Chapter 18
18
“So. A murder mystery dinner at the hotel. You weren’t kidding when you said you were trying to drum up reservations with creative means.”
When we step through the doorway of the ballroom, the space is clearly in transition. Black tablecloths cover half the dining tables and vases of black plastic flowers serve as centerpieces. There are even a handful of life-sized skeletons seated at the tables. A paper banner spelling out “Who Dun It?” is hanging in the doorway, but the tape has already slid off one side, leaving it hanging from the doorway like a rope.
“This whole idea seemed a lot better in my head,” Graham says, rubbing his temples. “I thought it would be a fun way to introduce a younger generation to the hotel. Now we’re down a chef and this space is… not quite fully realized.”
I head over to one of the tables, studying the place settings.
“You’re on the right track,” I say. “But you aren’t taking full advantage of the resources at your disposal.”
I pick a fork off the table and hold it up to the light. “For instance, the silver is gorgeous. Looks brand-new.”
Graham’s shoulders relax a decimal, and I can tell he’s pleased I’ve noticed.
“Yup. A lot of our stuff was really dated. New flatware gives the dining room a face-lift.”
“Definitely! But didn’t you say this is 1920s-themed? Now is the time to pull out all your antique stuff.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” he says. “I bet the basement storage room is a treasure trove.”
“See what you can grab,” I say. “Some old candelabras with half-melted candlesticks and antique serving platters will go a long way in establishing ambiance. And don’t bother dusting them off. The more cobwebs, the better.”
Graham purses his lips. “I like it. What else?”
“Lighting is key. Keep the lights as dim as possible. If you go too bright, it will destroy the sinister mood.”
Graham looks impressed. “Wow. You’re a natural at this.”
“It’s my job! Putting on themed events gives me life,” I say. “I worked in a hotel kitchen in New York and my favorite nights were when they hosted parties like this.”
“Well, it seems I’ve lucked into hiring exactly the right person. And speaking of the kitchen, let me take you back there and introduce you to everyone.”
Stepping into the Black-Eyed Susan’s kitchen feels like coming back home after a long journey. There are a handful of ways to set up a commercial kitchen, but they all have the same familiar characteristics. Gleaming silver appliances, bright overhead lights, white tiled floors. A calm sense of purpose paired with a prickle of excitement washes over me.
There are half a dozen people working diligently at various stations. When we enter, they each pause, regarding me curiously, and I’m reminded that José and I did the wedding’s menu planning alone. Graham gives them a little wave.
“Let me introduce you to the staff,” he says. He leads me around the kitchen, introducing me to the small group. There’s Alicia, the sous chef, Shanelle and Ansel, the line cooks, and Winston, the pastry chef.
“An in-house pastry chef?” I raise my eyes. “Very impressive.”
“Just part-time. But not a lot of places still have an in-house pastry chef these days,” Winston agrees. “It’s part of what makes this hotel so unique.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ali,” Alicia says kindly. “We’re grateful that you can help tonight. The Black-Eyed Susan is special to all of us.”
“This is a pretty special place,” I reply, and I mean it. Restaurant kitchens are hardly known for their warm and fuzzy atmosphere, but there’s something so homey and welcoming about the staff here that I feel like I’ve always been part of it.
“Let’s get you set up,” Alicia says. “And then we can go over the menus.”
José has done us all a favor by planning a menu that’s both delightful and relatively simple to prepare. We’ve just finished plotting out the timing of each course when Graham swings into the kitchen, carrying an armful of vintage platters.
“Grabbed these from the basement,” he says breathlessly. “Where should I put them?”
I gesture toward an unoccupied food prep station. Graham sets them down gingerly, and I step beside him to get a closer look. His spicy citrus scent is tinged with sweat, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to press my nose against the arm of his sweater.
