Illuminate (37 page)

The gallery was still technically closed to the public, but Aurelia had encouraged me to sell him another piece, so I figured it would be okay to let him in.

“C’mon in,” I said as I slashed us in and opened the door. “Have a look and let me know if I can help with anything.” I smiled and found a place off to the side, letting him wander through the space on his own.

“Any recommendations?” he called back to me as he stepped farther in, his pace slowing at the wall of photos of the former Lexington Hotel.

“I think those are nice,” I said. I walked over to the display where he was and leaned in to the description beside one of them. “These are from not long after the hotel opened, 1908—” I read on the placard. “Yeah, this place was just in its teens then: sixteen, I guess. It opened in 1892.” I was glad for the opportunity to spout some of these facts I’d been accumulating. “Now, it’s all redone and modern, but I like how it looked then. There’s something romantic about it.” I studied the suite of pictures. “That was before it was home to criminals.” I laughed. “Capone showed up in ’28. So this is how it started before it was infamous, but still really, I don’t know,
magical,
I think.”

He just nodded, looking at these photos like they were imparting some kind of great wisdom to him. I decided not to get in the way by talking anymore and I let him just watch them for a while.

“They remind me of her: innocent,” he said finally, and I couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself or if he meant for me to ask him to elaborate. He looked swept up and carried off to some other time. “Maybe this one?” he spoke to a modest, framed five-by-seven black-and-white of the hotel’s façade.

“That’s a lovely choice,” I said. “I’ll just have to consult our owner, who’s still fine-tuning that price list, but I know she wants to make you a good—”

“I’ll give her ten thousand dollars. How’s that?”

“Wow, um, okay.” I wasn’t sure what these things might go for, but it sounded like an awful lot.

“No, really, how is that? Is it enough, do you think, to get the attention of your owner?”

“I think it probably is.”

“Good. Then, here—” He pulled out his checkbook and a pen and scribbled the amount in, then ripped out the check along its perforated edge with a swoosh, handing it over. “Take this and let me know what she says.”

“Sure,” I said, taking the check in firm hands, worried it might dissolve or I might somehow lose it.

“Thank you, Haven. Thank you so much.”

“Of course.”

“You know where to find me.” He gave me a pat on the back and held my shoulder for a moment, as though he wanted to tell me something else, and then he just patted me once more and let himself out.

I found Lance in the Parlor kitchen, drinking a glass of orange juice.

“Hey I saw that guy again. Did he find you in the gallery?” he asked. The microwave was going. “Have you noticed there are a million new people working here? Where do they all come from?” I took the glass out of his hand, tossing it in the sink.

“Hey!”

“I have to tell you something—”

He cut me off: “Well, then I’m definitely not sharing any of this with you.” He read from a piece of paper. “‘Hi Haven and Lance, Brie and crab omelettes with carrot muffins, and sausage and bacon. Just microwave for one minute, thirty seconds. Love, Dante.’” I pulled the note from his fingers, but he kept talking, gnawing on a fork now. “You know I didn’t think I’d ever get my appetite back, but—” The microwave buzzed. “Yum.”

I swooped in front of him, yanking open the microwave door.

“Can I help you?” he asked, taking the fork out of his mouth, like it was a pipe.

“This is going to sound crazy—” In one swift motion, I took the plate out and dumped its contents—which, incidentally, did smell delicious—into the trash.

“Hey!”

“We’re going back to cereal. Because of yesterday.”

“Seriously?”

I took down a box of Lucky Charms and found two bowls.

“You’re breaking my heart,” he said to me.

“I know, but yum, look at the delectable cereal waiting for us. You’ll thank me later, trust me.” Looking pained, he threw himself onto the stool beside me as I poured him a generous bowlful, then one for me. “Here, I’ll even give you all of my hearts, since yours is broken over your omelette sacrifice.” I fished out a few of the marshmallow hearts from my bowl and plunked them into his.

“That’s very thoughtful. I almost forgive you.”

