An Irresistible Temptation (10 page)

“Many do,” the girl said, then smiled. “Are
you new to the city?”

“A week, so far.”

“Carling.” The girl spun around as a man
approached, also in uniform. “Room 4008 has a question about The
Oakdale.” He sighed and his nostrils flared, as if with distaste
over the establishment in question. “Go tell them it isn’t nearly
as nice as our bar. But if they must go, we’ll provide them
transport.”

And the tall young man with his slicked down
black hair and patrician good looks was off without a glance at
Sophie.

Carling turned to Sophie with a raised
eyebrow and half a smile. Then they both laughed. “Sorry about
Egbert. He was a bit rude. He runs the reception and the help
staff, and he knows every single guest at any given moment, so he
knew you weren’t staying here.”

“Yet,” Sophie offered. “I mean, perhaps I
was
thinking about it, and he’s put me off.”

“And
are
you thinking about it?”

“No,” Sophie admitted and they laughed again.
“I’ve a room on Green Street.”

“Oh, I’m on Russian Hill, too, on Lincoln.
That’s the next street up. Kind of cat-a-corner to yours.”

“Carling,” she heard Egbert’s voice
again.

“I’ve got to get on with it. What’s your
house number? I’ll find you later.

“1039, and my name’s Sophie,” she called
after the girl whom she hoped would become her new friend.

*****

“So you didn’t even tell him goodbye,”
Carling said, shaking her head in wonder. “Good God!”

Sophie shrugged and poured another cup of
tea. They sat at Carling’s table in her small flat on Lincoln Lane,
in a white stucco building that seemed to have sprung up in an
alley overgrown with trees and plants and accessible only by a
cobblestoned walkway. Sophie had jumped at the invitation when
Carling had come knocking at her door the day before. Another day
had passed and she was unsure how to continue in her job
pursuit.

Carling was more interested in other aspects
of Sophie’s life.

“Still,” she said, with a jaunty wave of her
hand, “you did good to get away as you did. No harm, so to speak.
Not used and sent packing.”

Sophie agreed, though at the time, she hadn’t
felt used by Riley; rather she had been a willing and equal
participant. But Carling was right that she’d had to get away. The
path they were on was clear to Sophie. And being someone’s mistress
was not exactly her heart’s dream.

“I’ll go mad,” Sophie said, “if I can’t touch
a piano soon.”

Carling, who had been working at The Palace
for two years, seemed to know everyone and everything that went on
in the heart of the city, but she was in no way connected to the
classical music enthusiasts.

“Hey,” she said, thumping her forehead with
her palm. “Have you tried The Grand?”

Sophie furrowed her brow, “A grand
piano?”

“No, silly. The Grand Hotel. You know, the
gingerbread structure, next door to The Palace.”

“I saw it,” Sophie said. “But what would I do
there?”

“They’ve got a lovely bar. My fellow—well,
when he
was
my fellow, before he caught sight of my
landlady’s daughter, that cheating cur,” she paused, rolling her
eyes. “Anyway, he took me there once. They’ve got a lovely piano
and all. I know it’s not the opera house, but you could at least
play and maybe they’d pay you. Just get on with it.”

Sophie tapped her chin. It was worth a try.
The next day, she wandered into The Grand Hotel, which sat on the
corner, like a squat, showy, even gaudy aunt compared to The Palace
next door.

At ten in the morning, the bar was empty. It
was also quite lovely, Sophie thought, even more so when she espied
the piano, which, as luck would have it, was a beautifully carved,
square grand, in the dark corner of the room. She was drawn to it
like a moth to the flame. Without asking, she sat on the stool.
Taking a deep breath, she started to play, and it was like sinking
into a comforting, warm bath. The sounds were rich and full and
true—someone had tuned it recently, it seemed. And then she let
herself drift into the music with no other thoughts at all.

“Hey there!”

She jumped, brought out of her Chopin reverie
by a loud but friendly voice. However, she didn’t get up—she
couldn’t bear to take her fingers from the keys. She looked at the
man who appeared at her side, wearing a sharp-looking suit.

