Three jobs in less than a year. I’m living proof that a college degree is no guarantee for success. My BTech degree in Hospitality Management from CUNY is a bogus degree by some people’s standards. For years, I attended school part-time and worked full-time in the shoe department at Bloomingdale’s to earn it. I’m a born and bred New Yorker, the ideal person to greet tourists upon their arrival and accommodate them while they’re here. I know the best shops and five-star restaurants, and I can score prime seats to sporting and entertainment events. Concierge is my dream job. If only I could get promoted from guest service agent. Which isn’t likely to happen at my current gig, a boutique hotel on Fifty-Second Street near Madison Avenue. The guest service supervisor is looking for a reason to fire me.
I can feel Mr. Moran’s eyes on me from where he’s positioned at the far end of the counter. He’s watching my every move, waiting for my next screwup. I’ve been taking too long with my current guest, a supercute guy whose brother plays for the New York Knicks. Mr. Cannon is in town for the Knicks’ game against the Detroit Pistons at Madison Square Garden. While I may be flirting with him just a little, he asked for my recommendation on the best nightclubs in Manhattan, and I certainly can’t be rude.
When I hand Mr. Cannon his key folder, he steps away from the desk and disappears into the crowd. Guests arriving for the weekend flood our lobby. Throngs of people swarm the bank of elevators, stand in line at the reception counter, and wait for seats to open up at the bar.
An attractive couple in their fifties moves forward, and I greet them with my brightest smile. “Welcome to The Sydney. Checking in?”
The man gives me a curt nod. “Last name, Davis.”
My fingers fly across my keyboard as I locate their reservation. “What brings you to New York this weekend?”
Mrs. Davis looks to her husband to answer. When he doesn’t, she says, “We’re here to see our daughter. And meet her fiancé.”
My hand flies to my chest. “A wedding! How exciting for you. Congratulations. Where are you from?”
Mrs. Davis lifts her head high and proud. “Texas.”
Her husband casts a disgruntled look at the fat snowflakes falling outside the lobby windows. “Houston. Where spring is in full gear.”
“Don’t be such a grump. I love the snow.” Mrs. Davis hugs her husband’s arm. “It’s so romantic.”
I smile at her. “It is, isn’t it? Late season snow showers are common for New York. I consider this the perfect kind of snow, pretty to look at without the headache of event cancellations and travel delays.”
Shrugging his wife off, Mr. Davis glances at his gold wristwatch. “Can we hurry this up? I have a conference call in fifteen minutes. I’d like to take it in my room.”
“Of course.” I print out their paperwork and slide it across the counter for him to sign.
I take this opportunity to study the woman. Teardrop diamonds dangle from her earlobes, a Chanel crocodile bag hangs from her shoulder, and a silk scarf in vibrant shades of pinks and blues is knotted at her neck. I’m no fashionista, but I know a lot about labels and brands from my best friend, Rachel, who works for the hit reality show Say Yes to the Dress.
I touch my fingertips to my collarbone. “I love your scarf. Hermès?”
She bobs her coiffed blonde head. “A Christmas gift to myself.”
Her husband clears his throat in irritation as he thrusts the paperwork at me.
“Right, your conference call. We’ll have you settled in your room momentarily.”
I encode two plastic key cards in the machine, and hand the folder to Eric, the most senior member of our bell staff who is hovering nearby, his cart piled high with an obscene amount of Louis Vuitton luggage. “The Davises are in room 326.”
Panic overcomes me. Or was it room 324? Nope. It was definitely 326.
I turn back to the Davises. “The fitness room is on the second floor. Breakfast is served in the lounge from seven until ten in the morning. And we offer twenty-four-hour room service if you’re in the mood for a midnight snack.”
The Davises follow Eric to the elevator, and the next guests in line approach the counter. I’ve served three couples and the fourth pair is stepping forward when Eric returns with the Davises and their luggage. Mrs. Davis wears a smile of amusement, as though she’s keeping a naughty secret. Meanwhile, her husband’s head is ducked with phone glued to one ear and hand pressed to the other to block out the cacophony of noise in the lobby.
Eric, his neck disappearing into hunched shoulders, says loud enough for Moran to hear, “You gave me the key to the wrong room.”
Mrs. Davis is quick to explain, “We walked in on a man and a woman in a compromising position. I assume she was his wife. She was . . . well, it was all rather embarrassing.”
Mr. Moran appears at my side. “My apologies for the inconvenience. I’d like to upgrade you to a suite at no additional cost to you.”
Mrs. Davis drops her smile. “Interesting. There were no suites available when I booked my room a month ago.”
“As it happens, I’ve just gotten off the phone with one of our regular guests. She’s had an unexpected death in the family and won’t be able to make the trip this weekend. The suite is all yours.” Without giving the Davises time to resist, he keys two new cards. “The suite is on the concierge floor. The view is magnificent. I’ll take you up myself.”
