzzlement, then startlement with an edge of disbelief, which swiftly built into utter incredulity and outright shock.
Was it her clothes? Kristy wondered. Admittedly her blue denim jeans and battle jacket were hardly sophisticated garb, and her comfortable Reeboks were somewhat the worse for wear, but surely they constituted a kind of universal uniform amongst travellers these days, acceptable practically anywhere. On the other hand, the canvas carryall she was toting did not convey an aura of class and this was a very classy hotel.
Kristy swiftly reasoned that as long as she could pay for her accommodation, there was no reason for anyone to turn her away. The glazed look of disbelief in the doorman’s eyes had to be a reflection of his snobbery. She decided to disarm him with a friendly smile.
Her smile was definitely her best feature, though Betty had always raved on about her hair. Its particular shade of apricot gold was rather rare, and there was a lot of it, bouncing around her shoulders in a cascade of unruly waves and curls. Her face was not nearly as spectacular, although she had always thought it nice enough. Her nose and mouth were neat and regular—nothing to take exception to—and her eyes were a very clear blue, which a lot of people remarked upon, probably because the colour was such a sharp contrast to her hair.
The doorman, however, was not disarmed by her smile. If anything, he looked thoroughly alarmed by it. Kristy decided her next best option was to impress him with his own native tongue.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” she greeted him sweetly, demonstrating her perfectly accented French. It was her one real talent—a natural gift for languages, enabling her to fit in easily wherever John’s army postings had taken them.
“Bonjour, Madame.”
No enthusiasm in his response. A very stiff formality. Kristy didn’t bother correcting the Madame to Mademoiselle. The man was clearly uneasy with her presence, turning aside quickly to summon a bellboy who hurried forward to relieve her of her bag. At least she wasn’t being rejected.
The door was punctiliously held open for her passage into the lobby. She would have liked to tip him, proving her worthiness as a guest, but the doorman clearly disdained accepting anything from her, his attention fixed with some intensity on the reception desk. Shrugging off the uncomfortable sensation of being considered riffraff, Kristy moved on into the lobby.
The bellboy carrying her bag whisked past her, heading straight for the check-in. One of the clerks stationed at the desk seemed to be alerted by something behind Kristy. Then his gaze shot to her and the jolt on his face gave her further pause. It wasn’t so much disbelief this time. It looked like absolute horror. What was going on? Why was she causing this odd reaction? Was she really unacceptable in this hotel?
It made no sense to Kristy. However, if she was going to be turned away, she was not going to be entirely done out of her trip down nostalgia lane. She’d come here to feel, as best she could, what Betty had felt forty years before. A belligerent determination halted her feet and sent her gaze sweeping slowly around the grand lobby.
Bathed in a soft golden haze...magical. Those had been Betty’s words, and they were still true, even after all this time. The yellow glow in the light seemed to beam off the walls, covered in their richly veined Siena marble. The floor was a gleaming chessboard of marble tiles, just as Betty had described, and the sumptuous chandeliers overhead added their lustrous effect.
The atmosphere of opulence had not been overstated. Intent on observing everything, Kristy gradually realised the sense of richness—even of greatness—was reflected by the beautifully dressed and elegantly shod guests scattered through the lobby. No-one in common jeans. Not even designer jeans. As for scuffed Reeboks, Kristy suspected the people around her wouldn’t be seen dead in them.
She didn’t fit in here. That was the plain unvarnished truth. Betty and John had undoubtedly worn their best honeymoon clothes at the time of their stay. Coming to this hotel was not supposed to be an act of impulse.
However, it was done now and she didn’t really have to fit, Kristy assured herself. All she wanted was a room for the night. That would complete her mission here and she saw no reason why it shouldn’t be achieved. Once out of sight she wouldn’t present a problem to anyone. Besides, there was nothing wrong in pursuing a sentimental whim.
The bellboy was standing guard over her bag at the reception desk. Both he and the clerk who’d been alerted to her entrance were keeping a wary eye on her. Kristy hated feeling unwelcome, but these people meant nothing to her. The fantasy of a forty-year-old honeymoon had a much stronger call on her than their approval.
Refusing to be intimidated, Kristy fronted up to the desk, noting how the clerk, a tall thin man with a receding hairline, positioned himself to be in direct line to serve her. He was obviously the senior man on duty. No doubt he always took charge of difficult guests.
“How can I help, Madame?”
Studied politeness, Kristy thought. He didn’t want to help her at all. The crease of concern on his brow and the trace of anxiety in his voice telegraphed a wish to get rid of her as fast as possible.
“I want a room for tonight. Only the one night,” she answered with pointed emphasis, hoping such a brief stay would win his toleration. At least he couldn’t fault her French, she thought, having mimicked the exact modulation of his voice.
He hesitated, uncertainty flicking over his face. “We have a suite....”
Kristy looked him in the eye. He had probably surmised she couldn’t afford an expensive suite. “I want a room. A regular room. For one night. Are you saying you can’t accommodate me?”
He seemed to take fright at her assertive challenge, perhaps sniffing the possibility of an unpleasant scene. “Non, Madame,” he answered hastily. “A room can be arranged.”
“Your cheapest room,” Kristy spelled out so there was no mistake.
His eyebrows shot up. His face dropped. “Oui, Madame,” he choked out.
He pushed across the registration form and Kristy filled it in, feeling she had won a minor victory over petty snobbery. Why the staff here was automatically addressing her as madame was a puzzle, but she shrugged it off as irrelevant. She was in. That was all she cared about
Having written down the information required and signed her name, she handed the form back. The clerk started to glance over it. Kristy could have sworn his eyes actually bulged as he took in her particulars. Probably stunned to discover she was an American, not French at all.
Nevertheless, that didn’t explain why he then became quite agitated, shoving the form under the desk as though it was contaminated and passing a room key to the bellboy with fussy officiousness, gesturing pointedly to the elevators.
The bellboy set off smartly with her key and bag, but the clerk’s manner had irked Kristy. A streak of stubborn pride emerged, prompting her to loiter in the lobby. She didn’t like being pushed around, or viewed as disposable garbage. Her independent spirit insisted she ignore such pressures.
Her gaze was drawn to a couple seated behind a low table, conversing quietly but with the kind of animation that was distinctly French. The woman was a striking brunette, superbly groomed, and wearing a black and white outfit that had to be the creation of one of the top Parisian designers. She gave chic a new meaning.
Her companion was even more striking, the perfect image of aristocratic elegance. He was handsome in a distinctly Gallic way: a high intellectual forehead,
