“Rebecca Grange came in yesterday. She made a scene in the lobby.”
My temper abruptly twists in on itself, turning my stomach. “Fuck.”
“Jeremy worked his magic and got her into Gold Leaf. The staff served her brunch, and after three mimosas, she left. But she wanted to talk to you.”
I can picture it all. Rebecca Grange, widow of the hotel’s former owner, sweeping in wearing her “daytime pearls” and kitten heels—yes, I know these phrases now—trying to command the staff like she’s still the queen of The Axis. I can see Jeremy, my front desk manager, giving her his polished smile and whisking her away to the tea room.
I don’t directly control the staffing of the restaurants, so most of those are leftovers from the Grange administration. They probably knew just what to make for her. Maybe they even enjoyed it.
Fuck them all.
No, goddamn it. I don’t mean that. Gold Leaf is well run. It’s fine. Besides, if Ireallywanted to clean everything out, I’d have to tear down the whole fucking building.
“What did she say?” I ask, needing to know even if I don’t want to.
“That she still had rights, that she had commissioned the fountain in the lobby, and that the gold accents around the doorframes were her idea.”
“Jesus.”
“She was mostly upset that the painting of the island had been removed.”
I close my eyes as a wave of anger rolls through me.
“She’ll be back,” Gina predicts. “You could just give her the painting.”
“That’s impossible.”
Gina’s red lipstick, a striking contrast to her rich brown skin, shows me clearly how her mouth pinches. She’s frustrated with me. She thinks this is a problem that can be solved, but it’s not.
“Look, Andre, I know things got tense as the deal closed, which, yes, that happens. But she’s an old lady—”
“She’s fucking complicit.”
“Complicit? What does that—”
“Never mind,” I snap, hating that I’m losing control of this conversation—and of my mouth. I’m usually more disciplined.
“Look,” I say. “Thank you for telling me, but I don’t want to discuss this any further. As for the gold accents around the doorframes, I want them removed.”
“We haven’t budgeted for that this quarter.”
“Figure it the hell out.”
Gina points out, “She’ll probably just have a bigger meltdown next time.”
“Good. Maybe she’ll have a fucking heart attack.”
Gina doesn’t wince or look horrified, but she does snag her phone from the arm of the couch and get up. “I just thought you should know.”
I close my eyes and take a breath. I lie, “I didn’t mean that.”
Gina hovers for a moment. Then she asks, “Are you … okay?”
It shuts me down like nothing else has managed to do. I don’t respond. I never, ever respond to that.
Gina sighs. “Don’t forget that Vera Jessup, the planner for the Churchill-Henderson wedding, will be here at eleven to preview options ahead of our meeting with the families. We’re starting in Gold Leaf to look at the portfolio.”
I nod.
