The Hotel Next Door

by Elizabeth Cooke

Overview

Compelling intrigue and characters join Elizabeth, a New York City widow in her 60s, in "There's a Small Hotel," and its sequel, "Secrets of a Small Hotel." She returns to the small Hotel Marcel, in this, the third of the series. A new, five-star hotel, The Majestic, has been built directly next to the two-star Hotel Marcel, and an intense rivalry between the two explodes.

A Qatari sheikh, member of the conglomerate that owns The Majestic, arrives with entourage, including his beautiful daughter who is determined to shed her burka. She does so, much to the outrage of her father, who blames the small hotel next door for harboring her. More drama occurs with new love in the life of the narrator; an extremely merry widow resident of apartment 1 across the avenue; Christmas and New Year's in Paris; and the continuing duel between Hotel Marcel and The Majestic.

A fourth book, A Tale of Two Hotels, is in progress, to be released in the spring of 2015.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781458218513
Publisher:	Abbott Press
Publication date:	01/30/2015
Pages:	114
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.31(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Hotel Next Door

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By Elizabeth Cooke

Abbott Press

Copyright © 2015 Elizabeth Cooke
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-1850-6

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CHAPTER 1

J'Arrive!

IT'S CHRISTMAS TIME.

It's Paris time—and what a 'present' to myself to be here!

The Eiffel Tower wears a thin coat of translucent ice. As the weak sun melts it down throughout the day, it leaves a puddle at the base of each of the iron feet. At night, the tower glistens.

I am here again in my favorite place—the Hotel Marcel—with Jean-Luc Marcel, the owner, presiding at the front desk in the miniscule lobby. I am here again to enjoy the pure Parisian ambiance of this small hotel, and the company of friends I have encountered on previous visits, the most recent one being last May.

What a way to spend Christmas!

Who needs a turkey when there is roast partridge? Who needs eggnog when Champagne appears in a flute? Who needs pumpkin pie when there are macaroons, all crispy and sweet, to enjoy?

The other is very nice—very homey—but in Paris, although it is still very much Christmas, there is an understated, romantic atmosphere. The glorious monuments are lighted at night. The tour boats on the Seine are decorated with greenery, and The Eiffel Tower gleams with diamonds in the darkness as the toll of church bells fills the city of Paris with music.

Christmas time in Paris. Unforgettable. Inoubliable!

From my little room on the fifth floor of Hotel Marcel, I can step out on my balcony and gaze again at the three apartments that, in the past, have provided such entertainment. Like miniature stages, each has presented true life-crises of the most intense kind. Even murder.

Now, on this Friday of my arrival, this evening, as dusk descends, from my balcony I can see in apartment building 1, the apartment of the now widow Sylvie Vronsky LaGrange. The blinds are open, and the salon is lighted. There is a small Christmas tree in the corner, and although the widow is not in the room, the whole place is transformed, from rather pedestrian furnishings, to those of grand luxe!

My goodness. Sylvie has surely changed her spots. The sofa is velvet. There is a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a large gold framed mirror on the far wall. A new, red leash for Schnitzel, the dog, hangs by the salon door. I wonder who walks him now, since Sylvie's brother Kurt who used to have that duty, is in jail because he killed her husband, Emile LaGrange. Quel drame.

Into the fifth floor apartment of building 2, I can see nothing because silk drapes cover the large front windows. Who lives there now? It was Sasha Goodwin's duplex last year. Then Jillian Spenser, the British artist/ forger, also now in jail, lived there with her young daughter, Amelia, but who now? I must find out from Jean-Luc.

The fifth floor of apartment building 3 where the Frontenacs reside, is also closed from view, with damask curtains covering any possibility of seeing inside. Does Pierre Frontanac's illegitimate African-American son, Duke Pierre Davis, live with them? Quelle situation! I would doubt it although, en fin, they—even the wife, Elise,—accepted him as their own. What a fine young musician is Duke Davis. I must go hear him again at Le Club, the jazz boïte where he found a job as bass player.

