LoveMakers Page 2

  The lunch was accompanied by a string quartet, and served by a moustached maitre d' and two unctuous waiters. The meal itself was simple but delicious: jumbo shrimp cocktails, a salad of red leaf and avocado, whole lobsters and sautéed green spinach. Elizabeth-Anne chatted warmly with Dorothy-Anne as the girl happily cleared her plates, even down to the spinach.

  When the meal was over, three waiters and the maitre d' brought in an exquisitely frosted birthday cake. Nine tiny candles were arranged in a circle and glowed with little halos. As it was ceremoniously set down in front of Dorothy-Anne, the quartet broke into a rendition of 'Happy Birthday'. Great-Granny joined the singing, her voice surprisingly clear and melodious.

  The cake was served with dollops of French vanilla ice cream and a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon. Great-Granny allowed Dorothy-Anne to drink half a glass of it, undiluted. When the desert plates were cleared away, the quartet withdrew and they were alone. The splashing of the fountains and the screams of the birds now sounded very loud. Great-Granny looked across the courtyard, and Dorothy-Anne followed her gaze. Two men carrying attaché cases were walking toward their table.

  'Gentlemen,' Elizabeth-Anne said, gesturing proudly, 'this is my great grand-daughter, Miss Dorothy-Anne Hale.'

  The men looked down at her and extended their hands. Dorothy-Anne remained seated and shook hands politely.

  Both men seemed to have very dry, brittle skin. They were in their sixties and had gray hair and wore pin-striped suits.

  'Mr. Bernstein, Mr. Morris,' Elizabeth-Anne said. 'Please, sit down.'

  As the men obeyed, putting their attaché cases down beside their chairs, Elizabeth-Anne rested her elbows on the table and folded her hands. She looked at Dorothy-Anne and came right to the point. 'Mr. Bernstein and Mr. Morris are attorneys,' she explained.

  Dorothy-Anne looked solemn and Elizabeth-Anne laughed with amusement. 'Don't look at them like that, my dear,' she said briskly. 'They are not here to arrest you.' She smiled and took a sip of her coffee. Then she looked pointedly at Dorothy-Anne over the rim of her cup. 'They are merely delivering your birthday present.'

  'Honey?'

  The voice seemed to be floating in space amidst swirling memories and flashes of technicolor pictures.

  'Honey. . . '

  It was a warm voice, a voice Dorothy-Anne knew well and loved. She opened her eyes and snapped back to the present. She shook her head to clear it.

  'Are you awake, honey? It sounded like you were talking in your sleep.'

  'No . . . no, I was just daydreaming. I'm okay now.' She smiled at him reassuringly, but in truth she wasn't sure if she was alright. She had just been in Manhattan, over a decade in the past; the memory had seemed so real, she wasn't sure if she was dreaming now, instead. But, no, the irrigated orchards were still moving past outside the car windows. And the ache in her heart was still there.

  'We're about there, honey.'

  She looked over at Freddie and tried to smile, then turned back to gaze out the windshield. She wondered how long she had been daydreaming. She didn't feel rested, but knew it must have been quite a while, as night had almost fallen and Freddie had already turned off the main highway, the one no one used anymore.

  The sky had darkened some more and on the horizon, Dorothy-Anne saw thunderheads, low and boiling, a menacingly dark charcoal gray. But overhead, they were a yellowish muddy brown, as if the sun were trying to leak through.

  'Storm's brewing,' Freddie said. 'It looks pretty bad.' He lit his cigarette with the dashboard lighter and then inhaled so that the tip glowed orange in the darkening light.

  Suddenly Dorothy-Anne's attention was drawn to the old billboard up ahead. It was ancient and peeling, a Pop Art relic from long before Pop Art came into being. It was big and rectangular, with a faded coronet jutting out over the top. The little orbs atop the coronet had long since broken away, and the flakes of gold paint had gone the way of the wind and the rain. Now the crown's edge looked like jagged teeth trying to take a bite out of the sky.

  She stared at the billboard as it rushed toward her, and she mouthed the faded letters which clung tenaciously to it.

  HALE TOURIST COURT

  That was what it read, and it had been standing there long before Hale hotels had sprouted like mushrooms after a worldwide rainfall. Long before some clever, Madison Avenue design team had come up with the elegantly intertwined HH logo. Because long before everything else, there had been the Tourist Court.

