To spite running the air condition at the highest setting, the heat of the south Florida sun was penetrating the tinted windows of her new SUV; a gift to herself. The SUV travel south on I-95 – bearing the signs of a very long trip – paper cups, wrappers and half-eaten Twizzlers strewn haphazardly across the passenger’s seat.
She raked through her long, red hair with one hand and lifted it into a ponytail, allowing the breeze to bathe her neck in momentary coolness. Finally, road signs were announcing her approach to Miami Beach, home of the Kensington Hotel, her surprising legacy from her father.
That long-familiar twinge of anger still burned as she remembered her father walking out on her and her month so many years ago. She thought his recent death would be an end to those suppressed emotions, but here they were, resurfacing, as she drew closer to the Kensington.
How could his actions from twenty years ago still be affecting her life this way? Now, she'd left her friends, her job with Garrett Inns, even someone she might have married. And for what? She said she was leaving to have the change to be in charge of own hotel. But the closer she got, the more she questioned her own motives.
The traffic thickened, and cars kept darting in front of Gillian as she anxiously watched for her exit. The tightness developing in her neck was physical evidence that she'd had the ill timing to descend on Miami in the middle of five o'clock traffic. She was just about to recheck the map when she spotted the causeway that would lead her over the bay.
At the causeway's end, she entered Miami Beach and caught her first brief glimpse of the Atlantic through the gaps between the hotels lining Collins Avenue. The vibrant sea green of the water shimmered brightly against the cloudless blue sky. In the late afternoon sun, the setting was arresting - - a Kodachrome picture of a tropical summer day.
Along Collins Boulevard, the sparkling hotels and glamorous shops were intermingled with tiny hot dog cars and souvenir stands. An odd assortment of people in shorts and sandals, some with lobster red legs, was countered by grand hotels with uniformed men waiting to serve limousined couples. The contrast matched Gillian's own ambivalence, her excitement amply mixed with nervous apprehensions. Further south Gillian noticed a progression of age and deterioration in the hotels that was somewhat unnerving.
Recalling her conversation with the attorney who handled her father's estate, Gillian remembers his reference to financial concerns about the hotel. His reference settled heavily as she saw the enormous competition along Miami Beach. Clearly, her hotel was not a part of the modern chrome and glass high rises populating the north beach. Still, Gillian likes the feeling evoked by these smaller places.
In spite of their age and wear, they seemed sleek, smooth and full of character. As the sun slowly dropped, melting like deep yellow butter, the hotels silhouetted themselves dramatically against the afternoon sky. In the middle of a short block stood the Kensington, its stepped roofline a larger profile in this neighborhood of small hotels. Its sparkling white stucco, with pale blue racing stripes accenting the rounded corners, had a certain sensual appeal. Gillian's heart jumped as she realized she'd at least reached her destination.
She pulled in under the red canvas porte-cochere. The structure that was her namesake made an imposing first impression. A thrill of pride ran through her as her eyes focused on her own surname emblazoned on the curing cantilever. With a small sigh, she sank into the leather cushions of her seat, savoring the moment of her arrival. Eyeing the hotel more closely, Gillian detected a few imperfections. Narrow rivulets of rust which trickled from window air conditioning units, tears in the overhead canvas which drooped and swaged, all in sharp contrast to the essence of the structure. Minor imperfections, yes, but they signaled problems to Gillian's experienced eye.
She lifted her cramped body from the confines of her compact car and felt blood stream through her legs again. She was tired and stiff, but the discomfort paled before the challenge looming in front of her. She leaned against the car to temper her apprehension with thoughts of its possibilities. It does have great possibilities, she encouraged herself. A building with such obvious style has to have possibilities. But now that she had seen the deterioration, the attorney's words nagged at her attempts at optimism. She knew there was a thriving restaurant within the hotel and that it was leased to someone else.
She didn’t understand how the one profitable aspect of the operation had gotten away, but she intended to find out. Praying that her father's attorney would be able to answer her questions, she straightened her shoulders and prepared to enter the Kensington.
Even after long hours on the road, she looked cool and fresh in the mauve tee shirt dress she'd chosen for the trip. Its soft, casual lines and short skit had been comfortable for driving while the cotton knit fabric clung to her thin, graceful figure. Through others might remark on her good looks, Gillian still saw herself as the tall, gangly adolescent she had once been. She'd reached her full height of five feet, seven inches while still in junior high and she could remember even now the embarrassment of towering over her dance partners. It has taken years of hard work to overcome the slump she had developed in those awkward years. Any confidence she had now was hard earned and she mustered as much as she could to step across the threshold.
