Page 3

Chapter Three

At least the Burns Night décor wasn’t going to waste.

Because there were so many guests leaving at once, checkout took place in the ballroom. Poetry twirled as June moved up and down the line, delivering personal apologies. Waitstaff, still wearing tartan sashes for the aborted ball, delivered travel parcels of nibbles constructed from durable components of the Burns Night feast. Here and there, guests reached up to read from the dangling pages, just as June had imagined earlier that day. It was a memorable scene. An unsettling scene. To see people like this queued up for their coats and their cars—! People like this didn’t queue. People like this had other people to queue for them.

“?‘Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace, / Our parting was fu’ tender; / And, pledging aft to meet again, / We tore oursel’s asunder!’?” Mr. Astor (it was the Mr. Astor most people thought of when one said Mr. Astor , the one who was close friends with Roosevelt) ( the Roosevelt most people thought of when one said Roosevelt ) was one of the final guests in line. He was in one of his genial moods rather than his irascible one.

“Mr. Astor, I’m right sorry to be seeing you go,” June said. “Do you have any insider tips for me?”

Releasing the poem, he looked at her from beneath his big brows. “Avoid boats.”

“Dear pet!” broke in another voice. “What an adventure this is.”

The final guest was actually four guests: the Morgan family. They had spent the last week of January at the Avallon for as long as June had been manager. The Avallon had saved one generation’s marriage, healed a fraternal rift, buried a grandmother, and seen the youngest generation happily married. A decade in a life. In an entire family’s life.

The two Morgan sons (who reminded June, poignantly, of Sandy) pet the dachshunds and shyly hugged June, an outlandish display of affection only possible because they had been much younger when she’d met them. This reticence was the mark of the upper class; Mr. Francis had tried to teach her. This is the language of the lower class: immediacy, possession, lust, hunger, the obvious. This is the language of the ruling class: legacy, humor, artifice, generosity, subtlety. If you want someone to treat you above your station, most of what you want must remain unspoken. To say the thing is to prove your crassness. You are not crass, June Hudson. I am not crass, Mr. Francis. You are meant for great things, June Hudson. You can say that, I can’t; them are the rules, right? Ha. Those are the rules, June.

“Dearest Miss Hudson,” said Mother Morgan (wake-up call 9:50 a.m., have a Roman Punch waiting on the balcony at check-in, three spa treatments a week). The rumor was that she was a ruthless social shark outside this hotel, but here, she was the kindest of souls. “We’ve left a gift for you at the front desk.”

Guests often gave June pottery, jewelry, books, art. Gifts appropriate for a society lady, not for a hard-living general manager. Memorably, a newly divorced heiress had once sent her the gift of Sears and Roebuck’s finest Italian bees. The workers had come in one box, the queen in another, nothing else in the box but some royal jelly to sustain her, not even dachshunds for company. Those bees, at least, were still doing good work.

“John,” Mother Morgan said in her demure way, “tell Miss Hudson what she needs to know.”

“About—? Oh. Yes. Miss Hudson, I want you to say nothing and just listen to me,” said Father Morgan (left-handed Winnet enthusiast, occasional gambler, do not serve anchovies), who, outside this hotel, controlled the fates of thousands of men. Here, he was meekly grateful when the staff recalled his fondness for a hot toddy before bed. In a low voice, he described what was due to be rationed next, war legislation under discussion, current detention orders on the FBI’s desk, industries and cities likely to boom due to war production, his understanding of the State Department’s current power, and future draft plans as far as he or anyone else in his circle could see. It was the most meaningful gift the Morgans had ever offered her.

And then, just like that, they were gone. The ballroom was empty of everything but velvet-roped stanchions, drifting Burns Night poetry, and a handful of staff taking stock of what needed to happen next.

June had never emptied the entire hotel. Not even during the Depression, when both rivers and parties had dried up and men had jumped from windows, an egalitarian pastime, business magnates and head waiters united in regret. Other luxury hotels had transitioned to convention venues or to apartments to solidify their survival. But June had instead dug deep into the Gilfoyle coffers to renovate rooms and revamp menus. Pushing aside the dreadful past, the hopeless future, she encouraged the Avallon to offer a glorious present. Worthless money flowed out of the Gilfoyles’ bank accounts faster than sweetwater out of rock. Are you very sure of this, June? Mr. Francis had asked after news of a particularly precipitous financial outlay made its way to him in New York—one knew it was precipitous if it made Mr. Francis nervous. We gotta look unafraid , June said. Pay the bill and pray for rain. Quite a gamble for a new, young GM. A successful gamble. The hotel had entered the Depression an institution; it exited a legend.

