Page 58

“You were presented at court?” asked Miss Barnes with new interest.

“I was, as was Mrs. Benson a year later,” she said.

“And yet you married a Pasadenan?” asked Miss Barnes.

“Speaking of that Pasadenan, we are neglecting what we are all here for,” said Mrs. Barnes, no doubt sensing that no good could come from her daughter’s tone. “How is the man of the hour, Mrs. Whitley?”

“As calm as can be, given the significance of today,” Adele said, glancing at the stage next to which Guy was chatting to two prominent bankers, who had come down from San Francisco for the celebrations.

“Well, that is hardly any surprise. Everything is perfect,” said Mrs. Barnes, peering up at the huge wooden structure. Rather than sharing the Spanish-inspired design of the Andalusian, this hotel nodded to the Arts and Crafts movement, but on a far more elaborate scale than Rosewood House or Mrs. Barnes’s Oleander House. Here, there were not two sloping roofs but six massive ones, with two entrances that connected to a grand lobby that stretched across the center of the building. Beautiful stained glass shone in the California sun, and she was pleased to see that the landscaping was already beginning to take form. Around the back of the property were twelve private bungalows that came with dedicated staff for those guests who wished for all the comforts of home during their winter stays.

“Guy must be very proud,” said Margot.

“He is,” she said.

“And already thinking of his mountain lodge,” said Mrs. Barnes. “When does he break ground?”

“May, if Guy has anything to say about it,” said Adele. “He must wait until the risk of a large snowfall is gone so that they might dig the foundations. And then there is the matter of raising the capital to fund the building, of course.”

The mountain lodge, along with the ball, had tested her capacity for worry in the last year. She feared that beginning to build a third hotel so shortly after the second was unnecessarily risky. Guy had waited several years between opening the Andalusian and the Colorado Grand. Surely it made more sense for him to allow the Colorado Grand to realize some profit before he began spending on such an ambitious new venture. However, when she’d raised this one night as they sat in the drawing room, his brow had furrowed.

“I have half the investors I need already pledged for the first stage of building on the mountain lodge, Adele. These men of business are skittish, and delaying would risk them pulling their money out of the venture,” he’d explained with a whiskey in his hand.

“But surely if they wish to invest, they will understand waiting until the Colorado Grand is open and there is a little bit more certainty before taking such a risk.”

“What they understand is money. If I delay now, that will delay the eventual return on their investment. They will turn away from me and seek other hotels. Just look at Milmar’s establishment going up on Raymond Avenue,” he pointed out.

“But if the Colorado Grand does not produce as much profit as you expect in its first year—”

His expression blackened. “If I want criticism and questions, I will make an appointment with my bank manager. I do not need this from my wife.”

“Your husband is a force to be reckoned with, Mrs. Whitley,” said Mrs. Barnes as the crowd in front of the hotel shifted and hummed. “I’m certain that the snows of the San Gabriel Mountains will stay away if he orders it.”

“Oh,” said Margot, pointing to the stage, “it looks as though Guy’s moment has arrived.”

Adele turned as her husband finished climbing the steps of the wooden stage hung with red, white, and blue bunting. He looked about him, the notes for his speech in his hand, and smiled the satisfied expression of a man who knows he has the attention of every person present.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Distinguished guests,” he began. “It is my very great pleasure and honor to welcome you to the grand opening of the Colorado Grand Hotel.”

The audience broke out into applause.

“Please,” he said, gesturing with his hand for the audience to quiet even as his smile grew. “Please.”

Dutifully, the dignitaries and the great and good of Pasadena society slowly fell silent.

“It was not very long ago that East Colorado Street was first ranchland and then farmland. Rows of citrus trees grew here, and it might have remained that way, had it not been for the enterprising minds of the men who came before us.”

“Some of us are still here!” an elderly Pasadenan in the crowd shouted, eliciting a ripple of giggles.

Annoyance flashed across Guy’s face. The flicker was so brief that no one might have noticed except for Adele.

Move on, Adele urged him silently.

“And we are very lucky that you are, Mr. Post,” said Guy, nodding in the direction of the heckler.

Adele let out a tiny stream of breath as her husband continued. It would not do for him to lose his temper in front of all these people. To them he was the gregarious man who laughed at their dinner tables, danced at their balls, and dealt fairly with the money they invested in his hotels. They never saw the moments at home—private moments of stormy anger and low, blue moods when the mask slipped.

They couldn’t know.