Her first glimpse of the inside was unsettling somehow. The lobby appeared relatively neat and clean, but the clear, strong lines of the architecture were masked by the worn and yellowed skin of the interior walls. A damp, sea air smell pervaded. It was enticing but lacked the modern aridity that made one feel secure. She was struck most by the lack of activity she has been accustomed to at Garratt hotels. Only one guest stood in the lobby, an elderly man waiting for service. He caught Gillian's eye, "I'm sure someone will be out soon if you're looking for a room." Gillian quickly seized his mistaken impression that she was also a guest, thinking this would be a perfect chance to get an uncensored opinion.
Nevertheless, she was concerned that her guest was still not being served. My guest, I like the sound of that, she thought. The quick possessiveness sent a pleasant rush of adrenaline and abandoning her charade, she hastily searched for the gate the get behind the desk.
Gillian fumbled with the gate latch to get behind the desk. Having to talk about her father - - a man she didn't even know was more awkward than she'd anticipated. She preferred to dismiss the subject as quickly as possible. In a voice, slightly unsteady, she thanked her guest. "I do hope you will be spending a lot more with us. Now, what is it I can do for you?" His request for his mail was simple enough and Gillian handed it with brief efficiency. Mr. Rosen's dark eyes sparkled when he noted the return address on one of the letters, obviously one he'd been waiting with anticipation.
Behind her she spied a black metal plaque identifying the office. Low, muffled voices filtered through the door as she approached it. Gillian hesitated. Through the voices could not be heard clearly, they seemed to have taken on an intimate, personal tone. Soft laughter of a female intermingled with a deeper male resonance. The sounds of intimacy were surprising to her since they were coming from the office. At Garrett Inns there had been very adamant and absolute policies regarding office relationships - - they were all professional, always.
Frivolity on work time would never have been condoned. While Gillian felt Garrett had gone overboard in some of their rules, she had certainly agreed that personal relationships were better conducted at home. She knocked on the door, before entering without express permission.
What she saw made her wish that she had waited. The small, cluttered office was dominated by the two people inside - - a man and young woman, both looking as if they'd stepped from an ad to lure tourists to the beautiful life in sunny Florida. While they didn't seem to be engaged in anything more intimate than a casual conversation, Gillian felt awkward at having made such an abrupt entrance. It was clear that the woman didn't like this untimely intrusion, as her glare pierced Gillian. Her gaze paled in comparison to that of the dark, handsome man leaning casually against her desk. He seemed not angry but intrigued as he made an approving appraisal of Gillian from direct and penetrating eyes. An excited tingling dusted Gillian's chest and limbs as she viewed the broad-shouldered presence before her. The vivid white of his shirt matched his smile, both etched against a coppery tan. He was tall and lean and much too distracting, Gillian was uncomfortable, embarrassed that he had read her thoughts. Her gaze remained locked with this until she self-consciously averted contact, reminding herself that this encounter was professional.
Gillian felt blood rush to her face, indignation flaring instantly. The last thing she wanted was to be compared with her father. She felt angry enough without having him thrown in her face as some shining example. And, who was this man, anyway, to so brazenly interfere with her first attempt to deal with an employee? She turned toward him, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "Have you been running the business in his absence?" She attempted to convey innocence with her question but couldn't conceal the bitter edge that lay behind it, knowing as she did that a certain Marg Alyssi was temporarily managing the hotel. Nor could she conceal the anger that darkened her eyes.
Quick on the uptake, the man's mouth tightened. The warm approval that had shone in his eyes cooled and died. "No," he drew the word out, his own tone matching hers, "but when the need arises, I'll be glad to step in." He started to leave, then reconsidered. Holding Gillian's eyes with a steady glare, he added, "By the way, Ms. Kensington, you are likely to find that the niceties of social interaction are vital to the running of a successful business. If they continue to elude you, you certainly do have your work cut out for you."
His sudden cold sarcasm struck Gillian with unexpected intensity. Despite his provoking remark, she found him overwhelming attractive. She had previously been too conscious of the admiration in his eyes. She previously been all too conscious of the admiration in his eyes. Now she was perversely disappointed that her hasty response had resulted in his disapproval. Torn - - wanting to make amends and wanting to give him a further piece of her mind - - Gillian stood speechless, reddened and tightly-lipped. A couple of quick raps on the door jerked everyone's attention. "What's going on in here? A party? I could hear all these voices - - and there's not a sole out there on the desk." The tension in the room visible ebbed as the woman entered, her comfortable chatty manner a welcome change to the strained atmosphere.
"Oh!" She exclaimed, catching sight of Gillian. "You must be Gillian. I'm so glad you're here. I'm Marg Alyssi." Her enthusiastic greeting bespoke her own weariness with management responsibilities. It appeared, thought Gillian, that Marg was going to be quite ready to return to her former position. Gillian was relieved that there'd be no resentment at her assumption of control. Wendy, never one to miss an opportunity, took advantage of Marg's entrance to escape any further encounter with her new boss, "Well, I better go out and take charge of the desk."
