Chapter 2 - THE ENVELOPE AT THE PRIVATE GATE
The wrought-iron gates of the Seacliff Grand rose out of the coastal cypress trees like the entrance to an ancient European estate. Valet attendants in gold-trimmed jackets were rushing around, parking pristine Bentleys, Mercedes-Maybachs, and Ferraris.
I pulled my mud-splattered black SUV into the private executive lane behind the kitchen loading docks, bypassing the grand portico.
The moment my tire tread hit the stone pavers, a tall figure stepped out from the shadow of the service entrance archway.
Martin Hayes.
He wore his customary charcoal three-piece suit, crisp white shirt, and silver pocket watch chain. Martin was sixty-one years old. He had managed the Seacliff Grand for twenty-three years, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my father through three economic recessions, two major hotel expansions, and the painful six months my father had spent dying in a hospital bed upstairs in Suite 800.
I stepped out of the vehicle. The cool sea air hit my face, but I barely felt it.
Martin didn't look surprised to see me. His expression was a fortress of solemn respect, though his eyes burned with an anger he was far too professional to speak aloud.
"Mrs. Whitaker," Martin said quietly, stepping forward.
"Martin," I said, my voice hoarse. "Who is in there?"
"Nearly two hundred people, ma'am," Martin replied, his tone low and even. "City council members, three hotel syndicate investors, prominent local press, and Miss Mercer’s family from Sacramento. Mr. Whitaker booked the Grand Ballroom four weeks ago under a private corporate ledger code."
"A corporate code," I repeated, a bitter taste rising in my throat. "He paid for his secret wedding to his pregnant mistress using my father’s company money."
"Yes, ma'am." Martin reached into his inner jacket pocket. He pulled out a thick, heavy envelope made of aged ivory parchment. The edges were stiff, sealed with red wax.
Across the front, written in sharp, sweeping, instantly recognizable blue ink, were four words:
For Claire Alone.
My breath hitched. "My father’s writing."
"Yes."
"When did he give you this?" I asked, my fingers brushing against the cold red wax seal.
"Three weeks before he passed," Martin answered softly. "He called me to his bedside at three in the morning. He was very weak, Claire, but his mind was sharp as a razor."
"Why didn't you give it to me when he died?" A flash of hurt pierced through my shock. "Why keep this from me for six months, Martin? You were like a second father to me."
"Because Arthur gave me very explicit, very strict instructions," Martin said, looking directly into my eyes. "He said, 'Martin, do not give this to my daughter on the day I die. Do not give it to her during her grief. Give it to her the first time she returns to Seacliff ready to stand on her own two feet and make her own decisions.'"
A sudden burst of loud, joyous applause echoed from the open stained-glass windows of the Grand Ballroom above us. The orchestra segued into a triumphant rendition of Mendelssohn.
Martin glanced up toward the ballroom, his jaw tightening.
"I believe," Martin said quietly, looking back at me, "that time is right now."
I gripped the ivory envelope firmly, sliding it deep into the structure of my structured leather handbag. I smoothed down the front of my black Dior dress, checked my reflection in the dark tinted window of my car, and pulled off my silk headscarf, letting my dark hair fall down my back.
My mother’s diamond teardrop earrings caught the afternoon sunlight through the fog.
"Is hotel security on the floor, Martin?" I asked calmly.
May you like
"Eight men, ma'am. All loyal to your father’s memory. They are waiting for your signal."
"Good," I said, looking toward the heavy bronze double doors leading into the main foyer. "Let’s go inside."
