Do Not Disturb (67 page)

At least Karis had made a token effort to be welcoming. Devon, on the other hand, made a great show of bear-hugging Lola before stiffly offering Marti his hand as if he were greeting the guy sent to unblock the drains. After that he’d disappeared off to his study for the rest of the evening, not to be seen again until the following morning.

After four days spent climbing the walls in the house, the last thing Marti felt like was tonight’s ludicrously formal at-home dinner.

“Did you happen to see tonight’s menu?” he asked, as Lola finished with his tie and smoothed down the lapels of his gleaming new tux. “It wasn’t Grilled Jew, by any chance?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said firmly. “You’ll be fine.”

“Can I please not sit next to Nick?” asked Marti, feebly. Lola’s brother had turned out to be even more obnoxiously arrogant and dull than she’d described him, which was quite a feat. The way he talked about his business, anyone would have thought he was Warren Buffett, yet it was painfully obvious that the only reason he was here was to screw some more money out of his poor, tapped-out parents.

“Not my call,” said Lola. “Mom’ll seat us.” Flinging her arms around his neck, she gave him a long, lingering kiss.

“What was that for?” he asked, smiling. She looked more beautiful than ever tonight in an empire-line blue chiffon dress, with her glorious red hair flowing long and loose over her shoulders. Like a Pre-Raphaelite goddess.

“For being here,” she said. “I know they’re difficult. But they’re my family. And so are you now.”

Incredibly touched, he pulled her closer. “I love you,” he said. “But if they sit me next to your brother, I can’t promise not to strangle him.”

“Oh, please,” laughed Lola. “Don’t hold back on my account. I’ll bring the rope if you like.”

Dinner was predictably horrible.

“So,” said Devon, swirling the burgundy around his glass and sniffing appreciatively at the deep-purple whirlpool he’d created, “tell us a little more about yourself, Martin.”

“It’s Marti, Dad,” said Lola, through clenched teeth. “No one calls him Martin. And you know all about him. He’s an Internet entrepreneur, and he’s brilliant.” She beamed across the table loyally.

Marti smiled sheepishly back. “I wouldn’t say brilliant exactly,” he mumbled. “Well, maybe I would.”

Devon didn’t laugh.

Miserable douchebag. He was a classic closet anti-Semite, Marti had decided. Loads of Jewish clients, even Jewish friends, staunchly pro-Israel. But to have his daughter marry a Jew? Forget it. He’d rather die.

“Online business, it’s a tough game,” piped up Nick self-importantly from across the table. “Of course, I was lucky. I got in in ninety-eight. First-mover advantage. But guys like you, coming late to the party?” He shook his head knowingly. “Not easy. Not easy.”

“You got in in ninety-eight?” Marti looked baffled. “Weren’t you in, like, ninth grade in ninety-eight?”

Nick’s model-perfect features clouded over with irritation. “I was young,” he admitted. “But then I’ve never been a time-server.” He waved his hand airily to indicate his devil-may-care entrepreneurial credentials. “Very few of the big guys are. Trump. Branson. Gates. None of them went to college. It’s all about starting young.”

“Did you compare yourself to Donald Trump?” Lola sniggered, choking on her wine.

“Yeah,” said Nick aggressively. “So?”

“I’m pretty sure Bill Gates went to college,” said Marti.

“Did not too,” said Nick.

Nice comeback. Maybe he was still in ninth grade?

“Well,” said Marti, deciding to be the bigger man and take the high road. It’d be too easy to shoot Nick down, and it was unlikely to win him many points with the parents. If the looks on their faces were anything to go by, Mr. and Mrs. Frosty McFreeze didn’t need another reason to hate him right now. “I’ve nothing against people not going to university, or starting work young. Your sister’s business has been incredibly successful already.” Lola smiled at him gratefully. “But I guess I am what you would call a time-server. I had a wonderful time in college.”

“Where did you attend?” asked Karis.