“These are perfect,” I say, brushing my fingertips over the tarnished silver of a twin-handled serving tray. I’ve seen plenty of vintage serving pieces in the shops on 36 th Street, but there’s something extra special about these. Perhaps it’s because I know exactly how they were used and who they belonged to.
I carry one over to the sink, giving it a thorough soap and water scrub, but refrain from cleaning it with silver polish. Then I carry it over to the cold station, where Ansel has been diligently prepping the charcuterie.
I arrange the meat and cheese carefully on the tray, adding in some sapphire grapes for a creepy effect. I grab a block of Brie, and then use a knife to cut it into the shape of a coffin. I add a drizzle of fig jam to the center of a goat cheese log and stab a cheese spreader through it, giving it the effect of a bleeding stab wound. Once I’m satisfied with the final product, I take a step back, admiring my work. Then I glance over at Graham, who is staring at the board wide-eyed, his hands on his hips.
“Wow,” he says after a minute. “That looks incredible.” There’s something about the way he’s looking at me with a mix of admiration and affection that makes my limbs go soft. And God help me if I don’t find myself wishing he would look at me this way all the time. I blink, shaking the idea loose from my brain. I need to keep my head on straight when it comes to Graham. Falling for him has the potential to ruin everything.
“Putting on events is my favorite thing,” I say after a beat. “Especially when I can incorporate food into a theme. But honestly, these platters elevate the entire thing.”
Graham grins at me. “I guess we make a pretty good team.”
Alicia clears her throat and I turn my attention back to her.
“Right,” I say. “We should get back to it. Where are we with the table decor? Were you able to find any candelabras?”
By the time guests start arriving two hours later, the ballroom has been completely transformed from Grandmillennial-chic to gothic elegance. My florist contact was able to pull together some moody centerpieces consisting of burgundy ranunculus and blood-red hanging Amaranthus. The lights are dimmed, leaving the room mainly illumi nated by the flicker of black taper candles in vintage candlesticks. The waiters have set out the charcuterie trays on banquet tables lining the ballroom, and the guests, many of whom have arrived in costume, are mingling and nibbling as they gather clues.
I’ve just come out of the kitchen to check on everything when Graham approaches. He looks breathtakingly handsome in a tuxedo, his blond hair combed into a neat side part and tamed with product to complete the historically accurate look. Jay Gatsby could never.
Graham, who’s gamely playing his part, is deep in conversation as he walks alongside a guest. I overhear him saying something about a fictional affair between the household’s heiress and a maid. He nods and gives me a polite smile, but as he passes, he brushes his pinkie finger against mine. It’s the slightest of touches, completely undetectable to anyone else in the room, but it lights me up inside like a firework, sending a spark through my hand that reaches all the way down to the tips of my toes.
The rest of the evening goes smoothly, and when I come out to check on the food, I notice a familiar face sitting at one of the tables, chatting with Graham. Trudy.
I make my way over, and she smiles.
“Hey there,” she says, clasping one of my hands in hers. “Graham was just telling me that you lent a hand in making tonight such a success.”
I return her smile. “Happy I was able to help! It felt good to be back in the kitchen.”
She gives my hand a squeeze, a gesture that reminds me of my own grandmother, before turning back to her grandson.
“In fact, the night was such a success that I have some exciting news. One of tonight’s guests is a real estate developer. Tonight’s event did such a great job highlighting the hotel that he made me an offer I can’t refuse.”
The smile evaporates from Graham’s face. “What do you mean an offer you can’t refuse?”
Trudy tilts her head, regarding him curiously. “To buy the hotel, darling.”
The blood drains from Graham’s face. “You… you’re thinking of selling the hotel?”
Trudy opens her mouth, then pauses for a beat, seeming to register Graham’s look of horror. She flicks her cool gaze to me.
“Excuse us, dear. But I’d like to have a word with my grandson. In private.”
A full body flush traces up my limbs.
“Oh, of course.” Turning on my heel, I hurry toward the kitchen.
