The Chosen

^{CHAPTER SEVEN}

Vera’s awe redoubled once she stepped past the inlaid foyer. Tall vases sprung with flowers stood at either side; Feldspar closed the front doors behind them. Dan B., Donna, and Lee all squinted off in different directions while Vera glanced upward at the great crystal chandelier. Its icelike shimmer seemed to hover.

‘‘The atrium,’’ Feldspar remarked, rather dully. “Satisfactory work, but I’ve seen better.”

I haven’t, Vera thought. If anything, The Inn’s interior was more magnificent than its exterior. Paneled walls rose thirty feet, adorned by great framed oil paintings of Victorian theme. A sharp scent of newness hovered, like the chandelier’s shimmer: newly cut wood, fresh shellac and stain, new carpet. Between the twin, curving staircases sat a beautifully veneered oak reception table; all of the atrium’s tables, in fact, were obviously of the exceptional quality, and centered before fine, plushly upholstered armchairs. The atrium had a classy, quiet feel to it, all soft, dark hues and dark wood, more akin to an English men’s club than a mere hotel entry. Statues in dark marble stood upon pedestals ensconced into the atrium’s paneled walls.

“This way,” Feldspar said.

They followed the odd man off to the right, to the lower west wing. A long wall of wooden lattice filled with myriad small glass panes ended at opened French doors. Above the door, off a black iron rung, suspended the mahogany sign in etched letters:

THE CARRIAGE HOUSE

Vera’s excitement strewed. Feldspar had spared no expense; this made The Emerald Room look like a rib shack. Fine, white linens over oak tables, quality wing chairs, plush, dark carpet. A long planter formed an aisle between the dining room and the kitchen entrance, full of a vast medley of fresh flowers. Tastefully framed rustic artwork, all original oils, embellished elegant, gray-paneled walls. Vera slowly wandered among the dining tables, and in rising awe she recognized the best of everything down to the most minute details. Le Perle silverware, Tiffany & Company saucers and cups, Homer Laughlin plates, Luminarc glasses, shakers, and table vases.

“You, of course, have final say on the serviceware inventory,” Feldspar told her, “should this prove insufficient.”

Insufficient? Vera could’ve fainted. She remembered her own inventory procurement when she’d taken over at The Emerald Room—a fortune, but nothing compared to this. If anything, Feldspar had spent more than he’d needed to.

“You gentlemen will want to inspect the kitchen facilities,” he went on, addressing Dan B. and Lee, and to Donna, “and the service bar and waitress stations.” Feldspar faintly smiled. “And I’m happy to say that, as of now, my affiliation with all technical aspects of the restaurant are at an end. In other words, should you find anything unsatisfactory about the facilities, voice your grievances not to me but to Ms. Abbot.”

“Oh, we’re quite used to that,” Donna remarked and laughed.

“Come on, Curley,” Dan B. said to Lee. “Let’s check out our gig.”

“Sure, Shemp,” Lee replied as the three of them made for the swingdoors to the kitchen.

Vera still felt prickly in her excitement. Panning her gaze, she could scarcely believe that this beautiful restaurant was, for all intents and purposes, hers.

“Conclusions? Comments?” Feldspar bid. He seemed suddenly worried. Could he possibly fear that The Inn’s refurbishment did not meet her approval?

“I’m still in shock,” Vera replied. “I couldn’t be more impressed. You’ve done an outstanding job.”

“I’m happy to hear you say that.”

“And we’ll do an outstanding job for you.”

Feldspar unconsciously diddled with his big amethyst pinky ring and the other bright jewelry that adorned his stubby hand. He was a complex man, and Vera could sense that complexity now very clearly. He was a man with a vast mission who, step by step, discharged each of his tasks like machinery. Vera paused to wonder about his direct conception of her. Am I just another gear in his machine, or does he see me as an associate, a real person? Probably the former at this point—this was business. Odd as he was, Feldspar was an extraordinary man, and she admired him. But she knew that she would have to prove her worth quite quickly in order for the admiration to be mutual. You’ll see, buddy, she thought. I’m gonna turn this pretty joint of yours into the best restaurant in the state.

“You’ll probably want to expend some time now on a closer examination of the facility. My office is in the west wing; let me know when you’re done here, and I’ll have someone show you your room.”

Before Vera could reply, Feldspar was moving back toward the atrium—not walking, really, but sort of half-ambling in that peculiar, faltering gait of his. The sudden quiet of his departure focused Vera’s speculations, even her dreams. She felt wistful and exuberant. With a little luck, a little advertising, and more than a little hard work, they would turn The Inn into a money machine.

