“Excuse me, sir. Are you a guest of the hotel?”
Jeff turned toward the deep voice with an accent that reminded him of someplace warm and tropical. A young man with skin as dark and smooth as mahogany stood over him, dressed in an impeccably tailored white jacket and black slacks. Balanced at his shoulder was a silver tray of crystal stemware that winked in the late afternoon sun.
Jeff had sought out a far-reaching corner at the west end of the hotel’s expansive porch and was stealing a moment to relax after a day packed tight with travel: first by car, then plane, then another plane, another car, a ferry, and, finally, a horse-drawn taxicab. With his feet planted firmly on the carpet of the Grand Hotel’s lobby, he’d found himself thinking about the fact that he’d have all that travel to repeat, in reverse, in less than forty-eight hours.
He was enjoying the brisk autumn air that swept up from the Great Lakes, wondering how the fishing was, when he’d been asked if he was a guest of the hotel.
“Yes,” he said, irritated with the interruption yet curious whether the employee was about to offer him a drink.
“Our dress code began at six, sir.”
Automatically, Jeff checked his watch. Although he’d moved it forward three hours in order to allow for the change from Pacific to Eastern time, he’d completely lost track.
He looked down at his khakis and retro-print shirt with woodies, surfboards, and palm trees in muted blues and tans, then nodded to the employee and made his way to his room.
His suite—The Lord Astor, he’d been told—was located on the fourth floor and offered a “stunning view,” according to the desk clerk, of the Straits of Mackinac and the five-mile-long bridge that connected Michigan’s upper and lower peninsulas. The room had a navy blue color scheme and typical amenities (coffeemaker, safe, hair dryer), which were juxtaposed with an antique bedroom set—Sheraton design, he believed, although identifying furniture wasn’t his strong suit. The tester bed and a straight-front chest of drawers were carved of mahogany, with well-executed detail that alluded to the fine New England work of the early 1800s. It had never been explained to Jeff just when the Latin word testa—”head”—had come to be applied to the canopy of a bed.
The view from his balcony was even better than the clerk had intimated, but the room wasn’t what Jeff had hoped for.
A few days earlier, he’d tried to secure the Napoleon Suite with no success. Jeff Talbot, who was not given to premonitions, had had one about the suite and believed that it would somehow assure his acquisition of Blanche’s Napoleonic cabaret set.
He checked the weekend schedule and made a mental list of the festival’s events he planned to attend. Friday—that was tonight—the gala preview party; Saturday morning, he’d catch a seminar or two, view the antiques slated for Sunday morning’s special auction—specifically, the cabaret set—and check out the booths. Following that would be a luncheon buffet, more seminars, afternoon tea at four, then a break for everyone to get decked out for the final evening of the festival. He’d head back to Seattle immediately after Sunday’s auction.
He dressed in tan slacks, a French-cuffed white shirt, and a Frank Lloyd Wright tie with the usual architectural influence in black, tan, eggplant, and sage. All this was orchestrated around a pair of vintage cuff links from his collection. Made in the 1940s, they were large oval disks of African ivory, inlaid with stalking tigers of jade with glinting amethyst eyes, all set in eighteen-karat gold.
He had a few minutes to spare, so he hung his black sport coat on the valet and seated himself at the desk.
He took a sheet of stationery and an envelope from the leather folder. It was heavy stock, printed with a detailed etching of the hotel in reds and greens and yellows. He picked up a pen and began to write.
My Dearest Sheila,
I’ll bet you thought I might forget to write you from this fabulous place, thus robbing your aptly named “Private Hotel Stationery Collection” of a treasured entry. Not a chance.
It’s heaven here, or as near as I’ve seen (apart from The Emerald City, of course) in a very long time. The absence of vehicles, combined with the Victorian charm of this little island, has put me in an immediate state of calm. I couldn’t ask for better weather, and the Great Lakes are more formidable than I’d expected. Two days here will do me more good than a month practically anywhere else.
Red geraniums are everywhere here at the Grand, from the actual plants in lattice boxes that run the length of the front porch to the ones woven into the carpets and printed on everything from the directory to the cocktail napkins. You would love it.
Although my suite isn’t the one I wanted, it’s plenty comfortable. The feature I find most appealing is the balcony. I’m on the fourth floor and the bird’s eye view (as it were) reminds me a little of the one from our own widow’s walk: large stretches of water, gardens bright with fall color, rooftops, church steeples, the town below. I can see the bridge, too, a five-mile-long span which connects the state’s upper and lower peninsulas. Impressive.
I have good feelings about this trip and am confident that I’ll be returning with Blanche’s prize.
Likely, I will feel your touch before these pages do—not a complaint, I assure you. When you have read this, find me, kiss me...
All my love,
Jeff
Jeff put on his jacket and, feeling festive, replaced the conservative three-point pocket square with a tan flounce of silk pinstriped with sage.
He slipped a slim wallet into his breast pocket, seized his room key from the credenza—he was amazed and comforted to find that it was a real key and not a plastic credit card look-alike—and headed out the door.
He heard the elevator open, then he saw a young couple step into it and out of sight. The man, tall and blond and deeply tanned, stuck his head out and told Jeff they would hold, then disappeared back inside.
Jeff picked up his pace and hurried into the waiting elevator.
The young man punched the button for the first floor. “Are you here for the antiques?”
“Yes,” Jeff replied. “My first time.”
“You must have been drawn here by the special auction.”
“Right again. But I understand tonight there’s a preview of all the booths.”
The young woman laughed. “Previewing the items takes a backseat to previewing the people, Mr.—?”
“Jeff Talbot.” He thought he was watching a scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The woman wore deep red lipstick, the quintessential little black dress, large fifties-style black sunglasses, and a picture hat over her glossy black hair.
She extended her hand. “I’m Jennifer Hurst, and this is my husband, Ben. When you’ve attended this event for as many years as we have, you learn to check out the competition before you check out the antiques.” She removed her glasses. Her brown eyes had a playful light. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Sweetheart,” Ben said. “You’re going to scare Mr. Talbot away.”
“Call me Jeff. And I don’t scare that easily.” He smiled. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have chosen antiques as a profession.”
“Profession?” Jennifer leaned in. “Are you one of the sellers?”
Jeff laughed. If he wasn’t careful, this one would try to buy the gold from his teeth. “Actually, I’m a picker.”
“A picker?” Ben said. “You could’ve fooled me.”
“I get that a lot.” He looked at Jennifer. “What do you collect?”
“Several things, but mostly porcelain: vases, figurines, dinnerware, tea sets. What about you?”
Jeff’s heart missed a beat. Were they here for the cabaret set? There was no way he could ask. “Like I said, I’m a picker. Mostly, I find items for others—”
“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t tell him what we came here for.”
“Don’t be silly, Ben. It’s his first year here, and we know who to go to first for what we want.”
The elevator door opened with a jerk, and Jennifer quickly replaced her dark glasses. As the three stepped into a flurry of animated, well-dressed people holding champagne glasses and balancing small plates of hors d’oeuvres, Ben said, “We’re having dinner with a friend after the preview. Would you join us?”
Jeff liked the young couple and would welcome the company under any circumstances. Considering Jennifer’s last statement, however, he was especially appreciative of the dinner invitation. He wanted to know if this pair was after the tea set, ‘and if dinner would be his best chance to do some discreet investigating. He wasn’t one to use people, but he would need to be on top of things if he was going to end up with it. “I’d love to.”