Saving the best for last, as I close the French doors to the balcony and prepare for bed, I think of Brit. He had been with me in New York for a week in October. We were inseparable and close, intimate, companionable. His leaving was wrenching, but there was always Paris to look forward to at Christmas, the paramount reason for my being here.

Yet, when he left New York to cross the Atlantic, I felt let down, bereft. I still knew him not at all—in a way—his persona opaque and mysterious. What did I expect of him? At this age, me in my 60s, he close behind, just where do I think this will lead? What do I want from our couple-hood?

I am soon to get an answer of sorts, and one I do not want to hear.

CHAPTER 2

Brit

IT IS FRIDAY night, a week before Xmas.

We had New York in October—lovely golden days and nights under cool, midnight skies.

Now I am once more in Paris ... as arranged, earlier this fall, to meet again, at Christmas time in The City of Light, to be together, where 'Diamants en Pluie,' 'Diamonds in the Rain,' that beautiful expression of love he painted at the beginning of our romance, had been inspired! In this very room.

I am to call him at his studio/apartment in the Marais on my arrival at Hotel Marcel.

Now I do just that, my first night in town.

A woman answers.

"Who's this?" I ask.

"Marianna," is the reply. Then silence. "Who's this?" she asks, her voice hostile, suspicious.

In shock, I hang up. Marianna! His old lover?

I thought she had drowned. Brit had told me so, that she had committed suicide by walking out into the ocean, off the beach in Southern California.

And I believed him.

What? What? I think. Was his tale of past love a lie? Was Marianna's death a fable, and if so, why? I have taken all he has said on faith. I have loved him true.

And Ray Guild, my editor friend at Vogue. He would be as perplexed as I. Ray had told me of Marianna's untimely demise. He had warned me, in his own ironic way, that Brit had a beleaguered past, that there was mystery to his early years

Yet, Marianna! Back in his home! Oh God, this is hard to bear.

I guess I have the answer after all. It's one I cannot accept easily. It's an answer that brings tears on this beautiful night in Paris. All hope ... for what? For the love I expected, for one that I dreamed of, that trust seems lost in the smoke of deceit.

It's over, I think, as a curl on my side on the bed, legs drawn to my chest, cheek on a pillow that quickly turns wet with tears.

CHAPTER 3

'Fusion'

THERE IS A knock on my door around 8:00 o'clock. It is Isabella, asking me to join her and Jean-Luc at the bar of The Majestic, the new hotel next door, for a welcoming celebration drink on my return to Paris. Jean-Luc has told me that this grand place is owned by a conglomerate in Qatar.

I cannot say no, and hurriedly, I patch myself together, telling her I will be right downstairs in moments. With a quizzical expression on her face, Isabella leaves me to repair the damage of the 'Marianna' phone call.

Jean-Luc, Isabella and I are sitting at a small, round black table in the bar of The Majestic Hotel next door, called The Maj, by some of the locals. We are drinking a Pinot Noir, under the tented ceiling, as the small lamp with red fringe—one on each table—lights our faces.

The ambiance is exotic, different, and all three of us feel out of place, uncomfortable. I have decided to treat this meeting as a welcome distraction for my sorrowful heart. I force myself to smile as often as possible.

The bar is quite crowded with a sophisticated group of people-Asians, an Oriental pair at a corner table, several French persons, and directly next to where we are sitting is an American couple, so obviously American, it is embarrassing.

The two are both plump, pink-faced and self-satisfied looking. His voice is as loud as is his Christmas sweater, with its bright red and green reindeer motif. His laugh resounds. She sits there complacently—I can hear him call her Madge—which brings a large dimple in each of her cheeks as she smiles. And from her, one listens to her very Southern, 'Yes, Jerry honey. Yes, Jerry sweetie' as she responds to her noisy husband.