As soon as I push through the double doors, I grasp onto the cool metal of the prep table, taking in a deep breath. I need to relax, pull it together. Staying cool under pressure has always been one of my strengths. It’s what’s made me so good at working in kitchens over the years. But the pained look on Graham’s face feels like a loose thread, threatening to unravel me. I close my eyes and inhale deeply.
A warm hand presses lightly into my shoulder. Turning, I see Alicia’s concerned face.
“Everything okay?” she asks. I make a hasty attempt to rearrange my features. When I worked in New York kitchens, I was just another member of the line. But tonight, I’m a leader, and I have a responsibility to hold it together and guide the rest of the staff through the evening smoothly.
“Close call with the blood punch fountain,” I say, forcing a smile on my face. “I just need to be more careful, or there will be a second murder victim tonight.”
Alicia’s lips quirk. “Mr. Wyler’s bark is worse than his bite. Besides, I expect he’ll be trying his hardest to avoid jail time before his wedding.”
The smile on my face freezes. The wedding. The hotel. My heart twists with sympathy as I imagine the conversation Graham and Trudy must be having. Poor Graham. He’s worked so hard to keep everything afloat for the people he loves, and it’s all about to come crashing down.
I do my best to hurry through cleanup, but by the time we’ve finished packing up the kitchen, it’s after ten. When I return to the dining room, it’s empty, save for a long figure seated at a table in the back. Graham.
He’s staring morosely into a glass of dark red wine, as though it holds the answers to the mysteries of the universe. There’s an abandoned white boa draped across the table in front of him, and a few rogue feathers scattered on the floor by his feet.
I slide into the chair next to him, brushing aside a few crumbs left behind from the German chocolate cake that was served for dessert.
“Let me guess,” I venture. “It was death by bathtub gin, and the killer got away with it?”
One corner of Graham’s mouth twitches but he doesn’t look up.
“It was Velma, the jaded ex-girlfriend, actually.”
“Well, you know what they say. Hell hath no fury like a fictional woman scorned.”
Graham breathes out a soft laugh, and I put one hand over his.
“Talk to me, Graham.”
At last, he lifts his gaze to look at me. His eyes are red behind his glasses, and I know it’s from more than just exhaustion. The weight of everything he’s carrying is etched into his handsome features.
“I had no idea that Granny was considering selling. When I offered to come back here and help get the hotel back on its feet, she agreed to it readily. I thought she had more faith in me. That she believed I could fix things.”
“Of course she has faith in you,” I reassure him. “She loves you.”
Graham’s smile is sad. “That’s just what she said. That she loves me and that she loved getting to spend extra time with me over the past few months. But she also said one must always have a backup plan. Something to fall back on if business doesn’t pick up after the wedding. Apparently she’s been interviewing potential buyers for months.”
He drags a hand through his hair.
“It’s actually a pretty common practice, what this buyer’s offering. Purchasing old hotels to repurpose them as condos. Especially in a city with so much need for affordable housing. And he is offering Granny a very generous amount of money. It would allow her to retire comfortably. Most importantly, she can leave on her own terms. ‘Preserve the legacy of the hotel,’ as she put it.”
Graham blows out a frustrated sigh.
“I just wish she saw things the way that I do,” he says emphatically. “Our legacy is the hotel. How can she just give it all up? What about everything our family built together? I can’t imagine that if Grandpa were alive, he would hand over the hotel so readily. Who even knows if this bloke’s honest about his intentions? What if he just goes ahead and demolishes it?”
I watch as his shoulders tighten, the tension practically radiating off him as his hands ball into fists. I ache to lean forward and put my hand on his arm, to relieve some of his stress by absorbing it into my own body. But I can’t risk it, not when there’s still staff cleaning up around us.
I settle for dragging my chair and inch closer to him.
“I know this hurts,” I tell him. “But she was always going to retire eventually. At some point, she was going to have to walk away.”