  It was just up ahead, on the side of the road, and it wasn't worth a second glance. There were a hundred thousand motels like it across the country on roads like this one, old roads obsolete now that newer highways had been built. The Tourist Court was just another row of dilapidated little cabins separated by carports; their only unique feature their roofs of corrugated iron, high, steep and sloping. They were mansard roofs, once painted bright orange and shining with newness, now weathered dull and rusting.

  But still, this particular motel was special in a way no other could ever be. It was the Hale Tourist Court, and it was here that Elizabeth-Anne's worldwide empire had begun.

  Was it possible? Dorothy-Anne asked herself, gazing at the Tourist Court as Freddie slowed, pulled over and stopped the car. The idea of it spun dizzily in her foggy, exhausted mind. Could one ignoble motel have been the springboard for an empire of international luxury hotels? Could a lone woman truly have had such vision and incredible drive as to build one of the world's largest independently controlled fortunes from these buildings?

  As if the answer lay in the Buccellati urn, Dorothy-Anne weakly pulled it onto her lap, holding it close against the baby within her. Now the silver no longer seemed cold or lifeless. She could almost feel a warmth seeping through it.

  Freddie helped her out of the car, but she insisted on carrying the urn herself as they walked off through the growing darkness into the roadside orchard across the highway from the Tourist Court. She was moving as if in a daze, feeling more light-headed than ever. Once she stumbled, and Freddie took the urn from her. She felt a strange, cool sweat on her forehead, and so she let him hold it.

  Her vision blurred with tears as Freddie unscrewed the cover of the urn. Wordlessly, he handed the urn to her.

  She did not speak. Around them, the wind had risen, and the storm clouds roiled low and angry.

  Slowly, she tilted the urn. The wind caught the spill of ashes, trapped them in sudden whirls of eddies, and then swiftly dispersed them in a long grey streamer. It was then that the first fat, heavy raindrops came splattering down, forcing the ashes groundward.

  Now Dorothy-Anne understood why Elizabeth-Anne had requested that her remains be scattered here.

  Because all things must end as they begin.

  And then she doubled over as the skies broke open and the first stabbing pain seized her in its grip.

  2

  In the kitchen of the manager's cabin of the Hale Tourist Court, Mrs. Ramirez heard the rumble of thunder. Lifting her heavy bulk off the kitchen chair, she made her way over to the window, parted the curtains and peered out.

  The sky had become almost blue-black as night began to fall, and the flashes of lightning were coming closer. Soon, the downpour would begin, flattening the crops and flooding the irrigation canals. Storms such as this were extremely rare, but she had lived here all her life and could predict the weather by the pain in her swollen ankles - which were much more accurate than those modern weather charlatans on TV. The afternoon had been the kind of damp, peculiarly stifling white-hot day that heralded a terrible storm. The Mexican laborers who had been tending the neat rows of citrus groves had left early, hurrying home before the sky burst open. She wondered whether her husband and son would stay in Mexican Town at her brother's and wait for the storm to pass.

  She continued to peer out the window, then suddenly frowned. Through the gloom she could make out a big car parked on the shoulder just down the road. Then she saw the man and the woman. They were slowly comi
ng out of the groves, the woman walking heavily with her legs spread wide. The man was supporting her and the woman was bent over, as if in pain.

  Just then, there was a tremendous crack of lightning and the overhead light in the cabin went out. Mrs. Ramirez muttered a curse. As if the storm were not enough, now there had to be a power failure, too.

  She waited for a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, then scraped back her chair and went over to the stove where the iron pot of bubbling beans and fatback were cooking for dinner. She found the candle and box of matches, scratched a match against the wall, and lit the candle. As the room slowly brightened, she heard overhead the sudden heavy drumming of raindrops on the iron roof. By reflex, she glanced up. From the sound of them, they were big raindrops, heavy and powerful, the kind that stung your face if you were caught outside.

  Just then, she heard the hammering at the door. Frowning, she went over and pulled it open. In the flickering candlelight she could see the tall, handsome man supporting —really half-carrying — a woman and lugging a heavy-looking silver urn in his other arm. Their faces were glistening wet, and they were both soaked through to the skin. Behind them, the rain was coming down in silver sheets.

