12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
D eclan
The next day, I step out of the limo and head towards the hotel lobby.
The sliding doors open and close behind me, blocking out the shuffle and din of the streets. That’s the thing about being back in the city… how noisy it is. And the smell. I thought I was used to it, having lived most of my adult life here at this point. But being away for a few days, it does take some adjusting to car horns, the sirens, and the industrial odor that colors the atmosphere.
A slow, light classical music takes its place when I step through the doors though, leading to the exquisite ballroom at the side of the lobby.
But that’s not my destination. Instead, I follow the line of crystal chandeliers above. They cast an orange light over the beige-and-violet mid-century modern furniture to the other side of the lobby.
Feet above my head, on the roof of the lobby, is an exquisite kaleidoscope of colors, a glass painting that is reminiscent of the Sistine Chapel. It's from that art piece that the hotel got its name, boldly embossed on the white walls.
The Vatican.
The Vatican hotel is one of my father’s first purchases. It’s his pride and joy and even though the design is quite dated, he still maintains a penthouse on the topmost floor, where he spends his time whenever he's in the city. Instead of an office, he prefers to hold many of his business meetings in the conference room, which is on the third floor next to the elevator.
A few seconds later, I walk into that room just as a waitress is delivering my father a glass of wine. Chardonnay most likely, as that’s his favorite. He smiles warmly at her, and she blushes.
Even at nearly seventy years old, my father, with his large physique and cool blue eyes, has a devastating effect on women. He likes to flirt occasionally too but he never remarried after his first divorce.
"Dad."
Both my father and the waitress turn at the sound of my voice. She squeaks and the tray nearly slips from her hand as her eyes meet mine. She catches it at the last minute, the bottle of Chardonnay wobbling from the struggle.
My father easily palms the bottle, steadying it.
I raise my eyebrow at the scene. The heat in the waitress's face grows as she mumbles an apology and then scurries out.
My dad shoots me a disapproving look.
"What?" I ask as I take the seat beside him.
"Did you have to do that?"
"Do what?"
"Glare at her so menacingly."
"I wasn’t aware I was glaring."
"Well, you were. You do it without even thinking sometimes. You know men like us with RAF have to be careful."
"RAF?"
He nods. "Amelia calls it resting asshole face."
I give him a disapproving look. "I wish you wouldn't swear around my daughter."
"She's the one who said it, not me. I think she heard it from her mother."
"Right." I make a mental note to talk to Rachel about the swearing, but I'm ready to switch the topic, eager to get back to business and then get back to...Well, I’m not entirely sure what I want to get back to but it’s not here.
Thinking about Amelia again automatically reminds me of Emma's parting words.
There's a big difference between protecting someone and controlling them. Or respecting someone and fearing them.
I don’t want to think of how long I've been mulling that over in my head. But it bugs me.
What bugs me even more is that she might be right.
With all the restrictions I place on Amelia, my daughter might eventually come to fear me.
"You used to be a lot more charming, you know." My father’s comments take me out of my thoughts. "The women used to love you."
"Did you come here to reminisce, or did we come here to talk business?"
His eyebrows furrow sternly but also, something almost sad passes in his gaze.
"I’m just worried about you," he says. "There’s more to life than business, you know."
I nearly laugh. That’s ironic coming from a man who until recently never took a day off in his life.
"I know I’m probably the wrong messenger to tell you that," My dad says wryly as though he can read my thoughts. "But then again, I just might be the perfect person. Take it from a man who made all the same mistakes you’re making. When you get older, you'll understand what a huge waste it was."
"I appreciate what you’re saying Dad, but I didn’t come here for a psychotherapy session. Also, I’ll need to leave in a few minutes for my meeting with the Goldsteins. I just came to give you an update on the hotel you’re so eager to renovate."
My dad's lips press together. He doesn’t look like he wants to let the previous topic go, but eventually, he nods. "And? What about the Pink Hotel?"
"I'm working on getting a quote for the renovations," I say. "Yesterday, I met with a construction team that also handles small demolitions in Laketown. One of the guys there had intimate knowledge of the hotel. Apparently, his great-grandfather was one of the people who helped build it and he has some of the original plans lying around. Anyway, he's the guy working on the quote, but from my best estimation, it’s going to be expensive as hell to renovate it. I’m talking upwards of twelve million."
My dad curses and runs his hand through his hair. His frown deepens. Clearly, this wasn't part of his plan, and his resolve to renovate the hotel now seems shaky.
I wonder if he’s finally doubting himself, kicking his own ass for buying the hotel. I get a tiny bit of vindictive satisfaction from that. I almost don’t add this last part, for that reason alone, but I decide to forge on anyway. "But there is a cheaper, or at least better, way to go about it."