“Wharton,” said Marti. “My grandfather came from Pennsylvania. He worked the mills in Pittsburgh. His side of the family always had this big thing about Wharton.”

“Pittsburgh?” said Karis. “Did your people know the Mellons?”

“Er, no,” laughed Marti. “I don’t believe their paths ever crossed.”

“His grandfather worked in the mills, Mom,” said Lola, crossly. “Didn’t you hear that part?”

“And what do your
own
parents do?” asked Devon. “Are they educated?”

“
Dad!
” Lola looked suitably horrified. “You can’t ask people questions like that!”

“It’s all right,” said Marti, determined to keep his temper. Devon was a petty-minded snob, but he was here for Lola, not anyone else. “No, they aren’t educated, not beyond high school, anyway. My mom’s a part-time nurse at the old people’s home down the street. And my dad runs a kosher deli. We’re not kosher ourselves,” he added, “but it’s a good business. He used to run a hardware store, but then they opened a Home Depot four blocks away and wiped us out.”

“A
Home Depot
?” said Karis, turning the words over as she spoke, as if examining a rare stone. “How fascinating.”

Clearly, ordinary people with ordinary jobs were completely outside her frame of reference. With two such out-of-touch parents and a megalomaniacal fantasist for a brother, it was a miracle Lola had turned out so normal.

Somehow Marti made it to dessert—a sinfully creamy tiramisu—without losing his cool, and at last the general conversation changed tack.

“This party at the Herrick should be fun,” said Nick, helping himself to a second slab of dessert and greedily cramming a spoonful into his mouth. “From what I hear, that Russki chick’s really pulled out all the stops. Alex Loeb said the Clintons are gonna be there.”

The Herrick party, less than three weeks away now, was the talk of the town.

“Good for them,” said Devon, without looking up. “However, we won’t be going.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Nick. “I’m going. Gisele Bündchen’s on the guest list, along with half the Brazilian Elite girls. I’m not missing that for anyone.”

“Yeah, right. Like you have a chance with them,” muttered Lola.

“Enough!” roared Devon, losing his temper and banging his fist down on the table so hard the crystalware shuddered. “None of us is going and that’s final. We’re here to enjoy a quiet family summer together, not go running around town chasing after floozies.”

“You’d know all about that,” muttered Nick under his breath. Unfortunately he wasn’t quite quiet enough.

“What did you just say?” Devon’s voice had dropped to its normal level again, but his lips had gone white with rage.

“Darling, leave it,” whispered Karis. “Please.”

Marti shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was going to get ugly. Nick pushed back his chair and got defiantly to his feet. “I’m sick of being stuck in this house, creeping around like a criminal because you two are running scared of Honor stupid Palmer.”

“Nicky!” hissed Karis, on the verge of hysterics. “Do not say that name in this house. Ever.”

Lola reached across the table and squeezed her mother’s hand, but Karis seemed not to notice. Meanwhile Devon’s face had gone from white through every shade to purple and was now, Marti noticed, roughly the color of a baboon’s backside.

“Get out!” he yelled at Nick. “I mean it, Nicholas. Get out of this house, before I throw you out.”

“Fine,” said Nick, kicking his chair to the floor as he stormed off, slamming the dining room door behind him.

For a few precious moments silence fell. Then Devon looked up and smiled around the table as if nothing had happened.

“Would you like some coffee, my dear?” he asked Karis.

“Yes,” she said, a little nervously. “I think so. Why not? As long as it’s decaf. Lola darling? Will you and Martin be having any?”

Half an hour later, up in their bedroom, Marti undid his tie with relief.

“Was it just me? Or was that like something out of
The Stepford Wives
? Your mom was smiling so hard she looked like her jaw might go into spasm.”

“I know,” said Lola, unzipping her dress and kicking off her gold stiletto shoes.

“How can they live like that, in such a constant state of denial? I’ve never seen two people more repressed.”

“I did warn you we weren’t exactly the Waltons,” said Lola ruefully. “Look on the bright side. At least Nick’s taken off.”