As he passes by me, Mr. Moran snarls under his breath, “I’ll see you in my office when I return, Miss Boor.”
My spirits plummet as I traipse home to Greenwich Village. I love the snow, and I don’t mind the cold, but today the gray weather feels dreary. I’m not worried about finding another job. There are over seven hundred hotels in New York. However, without a reference from Moron Moran—and he made it clear one would not be forthcoming—the past ten months were a waste. I’m right back where I started from, applying for entry-level positions. I’m nearly thirty years old, and I have nothing to show for my life.
The smell of garlic and onions greets me in the vestibule of my apartment building. Home sweet home. A decade ago, when my parents moved to Red Hook, I opted to stay in the village. I’ve lived here all my life. And, even though the building is rundown and my apartment is a five-hundred-square-foot studio, I don’t aspire to live anywhere else. With the loss of income, I don’t know how I’ll pay next month’s rent. The apartment is a hand-me-down, my parents’ former art studio. To move would mean giving up a rent-controlled space in one of the most sought-after areas in New York. No one in their right mind would do that.
I check my mail, removing three past-due bills from the brass box and stuffing them in my bag, and climb the stairs to the third floor. I’m pausing at the top of the stairs to catch my breath when I notice a gentleman waiting outside my apartment. With ankles crossed, his back is against the wall, overcoat draped across folded arms and black leather messenger bag at his feet. He must be lost. No one in this building wears tailored suits and expensive silk ties.
When he sees me, he pushes his lanky frame off the wall. “You’re Stella Boor,” he says, a statement not a question.
“I am. Who are you?”
He offers his hand. “I’m Brian Powers, an attorney from Virginia. I’m representing your father’s estate.”
As I place my gloved hand in his bare one, thoughts swarm my brain, but only one sticks. Virginia. My mother is originally from Richmond, Virginia. Powers’s piercing blue eyes are on me, watching closely for my response. I’m grateful he can’t see my heart pounding against my rib cage. “There must be some mistake. I don’t have a father. I have . . . had . . . a sperm donor.”
“Is your mother Hannah Boor?”
“One of them, yes. She’s my birth mother.” I was raised by lesbian mothers, living as an openly gay couple long before it was widely accepted to do so.
I can’t put an age on this man. His dark hair is streaked with gray and he has crinkles around his eyes. While Mom’s in her mid-fifties, I estimate this man to be close to sixty. Although he’s way more dignified than Hannah, it’s possible they were friends. “Did you know my mom?”
He either doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore me. “May I come in?” he asks, nodding at the door. “We should discuss this matter in private.”
“Of course.” As I’m fumbling with the lock, I remember that my apartment is a disaster. I overslept this morning and didn’t have time to straighten before leaving for work.
“Give me a minute,” I say and close the door on him, leaving him standing alone in the hall.
I fold the mattress into the sofa, tossing the cushions on top, and gather the clothes strewn about the room. When I let the attorney in, he turns his nose up at the stench. “It’s the litter box. Sorry.”
My cat jumps down from his perch on top of the refrigerator and slinks over to our guest, leaving orange fur on Powers’s suit pants when he brushes up against his legs. Powers appears both irritated and a little afraid.
“I’m not much of a cat person either.” Scooping up the cat, I toss him into the bathroom and close the door.
“Why do you have a cat if you’re not a cat person?” Powers asks with an amused smile.
“The cat found me. He appeared on my fire escape one day. I made the mistake of giving him some milk. I haven’t even named him. I call him Cat.”
I don’t tell Powers about Cindy, the little girl with the sad brown eyes who lives across the hall. She’s the reason I haven’t taken Cat to an animal shelter. She visits him nearly every single day. I’ve tried to give Cat to Cindy, but her mother refuses to let her keep him.
“Please, have a seat.” When I motion Powers to the sofa, I notice a pair of my thong underwear peeping out from between two cushions. As I’m lowering myself to the sofa beside him, I stuff the underwear out of sight.
“Forgive me, Mr. Powers, but this is all a little overwhelming. How do I even know you’re legit?”
From his wallet, he removes a business card that states he’s an estate attorney with a law practice by the name of Zimmerman, Harrison, and Powers in a place called Hope Springs, Virginia. “After seeing you, there’s no doubt in my mind you’re Billy Jameson’s daughter.” Sliding an iPad out of his messenger bag, he thumbs a few keys and hands it to me. “This was taken in his much younger years.”
A man about my age stares out at me from the iPad. The resemblance is eerie, like looking in the mirror. We have the same unruly brown hair and high cheekbones. But our eyes are different. His are a beautiful golden color while mine are big, blue, and round like Hannah’s.