That man's charm surfaced as he addressed Marg. 'I guess that's my cue to leave, too, Marg. Miss Kensington seem anxious to get down to business." He nodded in Gillian's direction as he departed, appearing merely indifference toward her now. The angry fire that had danced briefly in his eyes had turned to ash. As he strode from the room, Gillian felt strangely bereft, but she had no time to reflect on her strongly confused reaction to him. Marg was coming toward her, extending a hand, "Welcome to the Kensington. I'm so glace to meet you finally." The sincere, down-to-earth greeting brought a smile to Gillian's face. After the tumultuous encounter, she responded gratefully to Marg's easy warmth. She didn't even try to contain her curiosity, blurted out, "Who was that man?" "You mean Greyson? I assumed you two had been introduced. That's Greyson Leigh. You'll have lots of opportunities to get acquainted. He leases the Serrano, the hotel's restaurant." Marg replied.
Almost imperceptibly, Gillian's shoulders drooped forward. She had to make a concerted effort to conceal her disappointment. Enough already. Her reactions to this man were complicated and not to learn that he owned the lease on the restaurant. Her strong attraction to him couldn't be denied, but it would definitely have to be suppressed. She could not allow a physical attraction to get in the way of a sound business decision. And, even with her limited knowledge of the Kensington, it seemed apparent that regaining control of the restaurant was the obvious salvation of her less-than-thriving hotel.
These thoughts clouded her thinking as Marg spoke. "So, what would you like to do first? I'm sure you must be tired from the trip. Would you like to rest tonight and start the grand tour tomorrow?" Gillian laughed. "I've driven two days to get here. I can't image going off to bed without getting a better look at the hotel!"
She looked questioningly at the older woman, “Is there any reason for suggesting a postponement? Are things so bad that I should relish my ignorance as long as I can? Or is it that everyone can manage just fine without me?” She spoke teasingly, though she was curious. Laughing with her, Marg replied easily, “Neither. I, for one, have been counting the days until your arrival.
But the place won’t crumble overnight. I only thought you might want to take advantage of this last night of freedom. Believe me, there will be plenty of night when you will have to burn the midnight oil. But I’ll be glad to stay and show you around. Actually, I’ve gotten into the habit of working overtime most evenings. I can keep doing that until you get settled.” Gillian though the last words were issued a little reluctantly, which made the offer all the more appreciated. At the moment, she didn’t feel she was in a position to turn it down. “That’s really good of you, Marg, and I’ll probably take you up on it, for a short while anyway, if you can spare a few more evenings.” “No problem. I’m sure my husband and son can manage without me for a little longer; it’ll probably do them good.” Besides the fact that Marg was intuitively drawn to Gillian, she felt somehow that she owed Joe Kensington’s daughter the help. After all, Marg has spent a lot of time at the hotel and it had become like a second home; she felt herself aging along with it.
Gillian’s gratitude was expressed in the visible relief in her face. She and Marg clasped hands, bespeaking a relationship of trust and cooperation. Momentarily, Gillian felt completely grounded, “I suppose I might as well get started as soon as possible then. I do need to freshen up and then I’d like to take the grand tour you mentioned.” “I’ll show you the powder room and we can meet back at the front desk when you’re ready.”
The two women trailed out of the office and across the lobby, the staccato of their shoes against the old terrazzo echoing behind them. Marg chattered about something inconsequential until the sound of her voice receded into the distance.
Miraculously revived, Gillian caught sight of Marg at the front desk, helping Wendy sort receipts. She gathered from Marg’s frowning expression that she was not too pleased and wondered if there was a problem. Gingerly she approached, “I’m ready whenever you are. Is something wrong?” “No, not at all, we’re just a little behind in separating the bills, but Wendy will get that caught up before she leaves,” Marg obviously intended the last for Wendy’s ears and directed a sideways glance toward the younger woman. She stepped from behind the front desk, gesturing toward the lobby, “Before we go anywhere else, let me show you your father’s pride and joy. He may have let some things go, be he always nurtured the hotel’s artistic heritage.”
Leading Gillian toward the rear lobby, she stopped at the long Floridian mural on the opposite wall. Its vibrant colors brought to warm life a lush everglades scene - - flamingos, egrets, and other exotica set in a background of sea greens and limpid blues. “This was painted by Earl La Pan. Restoring it was an extravagance your Dad really couldn’t afford, but he refused to let such a piece of art deteriorate further. I never tire of looking at this scene myself.” Gillian noticed the sentimentality in Marg’s voice as she spoke of Joe Kensington - - and found it reminiscent of the tone used by the elderly patron she had previously encountered. It whetted Gillian’s desire to learn more of the man, even though her limited memories of him evoked such antagonistic feelings.