  'Quickly,' Mrs. Ramirez urged. 'Come in before everything is soaked.' Her voice was thick with a Mexican accent.

  Once they were inside, Mrs. Ramirez securely shut the door, then held the candle up. There was no time to waste on unnecessary words. She looked at Freddie Cantwell. 'Her time has come?'

  'I don't know . . . I think so,' Freddie said, the fear clear in his voice: 'We were in the orchard and she cried out and collapsed. She's barely conscious now.'

  'Follow me,' Felicia Ramirez said, taking Dorothy-Anne's other arm and helping Freddie guide her through the small manager's cabin to the back bedroom. She set the candle down on the scarred dresser and Freddie gently laid his wife on the bed. He placed the urn on the dresser, then leaned over Dorothy-Anne and smoothed the hair from her forehead. Her skin felt hot to the touch. 'She's feverish,' he said, turning tense eyes on Mrs. Ramirez.

  'How close together come her contractions?' the heavy woman asked.

  'I don't know . . . ' Freddie answered hesitantly. 'There was just that one, and she passed out.'

  'We will wait for the next, then begin to time them.'

  Freddie nodded then picked up the candle and asked, 'Do you have a telephone?'

  'In the other room. Leave the candle here. I go get more. It is not good to leave a woman whose time is at hand in the darkness.' Her voice grew quiet. 'If the child enters a world of darkness, it will be forever blinded.'

  Startled by the woman's superstition, Freddie put the candle down and started to follow her out, but Dorothy-Anne caught his arm. He turned around and looked down at her. Her eyes were wide and glazed; and her voice was weak. 'Freddie?' He smiled down at her, but her fingers dug into his arm with surprising strength. 'Don't leave me alone, Freddie,' she whispered. 'Please.'

  'I'm going to stay right here, honey,' he promised. 'But first I've got to phone for a doctor.'

  She nodded weakly.

  He pressed her hand. 'Try to relax and get some rest. You'll need your strength.'

  She nodded again, and shut her eyes. 'I'll try,' she said softly, giving into the exhaustion that swept over her. She listened as his footsteps receded. Then everything seemed suddenly quiet.

  The Tropical Court of the Hale Palace had been anything but quiet. Even as Mr. Bernstein took the documents out of his briefcase, the parrots and the cockatoos continued their screeching. Dorothy-Anne remembered Mr. Bernstein flipping through the stapled papers one last time and then passing them over to Mr. Morris who also looked them over. Finally both men were satisfied that everything was indeed in order.

  Mr. Bernstein turned to Elizabeth-Anne. He cupped his hand and coughed delicately. 'You are certain, then, that you wish to proceed with this transaction?'

  'Mr. Bernstein,' she replied dryly, 'as you can see, I am over eighteen. Since I can drink and I can vote, I can certainly do with my money and holdings as I please.'

  'Of course, of course,' he said soothingly. He looked over at Dorothy-Anne. 'Miss Hale?'

  With a start, Dorothy-Anne realized he was addressing her. 'Yes, sir?'

  'Your great-grandmother has decided to give you an . . . err . . . well, a rather generous birthday present.'

  Mr. Morris nodded solemnly. 'Yes, a very generous gift, indeed.'

  'In fact,' Mr. Bernstein continued, 'it is so valuable that although you shall own it the moment these papers are signed, you will not be able to take possession of it until your eighteenth birthday. Do you understand what I am trying to say?'

  Dorothy-Anne nodded. 'You mean it's being held in trust for me.'

  Mr. Bernstein seemed a bit surprised, but quickly recovered his composure. Elizabeth-Anne settled back in her wheelchair and smiled proudly, but her voice was clipped.

  'Mr. Bernstein,' she said briskly. 'Let's forego the formalities of a lecture, shall we? I may not be of sound body, but I am of sound mind. And my mind is made up. Now, shall we sign the papers?'

  'There, there is the telephone.' Felicia Ramirez turned from the candles she was lighting and pointed a thick finger to the kitchen wall.

  Freddie nodded, reached for the receiver and lifted it to his ear. There was no dial tone. Quickly, he jiggled the cradle up and down with his forefinger. He turned to Felicia. 'It's dead.'