"Meaning?"
"Renovation is so expensive because we’re trying to hold on to the ancient design and relics of the place. Plastering the walls and fortifying what is essentially moth-eaten wood is costly. Not to mention the price of cleaning the chandeliers and remounting antique pieces, the paintings...the furniture... A few of them would have to be sent away out of state for work to be done on them. And that's not to mention the damn floors."
I don’t continue, seeing that I’ve made my point. "Anyway, all those things make for a very complicated renovation. For all fifty rooms, the renovation is going to cost a ridiculous amount. But it won’t be like that if we were to simply bulldoze the property and build something smaller from the ground up."
"You mean get rid of everything?" My father's eyes widen like it's a horrifying thought.
"Regardless of what option we choose, there's going to be a major structural change anyway. There may be cracks in the foundation and an entire back wall is completely gone. I would certainly hope for a design change too.
“Landing likes modern, exclusive-looking getaways and this looks like anything but. The new design can give off that Old-boy lodge minimalism that's all the rage these days. Market it as a forest retreat for his rich country club friends, with a beautiful lakeside view.
“A bed and breakfast for the elites. Open a gourmet restaurant on the first floor, so they don’t have to deal with the pisspoor beer and burgers." I smile at the memory, but Dad doesn’t notice. He’s scratching his chin in thought, but his eyebrows are still furrowed.
"I don’t know," he says. "Part of the appeal and the charm of the hotel is in its historic nature. Getting rid of that…"
"I think it already lost its historic appeal," I say firmly. "There are no Pink Pearls or Rainbow Pearls there anymore. I’m not even sure they exist."
"Oh they exist," he says. "There's too many first-hand accounts to doubt it."
"Fine." I don't feel like arguing with my dad about just how unreliable first-hand accounts can be. "But they certainly aren't around anymore so at this point, they might as well be a myth. Landing and his friends are probably too old to believe in fairy tales anyway, but we can still sell the rumor of the robbery. It's a fascinating tale, true or not. We'll make an entire room dedicated to telling the story and maybe keep some of the most treasured artwork there."
My dad's eyes light up. "I like that idea."
"Thought you might," I say.
"Let's table that while we both think about it." He takes a sip of his chardonnay. "On the other hand, how’s my granddaughter?"
"She’s doing fine. She's with her mother in Paris as we speak. She sent me a message right as she landed."
"Ah. Paris is lovely this time of year."
"She didn't want to go," I admit. "She wanted to stay in Laketown."
"Really?"
"Yeah. She's determined to find a Rainbow Pearl before she leaves. She's obsessed with them, all thanks to that book you got her. She’s also obsessed with the mystery of the missing Pink Pearl and is determined to be the one who cracks it."
"There she goes. Our little detective." My father chuckles but before he can say anymore, there's a knock from the door behind us.
We turn around and a tall, familiar-looking man leans on the doorway in his suit. Red hair is curled wildly over mischievous green eyes that glint as he grins at us.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says. "But they told me I could find you gentleman here."
"Of course. Marcus." I meet my father's gaze as he continues. "You know Landing's son, Marcus, don’t you?"
"Not sure," I murmur, although he looks familiar. And then, as he walks up to us and I catch a whiff of his Dior Sauvage, I place him suddenly. Images flash in my mind of a charity gala, during which my daughter and I walked up on him pressed against a waitress in the hallway with his hand up her skirt.
Displeasure immediately skitters under my skin.
I managed to block Amelia from seeing most of what was going on at the time, but it didn't stop her from asking questions on the way home.
I've wanted to punch the guy out ever since.
And the bastard has the nerve to smile at me now. "Yes, we’ve met a few times. Although, I wish it were under much better circumstances. I'm Marcus Landing by the way."
He extends his hand, and I only spare it a look before I rise, studiously ignoring his extended hand.
"I need to leave now," I tell my dad. "Or I'll be late for my meeting."
My dad frowns, but I'm too old for his displeasure to move me anymore. I leave with his protests at my back.
It's dark after the flight and an hour's drive back to Laketown.
I'm exhausted, but I don't go back to the hotel I've called home for the past week.
Instead, I drive a few minutes away from the hotel to a little cottage by the lake.
I tell myself I'm only coming to make amends. I don't like how we left things, the weird tension that was between us. I don't like that Emma thinks I called her a child.
And also, I just want to see her.
When I get to the cottage, I knock on the door but there's no answer. I say her name but there’s no response. Twisting the handle reveals that the door is open, and I walk in, deciding to surprise her. The sound of shallow breathing leads me forword, and just as I turn the corner, I find her.
She's standing, wide-eyed.
Wearing nothing but a towel.