She and Marg moved on to tour the upper floors, with Marg all the while pointing out examples of problems facing Gillian. Too many rooms were inoperable due to plumbing problems or faulty air conditioning or just general deterioration. The neglected terrazzo floors of the hallways had cheap, worn rugs nailed over them, while wall sconces and balcony railings were sprayed with tawdry brass paint. In some of the guest rooms, Gillian’s father had torn down the cheap facades but had not had the financing to restore the rooms to their original beauty. The possibilities for this place were exciting and Gillian made mental notes throughout her tour. Still, she recognized the enormity of the job ahead of her and the cost involved. Her thoughts frequently returned to her need for the profits of the restaurant as a source of income. And from there, her thoughts strayed to the enigmatic owner of the restaurant and his strong impact on her.
“We seem to have seen just about everything, except the restaurant.” Gillian’s voice spoke questioningly, but there was no doubt that she was intensely curious. “I suppose it would be all right if we took a quick peek. Of course, we can’t really tour. The place will be going great guns by now.” Marg glanced at her watch as she led Gillian to the Serrano.
The entrance from the hotel lobby was so insulated, it was almost unnoticeable. But as they approached, the music and clatter of the crown burled through the doorway. The sounds were arresting after the pervasive quite of the hotel.
Both women stood silently waiting for their eyes to adjust to the restaurant’s interior dimness. The larger part of the restaurant was for dining and every table was occupied. Even the bar was crowded with people sitting or standing at every space around it. There was a mixture of well held, stylishly coiffed patrons and another set, whose dress was more haphazardly thrown together. Even so, they each seemed to have a distinctive style, a uniqueness.
Though no single conversation could be deciphered exactly, each group seemed impenetrably intent on their topic. It was at once intimidating and exciting.
“Who are all these people?” Gillian queried, not expecting Marg to provide individual identities, but wondering more what they all had in common. “Well, the woman who just walked past us is the editor of a local magazine and that group over at the corner of the bar are all from Channel 8 news – they’re here every weekend. Oh, and you see the man in the brocade jacket, he’s the architect who helped Greyson renovate this place. As for the rest of this crowd, your guess is as good as mine.”
Gillian didn’t need the names of the others. It seemed clear the crowd was a mix of intellectuals and artists. What was hard to understand was how the restaurant could attract such an elite group when the hotel was in such poor repair. The answer was simple when Gillian recalled her first impressions of the sensuality of this area. That provocativeness would not go unnoticed by those seeking pleasure and beauty, despite the deteriorations. She supposed that the Serrano’s patrons were willing to tolerate the declining state of the hotel for the opportunity to revel in the seductive and stimulating atmosphere of the restaurant.
Marg tapped Gillian on the should and spoke directly in her ear, “We might as well leave; you really can’t see what the place looks like tonight.” On the contrary, Gillian thought. She may not have been able to clearly see the floor plan or the interior decorations, but she had seen very clearly how popular the restaurant was and what a positive impact it could have on the hotel if she could divert some of its profits. Her thoughts returned to Greyson. She wondered where he had been tonight.
His face clouded her mind as she and Marg retraced their way to the lobby. Marg noticed the fatigue now seeping into Gillian’s eyes. “I really think this is all we can do for the evening. Why don’t I order some food to be sent up to your room for you now?”
Gillian acquiesced gratefully, suddenly aware of her hunger. Marg said her good nights, making plans to meet with Gillian the next morning, then gently tapped Gillian’s arm to steer her in the direction of a wall of windows and French doors, “The ocean breeze is wonderful at night.” Stepping outside on a narrow porch, Gillian reveled in the freshness of the balmy night. She breathed deeply and pushed away thoughts of business, giving herself over to the heady effects of the famed beach. Before her lay the indigo tiled pool, reflecting opalescent lighting, and spread beyond that, the vase water of the sea. Somewhat heated from all her walking, Gillian found the cool waters inviting. But a movement nearby caught her attention, and she glanced aside. On an adjacent porch, joined only by a narrow bridge, stood the silhouetted figure of Greyson Leigh.
Gillian was partially hidden by potted sea grape trees and bougainvillea that spilled and covered the balcony railing a decorated the patio. She slipped further into the shadows and watched Greyson in a moment of serene silence, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
Secretively, she observed him as darkness descended on the shore until finally, the black-tailored figure of a waiter beckoned his attention. Though she couldn’t hear their words, it became apparent that Greyson was needed inside as he turned and followed on the waiter’s heels. Fearful that this movement might cause her to be detected, Gillian turned quickly away and moved closer into the thicket of foliage around her. Arms crossed over her chest, she closed her eyes and listened to the sound of own breathy heartbeats as the image of Greyson Leigh brandished itself in her thoughts.
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