  She waved out the match she was holding, at the same time moving toward him. 'Here. Let me.' Snatching the receiver from his hand, she listened, also rattling the cradle up and down. After a moment she slowly hung up. 'It is the storm,' she said. 'The lines must be down.'

  'What do we do?'

  'Your car?' she suggested. 'You drive into town?'

  'It's stuck,' he said grimly. 'I was so upset when Dorothy-Anne collapsed in the orchard that I rushed her back to the car and tried to start too quickly. The wheels dug into the sand, and the harder I tried to get out the deeper they went. It's hopeless now.' He ran his fingers through his hair miserably, then asked, 'Don't you have a car?'

  'My husband has it,' she answered quietly. 'He has not returned. In a storm such as this, he is sure to stay in town. It is five miles away and it will soon be night. The trip is impossible in this weather.'

  Freddie's head sagged. 'What do we do?' he whispered. 'We never thought there would be a storm like this . . . or that Dorothy-Anne would have the baby now . . . '

  Felicia Ramirez drew herself up with calm dignity. She placed a gentle hand on his arm. 'I am a woman,' she said. 'I have six children and I have helped deliver others. I know what to do. Go, stay with your wife. Comfort her and help her rest. I make hot water and get clean towels. It will be a long night.'

  When Felicia returned to the bedroom, Dorothy-Anne was awake and tossing restlessly. She tried to sit up, but after a moment let her head drop back down on the pillow. Then, suddenly, she grimaced and arched her back as another contraction seized her. Startled, she opened her eyes widely and gasped from the pain. Freddie grasped her hand in concern, but Mrs. Ramirez seemed reassured.

  'Good,' she said, checking her watch. 'A long time has passed since the last. There will be time to rest before the real labor begins.'

  Dorothy-Anne collapsed back on the bed as the pain passed. Felicia pulled away the sheet that covered her. Gently, she began to probe with her hands. She frowned to herself and, then, for the first time, began to worry. She was used to her own and her cousin's wide generous hips, built to give birth. But this woman's hips were narrow and bony. The opening would be small and tight.

  She gestured for Freddie to draw closer and lowered her voice so that the young woman would not hear what she had to say.

  'The passage is narrow,' she murmured with concern. 'She is very small.'

  Small. The whispered word drifted to Dorothy-Anne through a mist and set the swirling memories in motion. Yes, she was small. She had signed the lawy
er's papers with her small, schoolgirl script then waited as they were witnessed. Then the pin-striped attorneys had congratulated her on the gift she had just received, and left. Miss Bunt had wheeled Great-Granny outside to the sidewalk, and then Great-Granny motioned for the nurse to leave them. The Fifth Avenue traffic moved downtown at a brisk pace. For a minute, they did not speak.

  'Dorothy-Anne,' Great-Granny said finally.

  Dorothy-Anne moved closer.

  'Look up, Dorothy-Anne.' Great-Granny's voice rose to an excited whisper. 'Look up at the Hale Palace.'

  Obediently, Dorothy-Anne leaned her head way back and stared up at the hotel. The thousands upon thousands of tons of pale limestone seemed miraculously weightless. Like a wedding cake it rose in majestic splendor, tier after tier of terraces and balconies, until the twin towers broke off and rose even higher to scrape the fast-moving clouds scuttling across the bright blue sky. After a moment, she lowered her head and turned to her great-grandmother. She looked at her questioningly.

  Elizabeth-Anne Hale reached out, took Dorothy-Anne's hand and squeezed it.

  'It's yours,' Elizabeth-Anne whispered, her aquamarine eyes shining brightly. 'The Hale Palace is now yours, and yours alone. Happy Birthday, Dorothy-Anne!'

  Dorothy-Anne awoke to the sound of rain lashing the roof. Freddie was leaning over her, anxiety and fear in his face.

  She turned to him weakly, her face pale and pinched. 'Is the storm letting up?' she whispered.

  Mrs. Ramirez seemed startled to hear her voice, but shook her head.

  'My baby,' Dorothy-Anne said in a tiny voice. She placed a hand on the mound of sheet at her waist. 'My baby will be all right.'

  'Your baby will be fine,' Mrs. Ramirez assured her gently. She joined Freddie and leaned over Dorothy-Anne, stroking aside a stray lock of the young woman's moist hair. 'A woman is born to give birth, no?'