Out of the blue, I see Madge give me a little wave and mouthe the word 'American?' with a conspiratorial nod. I turn away chagrinned, sorry I am as obviously identifiable as American as are they. I feel hardly up to any gregarious interaction, least of all Jerry and Madge from the deep South, unless its dear friends like Jean-Luc and Isabella.

Suddenly Jean-Luc is on his feet. "Un moment," he says softly, and leaves us at the table.

"Hmm." I am curious.

"What is he up to?" says Isabella, but we see him crossing the lobby with its black and white tile floor, and he quickly rejoins us at the bar.

In his hand is the menu from the 'Fusion' dining room. He proceeds to read to us, from the enormous black leather bound list of entrees, appetizers, desserts.

"Listen: 'Coucous with dried currants, pistachios in sauce nutmeg.'" Jean-Luc is translating from the French for my benefit.

"Look at the price!" Isabel exclaims, leaning over his shoulder. "28 euros ... for the cheapest grain in the whole world."

"And no meat," Jean-Luc says. "How about 'Golden shrimp au printemps with jicama sticks, peas, broccoli florets, asparagus tips in ginger vinaigrette?'"

"Ouch", I say.

Isabella is laughing uncontrollably. "For Jean-Luc, who is master chef, this is too much."

"Oh, and of course there are pages of sushi choices," he continues. "They have a famous Japanese chef, évidemment, or so it says here."

"What about poor old coq au vin, or soufflé au fromage, or boeuf bourguignon? things French," I remark vehemently.

"Aha, Madame Elizabeth. That is it! That's where I have the advantage—the Hotel Marcel does—not that I have a restaurant chez moi—but I offer une ambiance vraiment française, something that The Maj cannot!"

Bien sûr," I say, with as much conviction as I can muster...with a broken heart.

CHAPTER 4

Duplex, Building 2, Fifth Floor

WE THREE ARE still at the bar of The Majestic Hotel on this Friday night of my arrival. I am determined to remain interested in life, even as my expectation of love seems to have been crushed. So I ask Jean-Luc about the duplex across the street that Sasha had occupied, followed by the art forger, Jillian Spenser, now incarcerated. "Is anyone living there now?"

"Indeed. The actual owners have moved in."

"Really. Who are they? Do you know them?"

"Absolument. Henri and Louise Croix. He is a diplomat. I believe he was the French Ambassador in Ethiopia for some years. He's an interesting fellow. Louise is...how do you say..."

"Excentrique?" Isabella interjects.

Jean-Luc laughs. "Oui, you could say so. Surely, she is an original."

"How so? I ask.

"I think she's kind of spooky, you know, with black, black hair and bluish-red lipstick." Isabella grimaces.

"A bit of a witch?" I say with a laugh.

"Exactly! She is bizarre ... mysterious. She talks in a very low voice of things occult, about the rituals she witnessed in their time in Africa," Jean-Luc intercedes.

"You sound as if you know her well, Jean-Luc."

When I say this, I notice that he glances slyly at Isabella.

"Eh bien, I guess I do. I have known her for years—before her marriage—she had a shop with very strange artifacts from all over the world. It was not very successful, but then she married Edouard. And now, well, I might as well tell you, but it's something of a secret, I am seeking to buy the apartment. They are staying there only until a house they purchased in a village near the Fontainebleau Forest is renovated. Then they plan to sell the duplex, or if they can't, re-lease it again."

"You want to buy the apartment?" I am surprised.

"And why not," he says, looking at a smiling Isabella. "Yes, I want to buy it. It's a great building. All three of those buildings across the street were built in 1928, very Art Deco which I love. And there's a parking garage on the side, which could provide parking for Hotel Marcel. Also, there are two separate elevators in the building, the back one for servants, in the old style. That's the way they did it in the past ... kept the servants separate."

"Yes, I remember," I say. "That's the way Kurt got to his brother-inlaw's bedroom—to kill him—by the back elevator. Of course, he had a key to the apartment to let himself in because he was always walking sister Sylvie's dog, Schnitzel. Yes, I remember—and the attic room where he lived above them."