Something clinked. Almost startled, she turned. A woman was pushing a wheeled cart full of crystal candleholders down the aisle along the planter. Through colorful splays of fresh, potted bluebells and poinsettias, she stopped—as if startled herself—and looked right at Vera.

“Hello,” Vera said. “I’m—”

How rude. The woman trundled away at once, more quickly. She must be one of the housekeeping staff. She better not be one of my staff, Vera thought. Not only was she rude, ignoring Vera’s introduction, but she was…

Gross, Vera determined. Not ugly as much as simply unpleasant-looking. An unattractive bun had been made of her dark, frizzed hair. Though she didn’t appear to be old, she seemed slightly bowed as she walked away, and short, husky. Vera glanced after the odd woman, frowning. I’m upper management, honey. You better start being a lot more cordial than that.

The cart’s casters squealed across the atrium, and the woman briefly gazed back at Vera.

Vera nearly winced.

The woman’s big, jowly face looked pasty as old wax. Large breasts sagged in the pale-blue staff uniform. And her eyes—her close-set and nearly rheumy brown eyes—gave off a very clear message of disdain, or even disgust.

««—»»

“We’re getting down to the wire on that first Kirby piece, boss,” said Brice, the layout director.

Harold Tate glanced up from his desk, which was, appropriately, a mess. Newspaper editors were entitled to have cluttered desks; it was their trademark. Tate was the editor for the City Sun, and his quickened smirk showed the extent of his concern. He’d been in this business long enough to realize the unnecessity of shitting a brick every time a journalist was getting close to a deadline. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered back to Brice. “Kirby’s a pro, he’ll have his copy in on time.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

Tate smirked doubly. “If he doesn’t then I’ll put my foot so far up his ass he’ll be able to taste the dogshit I stepped in on West Street this morning. But don’t worry about it, it ain’t gonna happen. Kirby’s never missed a deadline yet.”

“That’s what I mean, boss. He’s usually a week early with each piece. If I don’t have his copy by tomorrow noon, we’re going to have to re-lay the entire section. That’s a fifteen hundred word block, plus a three-by-four picture grid. It’s not like we can fill it in with ads at the last minute.”

“Maybe we can fill it in with prints of me kicking you in the ass for bothering me with bullshit,” Tate proposed. “How many times I gotta say it? Don’t worry about Kirby; his copy’ll be in on time.”

“It’s just kind of weird—”

Tate glared. “You’re still here?”

Brice took a hesitant step forward, a lamb straying into the lion’s den. He was a worry wart but he was also a good layout man, so Tate tolerated him. The newspaper business was like any business—give and take. You want good people, you put up with their quirks. “I gave Kirby a call today,” Brice finally said.

“You have a nice little chat?”

“He hung up on me.”

Tate’s smirk quickly dulled. “What do you mean he hung up on you?”

“I was just double-checking, you know. This is the first time he hasn’t had his material in early. I thought maybe he forgot about it or something.”

“He better not have,” Tate remarked. “I’ve already paid him for half the goddamn series. What did he say?”

Brice’s eyes looked distant. “That’s the weird part, boss. He sounded hungover or something, or like I’d just woken him up. Didn’t even sound like he knew who I was.”

“All right, so he was tired. Big deal.”

“I reminded him of the deadline… ”

Tate tapped his blotter with a red pen. “And?”

“He hung up on me. Just like that.”

Tate gave this some thought. God knew he’d met his share of pretentious journalists, people whose egos were bigger than the fucking Sears Tower. But this didn’t sound like Kirby. Kirby was low key and very professional. He never caused a fuss and he didn’t make waves. And he’d never been known to be rude.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tate repeated after a pause. “Go back to the dungeon and haunt your own office. You let me worry about Kirby.”

“Just thought I’d let you know.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Brice left. Tate couldn’t figure it. Maybe the kid was exaggerating…

Tate thumbed through his Rolodex, to the Ks. kirby, paul, west wind apartments. He dialed the number and waited.

Six rings, then: “Hello?”

“Kirby, this is Tate. One of my people says you’re lollygagging on the singles piece. Is—”

“Who?” Kirby’s voice drifted. “Who is this?”

Tate ground his teeth. “Tate, you know? Harold Tate? Editor and chief of the City Fucking Sun? The guy who just paid you three bills on a series for the Weekender—”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Kirby sounded drained, barely coherent. A pause lapsed across the line. “Don’t worry, it’ll be in.”

“Well it goddamn better be, son, and if you don’t mind my saying so, you sound like shit. You—"

Click.

The line went dead.

“How do you like that son of a bitch,” Tate muttered to himself, and hung up. Fucking writers, he thought. They’re all a bunch of fucking weirdos.

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