“Well, don’t stop,” he said, leaning on the
piano. “Obviously, you know what you’re doing.”

Sophie nodded.
Yes, at least here, with
these 85 keys, she did
.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“That’s all right. Stay as long as you like,
until eleven that is,” he winked at her. “Then this place’ll start
to fill up. Say, what’s your name?”

“Miss Malloy. Sophie Malloy.”

He leaned closer and she could tell
immediately that he was interested in her person. That was nothing
new. And her feeling nothing in return, that wasn’t new either.

“I’m Freddie Vern. I manage the bar and the
dining room.”

She smiled. She was sure that was an
important job, particularly by the way he said it with pride.

“How wonderful for you,” Sophie said. He
seemed pleased with that response. Should she ask him if he wanted
a pianist? She knew what Carling would say.
Get on with it.
So she did.

“Your piano looks a little dusty.”

He nodded. “We haven’t had a player for a
while. And I’m not certain it matters, profit-wise.”

“Maybe you didn’t have the right . . .
player.” She preferred the word
pianist
but she could
certainly adapt.

“Come to think of it, the last one was ugly,
short, and bald. And played like he was using his feet. Didn’t
exactly draw a crowd.” Now his flirting was unmistakable as he
rested his hand on his chin and gazed at her openly. “Any
suggestions, Miss Malloy?”

“Well, I do believe I know a talented pianist
who is neither short, nor bald.”

“And definitely not ugly,” he added, treating
her to another wink.

“Thank you, Mr. Vern.”

“Please, call me Freddie. And would this
talented player be interested in our humble establishment?”

“For the right remuneration. Yes, she
would.”

He chuckled. “Why don’t you come to my office
and we’ll talk more. I have a feeling you could charm my customers
into staying for a few more drinks.”

“In such a lovely hotel as The Grand,” Sophie
said, standing up to find she was looking at him eye to eye, “why
wouldn’t they?”

*****

Dear Charlotte and dearest brother, Reed,
for I know you share everything including my letters,

I will write separately to Mama. I have
found employment playing the piano for a fine establishment. While
not a professional symphony or opera house, as I’d hoped, it is a
revered institution, with well-behaved, upstanding patrons. They
are also generous tippers.

She crossed the last line out as it sounded
crass, though she’d been particularly pleased at the end of her
first evening to discover that the jar Freddie had set out for her
was stuffed full of bills. The pay was poor but now, as the days
had turned to weeks, she understood that she could, in fact, pay
for her room and all her monthly necessities on the wages plus the
tips, if she were careful with her money. Still, she saw no reason
to let her brother, a distinguished Boston attorney, know that his
sister was working in a bar.

She sighed and grabbed another piece of
stationary to begin again, but her mind drifted off, as it did
often to Riley. It had been weeks since she’d seen him, going on
two months now, but she hadn’t forgotten a thing about how he
looked . . . or how he tasted or his warm vanilla scent. More
importantly, she hadn’t forgotten how he made her feel.

Freddie Vern had tried on more than one
occasion to get her to agree to a dinner or even a walk. She had
turned him down as kindly as she could. She didn’t feel any spark,
and she simply didn’t have the patience to pretend.

Letter finished and mailed, she stopped in to
see Carling at The Palace. Sophie could usually find her positioned
near Egbert Hull’s concierge station in the large room they called
the “office.” Here a host of attachés worked, all dark-skinned men
from the east, hired specifically by The Palace and whose one job
was to make guests supremely happy. Among the attachés, Carling was
the sole female. She wore the same jacket as the rest of them,
though she had a matching skirt instead of the crisp, pressed
trousers of the men.

Many of the guests preferred having the
lively young woman help them out with sightseeing or dining
information.

“It’s understandable, isn’t it?” Carling
speculated one evening over a glass of wine at one of the hotels’
bars. “Anyone’s gonna prefer me to humorless Egbert and the rest of
his gnarly staff, especially now, when we’ve got more single women
travelling than ever before.”

Sophie could tell that Carling actually liked
Egbert immensely by the way she talked about him incessantly.

“Aw, he’s not so bad,” Carling admitted one
evening, “not when you get to know him.”