I ate three heaping bowls of cereal, matching Lance. I just scarfed them down, fast and furious, as if I hadn’t eaten in months. At one point, I even caught him, spoon in the air, just watching me. But the more I ate, the hungrier I felt. I had been running on adrenaline as my fuel last night and then I had crashed and now every cell felt an urgent need to recharge.

“So, I think it’s gluttony night at the Vault tonight,” he joked.

“Oh?” I wasn’t even paying attention, I was too busy polishing off my third bowl.

“Geez, I’ve never seen a girl pack it away like that,” he said in awe. “I mean, except for my Aunt Linda and she outweighs you by about two hundred pounds.”

I made no apologies. My mouth was full anyway, so I just tried to smile and then merely said, with a shrug, “I’m hungry.”

“So I gather.”

We finished up and went our separate ways, Lance disappearing down to the Vault to find Lucian, and me grabbing some of the clips I’d printed out for Aurelia and the Vault photos I’d already had Lance upload. As I walked to her office, I skimmed some of the articles. Dante was mentioned in the big review, lauded as “an able and up-and-coming sous-chef” and “one to watch.” And then several of the articles linking to this one and talking up the three-star rating also mentioned him. Overnight, he had become semi-famous. And not only in Chicago; the
New York Times
ran a blurb on the rating and dropped Dante’s name, dubbing him Etan’s protégé.

My first thought was that I had been too hard on him; he must be exhausted and I ended up getting him more upset. He’d obviously been working even harder than I could fathom—all those late nights, all that prep, to ensure they were ready for a critic like this to come through. And apparently, it had all paid off.

But after last night, my mind had been retrained. Now it went in a direction I never would have imagined. I flashed to all those “new recruits,” as they called them, and so many of them were the kitchen staff. Dante had not been among them, but had they gotten to him? He was too smart to fall for all of this, wasn’t he?

Then again, I thought I was so smart and look how I had swooned for Lucian. And Lance wasn’t exactly entirely immune to Raphaella.
Raphaella.
So she was gone? It seemed unbelievable that a queen bee could be dismissed so easily. This was how these people, these creatures, operated. And I would be an idiot to think that they hadn’t been doing their best to sink their claws into Dante. Would he be at the next induction? It made me nauseous to even think about it. My only mild consolation was that little bit I’d heard last night in Aurelia’s office: that they’re on some sort of schedule with their recruiting, as they call it, and they’re not going to seize the others until they get me. It gave me chills.

All I knew for sure was that I had to talk to him. I glanced over at Capone now. The balloons and flowers were all in place and a line of tittering patrons, most in business suits, spilled out. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who had spotted all the good press. I would catch Dante soon, I would find a way to get through to him.

Aurelia called me into her office on the first knock. I took a deep breath and tried to forget that this was the person who had been the ringmaster of last night’s horror show. I expected her to be somehow
different,
to strike out at me, to smite me, to steal my soul—however that was done—right then and there and stop this charade of our supposed mentor/mentee relationship. But still, I tried, actively, to not look petrified.

“Have a seat,” she said, plenty stern as usual but just a touch brighter, almost in a full-fledged good mood. “As I expect you have read, Capone has received a Michelin three-star rating, the only restaurant in Chicago to receive such an honor this year and one of only a handful in the country. This is a tremendous accomplishment. These are the Oscars of the food and beverage industry. There will be a cavalcade of media clippings to amass on this matter in the coming days, so be prepared.” I nodded and held up the stack I’d already printed and was about to tell her but she just kept talking.

“We’re not supposed to know who the reviewer is,” she said in a tone that suggested that she
did
know and she was rather proud of it. “So we are assembling a gift basket to be sent to the guide’s corporate headquarters. Etan will have it for you this morning. It’s going to be getting even busier here with this kind of attention. And there will be a special prix-fixe meal the next month in celebration, and a party tonight.” She held out a box for me. “Here are the invitations to be hand-delivered to our VIPs today, along with chocolates. Obviously, they need to go out right away.”

I took the box and opened the lid to peek at them: there were about twenty ornate, gold-engraved invitations in small folders bearing the hotel logo. It was a feat of origami just to open one. I remembered when Joan was on the planning committee for the hospital’s gala opening for the new pediatric cancer wing. They ordered their invitations months in advance. There were more of those, of course, but still. Was it possible that these had just been ordered this morning and were now instantly ready to go?