Graham nods glumly. “That’s exactly what she said. Now that Grandpa has passed, she’s ready to move on to the next phase of her life. I understand where she’s coming from. The ideal opportunity has just presented itself. She’d be a fool not to take it.”
His forehead furrows. “And as she reminded me, she doesn’t have anyone to pass the hotel on to. Mum has made it clear that she doesn’t plan on returning from London, and as she pointed out, Claire and I will be returning to New York after the wedding.”
Fuck the onlookers. I reach forward and give his forearm a squeeze.
“I’m sick to the stomach at the thought of losing the hotel,” he continues glumly. “I had a great childhood in London, but I lived for the summers I spent here. My mother did her best, she really did. But she was a single mom, and I was on my own a lot of the time. When I came here for the summers, I was the center of my grandparents’ world. We had family dinners and went to the movies and spent weekends collecting seashells at the beach. But I think my favorite days were the ones spent at the hotel. I loved seeing every part of it: how the kitchen worked, the bookings, the events. Even how the maid service cleaned the rooms. The thought of it all disappearing—it would be like a death in the family.”
The sorrow in his voice tugs at my chest. I take a fortifying breath before addressing the elephant in the room.
“Have you ever thought of taking it over yourself?”
Graham tips his head back and studies the intricately tiled ceiling.
“Of course I have. I care about this place so much. But passion can only take you so far. At the end of the day, I don’t have a clue how to manage a hotel. And if my mismanagement was ultimately what drove it into the ground, I don’t know how I’d live with the guilt. I can’t bear the thought of destroying everything my family built.”
He cast his eyes back down to his lap. “They did so much for me, Ali. They paid for my education. It was because of them that I was able to go to the best secondary schools, to go on to university and pursue a career. And what for? It’s all worthless in the end. I couldn’t do the same what they did for me. I couldn’t pay it forward and save the hotel.”
Graham drops his head, burying his face in his hands. I reach forward to stroke his head, brushing my fingers gently through the golden strands of his hair.
“You are allowed to accept love without feeling like it’s a debt that needs to be repaid. Your grandparents didn’t spend time with you or put you through school because they expected anything in return. They did it because they love you. You need to let go of this guilt. Loving them in return… it’s enough.”
Graham lifts his head to look at me, the wrinkle of tension in his forehead smoothing as he places one hand over mine. “You’re quite an expert on love.”
“Well, I am in the business of romance. And you know what they say. Those who can’t do, teach.”
He affords me a tiny smile, and the barriers safeguarding my heart crack open a fraction. I used to be such a romantic. In love with the idea of being in love, undeterred by my plethora of tragic dating experiences. But then I did find love. And it nearly broke me.
I thought Dev was it. He was the classic nice guy: a first-grade teacher who referred to his students as “my kids” and plastered his fridge with their brightly colored artwork. On the weekends, he volunteered at an animal shelter, ultimately adopting a three-legged dog named Trident. To me, he was perfect. But to him, I was absent. He didn’t understand the lack of work-life balance chefs face, or why I was never around to go to trivia nights with his work friends. Dev saw me as insufficient, and for the first time in my life, I saw myself the same way. Because if a man who takes his class lizard home every weekend so it won’t feel lonely can’t love me, who would?
Graham’s smile fades a decimal. There’s so much more that needs to be said, but tonight is not the night. Not when the prospect of losing such a large part of his childhood has left him looking this dejected.
He’s quiet for a long moment as he traces a fingertip around the rim of his wine glass, and an invisible hand squeezes my heart. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, to say the least, and one I don’t particularly care for. I’ve never been especially gifted at knowing the right thing to say when people are hurting. But what I do know is how to have fun.
“Well, that’s quite enough moping for one night,” I say, rising to stand. I lace my fingers through his and drag him upward. “We’re going out.”
“Out?” Graham raises his eyebrows. “Out where? It’s after ten.”
“Admittedly our options are somewhat more limited than they would be in New York. Luckily for you, I know just the place.”