“He seems to be a hard worker,” Sophie put
in.

“Yeah, but a bit prissy,” Carling said, “and
he seems to think he’s better than most.”

“Maybe he thinks his job is a bit beneath
him. Didn’t you say he’d been to university?”

Sophie knew her mother and brother would be
mortified that she’d been to the finest music schools in Boston and
Europe and was playing piano for tips.

“He is awfully smart,” Carling agreed.
“Sometimes, if we get a quiet moment, I bring him a cup of tea and
we talk. He knows a lot about a lot, and he doesn’t seem to mind
when I ask him questions.”

“Maybe you could find out if he has
aspirations for something more,” Sophie suggested.

“Well, I might,” Carling said, and Sophie
thought maybe her friend didn’t know the word
aspirations
,
but then she added, “I’m happy with my job, though, and having him
working here, too. If he followed his dreams or what have you, I
might never see him again.”

Sophie smiled at the wistful statement. She’d
been right about Carling’s feelings for Mr. Hull. She wasn’t going
to interfere, but she did think it would be a shame if Egbert liked
Carling, too, and didn’t declare for her.

“Maybe you could ask him to join us for one
of our get-togethers.”

Carling looked gobsmacked. “What? Ask Egbert
to have a drink with us? Are you mad?”

Sophie laughed at her expression. “Think on
it. It might be fun. Anyway, dear, I’ll see you later.” She left
with one backward glance to Carling that showed the girl was musing
on the idea at any rate.

She walked along the single block that
separated The Palace from The Grand. There was talk of a bridge to
connect the second floors of each hotel. Sophie hoped they did it.
She decided it would not only look very sophisticated but people
could cross from one to the other without getting damp, which she
was starting to do because of the heavy fog that day. She ducked
into the bar, hurriedly hung up her coat and hat in the closet
Freddie had shown her for staff belongings and approached the
bartender.

“Please, Percy, may I have a glass of
water?”

He didn’t guffaw at her, after the first
time. Now, he just accepted her strange ways. “Water,” he chuckled.
“Here you go, Miss Malloy. It’s a good strong one.” And he set the
glass on the bar before giving his moustache a twirl on either
side.

She sat down at the piano and took a sip then
placed her glass up on the piano on the opposite side from her tip
jar. She couldn’t explain to anyone that it was truly hard work,
playing for hours, especially as she played “real” music, not that
saloon stuff that she’d heard coming out of Ada’s in Spring City or
any number of drinking establishments in San Francisco.

Sophie played classical music and the
customers loved it. Some had heard about her and started to come to
hear her play. Freddie told her of the compliments he’d received on
her behalf. And she was bemused to receive applause after each
song, proving that the people in the bar were actually listening
and not ignoring her as background noise. All in all, she was quite
satisfied with her audience over the past few weeks.

She stretched her fingers out and curled them
in a few times. And then she considered what she felt like playing.
At some point, she knew she would have to avail herself of some
sheet music. She’d only memorized so much, and even then, sometimes
she cut a long piece short or threw in one of her own works. No one
minded or noticed.

Something lively today, she decided.
Something
vivacissimo.
She began a Scarlatti sonata and let
everything fall away. Nothing penetrated her musical castle as
she’d come to think of it. As she played, she built it up, note by
note, stone by stone. She’d first used it to keep the heartbreak
over Phillip at bay, and now it kept the loneliness and the longing
for Riley waiting outside the drawbridge until her final piece each
night.

Occasionally, she would smile and nod her
thanks, as a patron came forward to put money in the jar, though
she never spoke while playing and rarely heard the noise around
her. But out of the blue, she heard Riley’s voice; it entirely
breached her musical fortress, and her fingers faltered as she
looked up to see him, dressed for the city.

Blocking Sophie’s clear view of him, Eliza
stood, poised at the entrance. Whatever he’d said to her, Eliza now
turned to answer before she scanned the room and locked eyes with
Sophie’s horrified gaze.
Why hadn’t she put her head down?
But Eliza looked right through, and, except for the briefest of
hesitations in her glance, apparently pretended not to see her. She
murmured something to Riley and they left the bar.