So, my father isn’t some random dude who sold his semen to a sperm bank to buy drugs or pay for his education. This man, this Billy Jameson, is an actual person. Someone my mother knew in her past life. The fact that she’s gay only adds to my confusion.
The realization that Billy Jameson is dead, that I’ll never have the chance to know him, strikes me hard, and I fall back against the sofa. “How’d he die?”
“He had a congenital heart defect that didn’t show up until his late thirties. He was ill for a very long time. His passing was a blessing.” Powers’s handsome face is full of sorrow, as though he and Billy were close friends.
“Is this condition hereditary?”
“I’ve been told that it isn’t,” Powers says. “But I’d advise you to discuss it with your doctor to be certain.”
My mouth is suddenly as dry as the Sahara. Handing him back the iPad, I spring to my feet. “Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Powers?” Then I remember I don’t have anything to offer him. “I’m sorry, but I only have water.”
“I don’t need anything but thank you anyway. And please, call me Brian.”
In the galley kitchen, I fill a class with water from the tap and gulp it down. Refilling the glass, I take it back to the sofa.
In my absence, Powers has removed a file folder from his bag and opened it on his lap. He waits for me to get settled before he says, “You’re the primary beneficiary of Billy’s estate, the magnitude of which is substantial.”
I wonder if substantial means I can now afford to pay next month’s rent. But I immediately feel guilty for even thinking it. A man is dead. My father is dead. “Does Billy not have any other family?”
“His parents are deceased, and he never married. The principal concern is a historic inn that has been in the Jameson family for generations.”
I move to the edge of the sofa. “Did you say inn? As in a hotel?”
He hands me two 8x10 photographs. The first is of a three-story stone building with cupolas and dormer windows, green awnings, and sweeping verandas.
“The main building has thirty guest rooms, ten suites, a restaurant, and multiple lounging areas.”
I move on to the next image, an aerial view of the property.
Powers continues, “The inn is located on seventy sprawling acres in the mountains of Virginia, just outside the small college town of Hope Springs. The outbuildings include a barn, caretaker’s cottage, carriage house, and summer house.”
I hand him back the photographs. “Charming. But I’m not sure what any of this has to do with me.”
“The Inn at Hope Springs Farm, including seventy acres of grounds and various outbuildings, now belongs to you. It’s your responsibility to manage it.”
“I’m a city girl. What would I know about managing a seventy-acre farm in the mountains of Virginia?”
“Based on your interest in hospitality, I would think you’d consider this a golden opportunity.”
Unfortunately, this golden opportunity comes with a price tag I’m not willing to pay. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not leaving New York.”
Powers closes the photographs in the file and tucks the file in his messenger bag. “Take some time to think about it before giving me your final answer. Coincidentally, I stopped by The Sydney on my way here. They told me that, as of today, you’re no longer employed there.” His eyes travel around the room, taking in my collection of cast-off furniture and the rolling garment rack that serves as my closet. “Looks to me like there’s not much keeping you here.”
He has a point. “If this farm now belongs to me, can I sell it?”
Powers’s face tightens. “I was just getting to that. There is one major stipulation of the will.”
“Of course. The catch. I knew this was too good to be real.” I fall back against the cushions.
He chuckles. “In your case, it’s not a catch but a provision. You’re prohibited from selling the property for three years.”
“What if I refuse your offer?”
“I’m not making you an offer, Stella. This is your inheritance. Billy let things slide during his illness. He left things in a state of disrepair. If you don’t give the property the attention it deserves, the inn will close for business. What is worth twenty million dollars today may only be worth five in three years.”
My eyes grow wide. “Did you say twenty million dollars?”
Powers shifts his body toward me. “That is bare minimum at today’s market price. The property is on the outskirts of town. The opportunities for development are limitless.”
I study the attorney, looking for a twitch or a smirk, a sign that he is lying. But I only find sincerity in his face. “Why didn’t Billy contact me while he was still alive?”
“He was a very sick man. He didn’t want to burden you with his illness.”
“Why did you come all the way to New York to tell me this? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just to call?”
“Billy left strict instructions for me to deliver the news in person.”
My father sounds like a control freak. “I have to give this some thought, Mr. Powers. I can’t make such a split-second decision without talking to . . . without thinking it over.”
Who would I talk to about this? Certainly not my mothers, the women who kept my father from me all my life. Or my boyfriend, who isn’t really my boyfriend. Rachel is the only person in the world I trust. And she’s in a serious relationship, soon to get engaged and be lost to me forever. I’m all alone in my so-called wonderful life in New York.
“I understand. But don’t take too long. In terms of the condition of the farm, time is of the essence.” Powers stands to go. “Who knows, Stella. You might find you like living in the mountains. The fresh air and beautiful scenery. And, if it interests you, you’ll have the opportunity to learn more about your ancestry.”