"Speaking of that, the attic room in building 2 is now rented to guess who?"

"I have no idea," I reply. "Sasha?"

"No, not Sasha. Duke Davis!"

"Duke? Really? I am truly pleased. "I so like Duke," I say, "I really like him a lot, and I love his music. Is he still playing at Le Club?"

"Bien sûr. In fact, he is quite the headliner."

"I must go hear him play."

"Yes," says Isabella. "We'll all go. But about the apartment ... there's a large kitchen with a double oven Cornu stove with a gas top for Jean-Luc's cooking, and there's a balcony over the street with red carnations, and ..." She is bubbling, animated.

"How fabulous," I say.

"Fabulous is right," Jean-Luc says with a rueful grin.

"The Price! Now that's really fabulous!"

"Dare I ask the amount?" I inquire tentatively.

"One million nine-hundred thousand euros."

"Wow."

"Yes. Wow! But we're haggling."

"I didn't realize you planned to leave your apartment over the pharmacie."

"Well, it has just sort of come about. I love this avenue. I love the hotel, and the neighborhood. It will be perfect when I retire across the street in that apartment. I can cook my choucroute garnie, and watch my small hotel from my balcony. I'll be, as you say in America, up close and personal!" Jean-Luc beams a great smile, leans across the table and kisses Isabella.

Aha, I think. I see a future in mind, for the two of them.

I think of the Gershwin song. "They're writing songs of love but not for me. Although I can't dismiss, the memory of his kiss, I guess he's not for me."

Not for me. Dammit, Brit.

CHAPTER 5

Phone Tag

DUKE IS IN the attic room of apartment building 2, above the duplex belonging to Henri and Louise Croix, the apartment Jean-Luc is in the process of buying. How appropriate, I think. Duke is now one building away from his father, Pierre Frontenac—in apartment building 3—and directly across from his friends on the opposite side of the street, one of whom is me.

It is Saturday morning. I pick up my binoculars, a present from Jean-Luc a couple of visits ago when he found I was 'a little spy on the fifth floor.' He had been intrigued with this, hence the gift –'to make it easier.'

Out on the balcony in the cold freshness of an early day in December, I peer across the quiet avenue at the door to Duke's room at the top of building 2, a door that is divided in half, the top, when open, being the only window into the place. Right now, it is shut.

I return to my room, despondent, not from Duke's shuttered door—I would soon find him—but from having no contact with Brit. He has not called. Did that Marianna person tell him a woman had phoned? If so, did he assume it was me, and wonder how I might react to a female voice answering the phone in his tiny apartment?

I certainly have no intention of calling again, although I am aching to hear his voice. I hate how I need him.

But Marianna!

What excuse can he give? Marianna indeed. He can't get out of this one, and the hideous story of abortion, miscarriage, and suicide. What kind of man would create this lie to someone he cared about?

If he cared.

Well, it was nice while it lasted

No, it was beautiful, but then there is no fool like an old one.

The phone rings. I answer.

"Elizabeth?"

It is his voice and I slam down the receiver.

The phone rings again. I let it peal away. I decide I am not going to answer any phone calls, none at all.

It rings a third time, but only sounds twice. Then all is silent.

I sit on the edge of the bed, totally deflated. Here I am in my beloved Paris, acting the fool. I decide this is silly. Jean-Luc, Sasha, Sue de Chevigny, Ray Guild—old friends. I want to speak to them always.

I will answer the phone from now on. Should it be Brit on the other end, I will somehow know how to react to this man who fled to Paris to escape his past.

Or so it seems.

CHAPTER 6

Sunday

HAMAD ALBOUDI ARRIVES at The Majestic Hotel, the hotel next door. My balcony is on the same level as the nearest royal suite of The Majestic so it feels I can practically touch it, although there is another small balcony of Hotel Marcel next to mine in between.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Hotel Next Door by Elizabeth Cooke. Copyright © 2015 Elizabeth Cooke. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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