“Not for long, I bet,” said Marti. “Your dad hasn’t written him a check yet, and isn’t likely to if he doesn’t stick around to eat some humble pie. Something tells me he won’t be going to that party at the Herrick either.”

“Poor Gisele’ll be sooo disappointed,” giggled Lola.

Crawling under the covers together, they soon fell asleep, content as always just to lie in each other’s arms.

At eleven the next morning, Honor sat at a table in the newly finished Palmers’ dining room, sampling some mouthwateringly delicious roast monkfish.

“What do you think?”

“Fantastic,” said Don Bradford, her saintly accountant whose own mouth was still full of the succulent, juicy fish. “Fucking amazing, if you want the truth.”

Don had been brilliant this year, guiding her gently through the minefield of IRS demands and escalating interest payments that had become her life since the rebuild, never complaining
when his bills were settled months after they were due. It was so rare to find someone kind and decent in the financial world. Honor had been hugely touched by his generosity and was always looking for ways to repay it. Knowing he was a paid-up foodie, she’d invited him along this morning to help her choose one of three Michelin-starred chefs to run the new Palmers’ restaurant. He was clearly having a whale of a time.

“You know, the food is great,” he said, dispatching the last of the monkfish parcels. “Truly, outstanding. But don’t you think it might be a little rich for some people, with all the cream and garlic and drizzled balsamic jus?”

Honor laughed. The menus were a little pretentious.

“Have you considered trying something simpler? I know an awesome Mexican chef in the city who might consider a move.” Honor laughed. He was joking, wasn’t he?

“No offense, Don. But when people pay a thousand bucks a night for a room they expect a little bit more than enchiladas, guacamole, and a bucket of refried beans for dinner.”

“They wouldn’t if they’d tried Tito’s food,” said Don, affably. Looking around the dining room, with its dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows and limed oak floor, Honor felt her chest swell with pride. Her financial worries were far from over, but after so many months of hard work and sleepless nights, she was finally getting to the fun part: finalizing the soft furnishings, arranging contracts with florists, hunting around local antique markets for the perfect grand piano for the cocktail bar. She remembered, the Christmas before her mom died, Santa had brought her a beautiful handcrafted dollhouse in the style of a French chateau. For years afterward, she’d spent every cent of her pocket money buying furniture for it. Her favorite piece was a tiny working replica of a chandelier, which attached with red wires to a switch on the back of the house. At night she would turn off all the lights in her bedroom in Boston and switch it on, watching with delight as
the dollhouse and its residents were bathed in a magical red glow that seemed to imbue them with a life of their own.

Decorating Palmers gave her the same thrill. She’d even found a similar light fixture for the dining room. By any rational standards it was far too ornate and completely at odds with the rest of the decor. But she couldn’t resist. Hanging above their table now, she thought it looked absolutely magnificent. And Don adored it.

He also approved of her hiring decisions—which was a good thing, as she didn’t know what she’d have done if he’d told her the money couldn’t stretch to more than a skeleton staff. The chef they were choosing today would be one of only a handful of new appointments, since almost all the old Palmers staff were coming back, a testament to the excellent working relationship Honor had built with them over the years. After the ruthless cull she’d initiated when she first took over, it had taken a while for the remaining workers to feel secure again. But they soon came to realize that their new boss was as quick with her praise as her censure, and scrupulously fair.

When Petra took over at the Herrick, she’d given all the workers there a blanket pay raise and made sure that everyone at Palmers knew they could make more if they jumped ship. But Honor hadn’t lost so much as a single waiter. There was a camaraderie at Palmers that simply didn’t exist anywhere else. Certainly not at the Herrick, where staff turned over almost as frequently as the bed linen.

Of course, after the fire, Honor’s workforce had been forced to move elsewhere, and some had gone to the Herrick then, out of necessity. But almost all were taking pay cuts to return to the new hotel in the fall. There was a palpable sense of excitement about getting the old gang back together, and for the first time in years Honor felt that perhaps, this time, the gods were with her.