Now the legend had expelled the cultural denizens who were its lifeblood.

All, that is, except one.

“Hoss, 411…” Griff said, rubbing his eye.

“I know, I know.”

Up June went to the fourth floor; she had an elevator to herself. Every other elevator with guest access was manned by a well-trained elevator operator, but not this one. Mr. Francis was far from the first person to die in the hotel—how many elderly, moneyed guests had June had to swaddle in their own bedclothes and smuggle out on the lower racks of two room service carts tied together?—but he had been an institution in an institution. The Gilfoyles had vast holdings, most of them in New York State and Massachusetts, and most owners would have hired another general manager so they could enjoy their wealth as they liked. But Mr. Francis was in the trenches with the staffers, raising his children on the property, never leaving the hotel grounds for any stretch of time until June finally succeeded him. Even though it had been a decade since then, he was still a legend.

But June wasn’t afraid of ghosts. If only Mr. Francis could haunt this elevator.

In the dim, the carpet seemed to crawl down the fourth-floor hallway, dusky leaves and midnight-blue curls writhing beneath the animal-headed sweetwater fonts. Dark wood paneling absorbed the light from the ornate sconces. The doors, made intimidating simply by nature of being identical and numerous, stretched on and on. In the past, the maids had expressed fear that they would fling open, revealing ghosts. June, on the other hand, pictured the doors flinging open to reveal the living , all with urgent needs, none anticipated. Simple horrors.

June rapped a single knuckle on the door of room 411. Soft but audible, just as she’d been taught back in housekeeping.

A defiant crash sounded.

A voice came from within the room: “That was an end table. The feet were carved like lilies. I hope you’re happy! Go on, knock again, there’s plenty left to—”

June interrupted, “411.”

The door opened. Just wide enough for a brilliant green eye to peer out.

“GM Hudson,” said 411. “I expected you sooner.”

Most of the guests liked to be called by name, but not 411. She had been a guest for as long as June had been at the Avallon, and during that time, she had never, as far as anyone knew, stepped foot outside her suite. Meals, books, and other niceties of life were all delivered to her. Once every week, she confined herself in the bath, door locked, for a single staff member to clean, a maid who’d long since been promoted to head of housekeeping and was technically above such tasks. A long-standing rumor held that 411 had been seen on her balcony during FDR’s presidential visit, but no one ever identified the employee who had seen her firsthand. This was what June knew about 411: she had been a high-profile designer, was a divorcée, had a wicked sense of humor, and had done a wonderful job conceiving the Burns Night poetry apparatus.

“Quite a lot of noise happening up here, 411.”

Ever theatrical, 411 had told the staff that every time they tried to convince her to check out, she would throw something out the window. Like many small nation-states that relied heavily on imports, her power tended toward the crafty and manipulative. Guerrillas. Shadow battalions. So on. What would become of her if she was ejected? Here, she had everything she needed and nothing she didn’t. Who knew if she still had the skills to live elsewhere.

“I will tell you what was a lot of noise: Mr. Beekhof, last night,” 411 said. “Sounded like he released a hog in his room.”

“Mr. Beekhof has checked out.”

“What a coward. We were not done with our fight. Choose your next words carefully; I don’t want to make a bigger mess.”

“I ain’t some quaking porter, 411,” June told her. “It’ll take more than some poltergeist antics to drive me from your door.”

“You know whose phone number is on my account, don’t you? I don’t have to go anywhere.”

“The State Department is running this show, not me. What do they care about Francis Gilfoyle’s number on your account?”

411 laughed. It was a laugh like buttercream: sweet, rich, unhealthy in large amounts. “June Hudson, you possum farmer. You really do only understand status as it works inside this hotel, don’t you? Frank was not just the owner of the Avallon. Haven’t you seen his friends in the lobby? The last flying monkey who came up here before you told me only federal agents and staff may stay. So put me on staff. I’m sure you’ll come up with a clever job description.”

June thought about kicking her out, rudely, via legal document, just to teach her some overdue humility. June thought about the night they never talked about, the night June had returned from New York. June thought about how 411, despite being awful, was her best friend in the hotel.

No, June would not be kicking her out.

“You are making yourself one of my life’s biggest obstacles,” June told her.

“Darling, if that’s true,” said 411, “your life isn’t that bad.”

The door closed; 411 assumed she had won. And hadn’t she? Because June was already making a writing gesture in the air to the staff, and one of them was galloping to codify June’s intentions.

“?‘Consultant’!” June called after them, just before the service door closed. “Backdate the hire a month. And bring what’s left of her end table back upstairs.”

“Yes, Hoss.”