SEVENTEEN

ALL of New York knew the Three P’s: the Plaza, the Pierre, and the Palace.

On my coffeehouse manager’s pay, I could never have afforded a stay in a luxury hotel like the Parkview Palace. But once, when Joy turned eight, and Matt failed to return from one of his many sourcing trips in time for her birthday, Madame gifted us “girls” an extravagant overnight stay in a gorgeous Palace suite facing Central Park.

The three of us enjoyed an early-afternoon high tea in the hotel’s bright and lovely Sun Court. We took a carriage ride along Fifth Avenue, ending at FAO Schwarz, where Madame indulged little Joy in a toy-shopping spree. Finally, we decked ourselves out in brand-new dresses and dined among the rich and famous in the Palace’s legendary oak-paneled Lords and Ladies restaurant, where Madame and I (and even our stately, old, iron-jawed waiter) sang a quiet but heartfelt “Happy Birthday” to our little girl.

It was a day like no other, and I was grateful the memory remained intact—so vivid, in fact, I could still remember the crunch of the candied pecans on the Parkview’s famous Palace Salad; still taste the creamy, delicate sauce on its renowned Champagne Chicken; still see the peachy-pink blush on my daughter’s cheeks; and hear the sound of her giggles as an entire fine-dining restaurant turned to smile at her. It felt as though it had happened only a year or two ago, instead of nearly twenty.

Once again, I was missing my little Joy.

Not so little anymore, said that voice, deep inside me. And I struggled to control my desperate desire to see her again, to find out everything I could about the years I missed. Try to be patient. You’ll see her soon enough.

As we approached the hotel’s address, I realized Matt was entering the property from its 58th Street side, far from the Oz-like golden front steps and elaborate Parkview Palace crest that faced Central Park South. The intricately carved columns and those world-famous “five gargoyles” would have been fun to see again, too. I still remembered Joy’s eyes widening at the sight of that entranceway’s majesty, designed to impress the hotel’s well-heeled guests.

The back end of the Parkview was another story. Unremarkable office buildings flanked a gray loading dock and a very ordinary driveway, which led to the hotel’s paid underground parking garage.

Below the street, the fluorescent glare was strong, making it easy to read the posted signs warning visitors that security cameras at the Parkview had been “deactivated” during renovations. “Increased patrols” were promised. In the meantime, the public was urged to “exercise caution.”

“Is that why there are no cameras?” Matt asked his mother as he searched for a parking spot. “The hotel is under renovation?”

“That’s the excuse,” Madame muttered.

“Eureka!” Matt squeezed the panel van between a Saab and a Lexus, and we bailed out through the back doors. “Don’t take forever,” he warned. “I’m paying thirty-two bucks an hour to sit here.”

“Soldier on, my boy,” Madame replied, then began to lead Esther, Dante, and me across the underground garage.