“Great, thank you. That’s very exciting news,” I said, starting to stand to leave, but she began talking again, so back down in the chair I went.

“One more bit of business on the subject of social affairs.”

“Yes.”

“You and the other intern will be coordinating the proms of five area high schools—including yours, as we discussed—to be held here in May and stretching into early June. Lucian will be spearheading this project. He will have point people at the various schools and materials for you to send regarding possible menu selections, décor, music, and so forth. This is important to us—in some ways, even more important than our historic Michelin rating—because it is an opportunity to reach a younger market who can look to us for their event planning in the future, who can become customers of our nightclub and restaurants and future guests here. It’s a fine way for us to build an early following and loyalty. This is about the
long term.
”

“Got it.” I was barely paying attention. I just wanted to get out of there, and the mention of prom planning did nothing to improve my feelings about the place.

“So that’s it for now.”

“I’ll get right on it,” I said rising from my chair with the box and all the materials I’d brought in. “These are the Capone reviews.” I set them on her desk. “And the Vault photos have been uploaded at the front desk.”

“Very well, thank you.”

I remembered what was in my pocket. I took out the check and set it on her desk. “And we sold a photo in the gallery. The five-by-seven from 1908? I said I’d have to check on the pricing. He was hoping ten thousand dollars would be adequate.”

She leaned forward to look at the check, as I started to walk away. “I would say . . . so.” She slowed down to a halt as she studied the name on it. “Why didn’t you tell me he came back?” she lashed out, the sound of her raspy anger sending a shiver tingling down my spine. I turned back around to find her staring at me with leaden eyes, the sinewy muscles in her neck tightened into long ropes.

“I . . . I am, I’m telling you right now,” I said as calmly and firmly as I possibly could. She seemed to be trying to turn the heat down on her boiling fury.

“All right,” she choked out, her face reddened. “Go!” She was so icy, it froze me in place for a second, but I recovered, scurrying to let myself out as she set the check down on her desk and stared at her paperwork with those same dead eyes.

23. Not Human, but Devil

Lance and I worked quietly in our gallery office. He took over the computer, preparing e-mail invitations, and I made a place for myself at the end of the table to hand-address the others. We didn’t
hear
her come in so much as
feel
her arrival. At some point we both just registered the shift in the air, a new tension, and we looked up and found her standing in the doorway. She looked at Lance for only a second—long enough to make him nervous, I imagined—and then she just started speaking to me.

“Haven, I would like you to deliver the photo up to Mr. Marlinson’s room yourself. I believe it would only be right to thank him for his generous purchase. Bring this note along with the photo and some champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries.” Her hand shook for a split second as she held out a sealed note card to me.

“Sure.” I stood up from my chair and took the card.

She took two steps out the door and then turned around again: “Sooner rather than later.”

As soon as she cleared the doorway, Lance shot me a look that said,
How does she just sneak up like that?
and shook his head.

“Obviously, I’d better do this now.”

He nodded, no words necessary.

This assignment required me to drop into the back kitchen of Capone, where the room service orders went out, thereby putting me in close proximity to Dante. I could possibly try to say something now, even though I could hear the bustle in the dining room and knew that a busy breakfast service was in full swing.

I greeted the other sous-chefs warmly even though they all ignored me and just continued chopping and dicing and slicing and preparing. Every burner of every stove was covered with omelettes in various stages of preparation. So much sizzling here, so much toasting there, all sorts of mixing and beating. I didn’t need to bother anyone for so simple an order, especially since I was making some adjustments—I wasn’t bringing Mr. Marlinson any chocolate-covered strawberries, nothing that anyone in that kitchen could possibly tamper with. A sous-chef pointed me toward an appropriate bottle of champagne (unopened and a brand I’d heard of, nothing suspect). I dunked it into an ice bucket, grabbed a champagne flute, and took one of those domes used to cover plates—I could stick the photo underneath it—and wheeled it all away on a black tablecloth-covered room service cart, like the one Dante had taken down to us so many weeks ago.