And an event it would be.
The San Francisco Palace, located in the heart of the financial district, took up an entire square block, and no expense had been spared. It boasted four identical, architecturally pure Palladian facades of limestone, with two stories of arched shopping colonnades interspersed with Ionic pilasters. From the core of this immodest landmark rose the all-suite hotel—forty-two stories of earthquake-proof high-rise topped by a recessed penthouse with private rooftop pool, wraparound terraces, and helipad.
There was a lot riding on the San Francisco Palace. It had been conceived as the standard by which all future hotels would be judged, combining Pacific Rim luxury with European hospitality and the best of American conveniences.
Per sqare foot, it was the most expensive hotel ever built.
A splashy grand opening was essential for its success. And it will be a success, Freddie thought, especially since Dorothy-Anne has everything to say about it.
He thought of her again and sighed. Chairman and chief executive of the Hale Companies, Inc., whose core business was Hale Hotels—the largest privately held hotel empire in the world—Dorothy-Anne was nothing if not a shrewd businesswoman.
She's never come up with a turkey yet, he thought. Nor will she ever.
And he should know; he was president and chief operating officer of the Hale Companies as well as Dorothy-Anne's husband, and father of their three children.
I can't spoil the grand opening party. Too much is riding on it.
Outside the porthole, the winter afternoon was rapidly dwindling. Twilight was at hand, the sun into which they were headed sinking into the sea of fleece. Far back, the first stars were beginning to prick the purpling eastern sky.
The jet engines droned healthily; up here, miles above the blizzard-lashed Rockies, he couldn't have asked for a smoother flight.
Meanwhile, time was fleeting.
Better use it to advantage.
But first things first. Dorothy-Anne was expecting his call.
He reached for one of the satellite-linked telephones and called San Francisco.
Dorothy-Anne sounded overjoyed. 'Oh, darling! I was so afraid you wouldn't make it. I was told the Aspen airport's been closed.'
'You know me,' he said. 'I've got the luck of the devil. Made it out just in the nick of time.'
'I'm so glad, darling,' she said softly. 'This evening's meant to be shared.'
'And it will be, honey. I just called to let you know I'm on my way.'
'Where are you now?'
'Somewhere over Colorado.'
'Darling,' she said, 'I can't wait to see you. I must confess, I still don't understand why you had to stop in Aspen,' she was saying. 'You made it sound so mysterious! I'm simply dying to know what it is.'
Deciding it was time to deflect the subject away from Aspen, he said, 'How's everything going at your end?'
'Oh, you know. Frantic, as expected . . . all your typical last-minute problems. Just minor ones, thank God. I'm so keyed up, I don't know how I'd handle a major crisis if one popped up.'
'And the monsters?' he asked. 'Have you spoken to them?'
Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'Actually, I just got off the phone with them. Talk about getting an earful about being left home alone! Liz is especially consummate at making me feel guilty. Nanny said what they need is a drill sergeant.'
He laughed. 'When you speak to Nanny again, tell her that as soon as we're back I'll give the troops a severe dressing-down.'
'You!' Dorothy-Anne hooted. 'You, who shamelessly spoils them rotten? That'll be the day!'
'If I spoil them, it's because I love them,' he said thickly, overcome by a rush of emotion. 'And I love you, too, honey.'
Suddenly it seemed imperative that he emphasize this, as if he might never have the chance to tell her these words again.
'I love you no matter what, and more than life itself. You do believe me when I say that, don't you?'
'D-dar . . . ling?' Her voice rose slightly in pitch. 'What's wrong? Is ... is it something with the plane?'
'No, no, no,' he assured her. 'There's nothing wrong with the plane. Why should there be?'
'I-I don't know. . . . It's just . . . there was something in your tone . . .
'Relax.' He tipped his head back. 'I'm fine and the plane's fine. There's not even the slightest turbulence.'
'Freddie . . .?'
'I'm still here.'
'I love you, too.' She paused. 'Arrive safely, darling, will you?'
'Don't I always?'
'Yes. Of course you do.'
Freddie hung up, turned his head sideways, and sat there, staring out the porthole.
Arrive safely . . .
Dorothy-Anne had sounded uncharacteristically uneasy—and worried.
Suddenly he was filled with a powerful sense of foreboding, a prescience of menace he was unable to shake. It was the kind of feeling he got when a storm was brewing and the air was full of electricity, or he awoke in the middle of the night, wondering what it was that had disturbed his sleep.
He stared out at the star-spattered night. The jet was hurtling through a darkness as clear as crystal and deeper than death, its wings calcimined by platinum moonlight. The thick sea of clouds below was silvery, and he could make out the aircraft's tiny, distorted faint shadow racing across them. The engines hummed confidently.
How silly of me, he chided himself. Everything's fine. Nothing's going to happen to me.
Gradually, he began to feel calmer. His heart slowed, and the sense of foreboding seemed to lessen its grip on him.
Suddenly there was a loud ca-rack! and the little jet pitched to starboard.
Freddie grabbed the armrests of his seat. The IBM Thinkpad crashed to the carpet, and loose objects went flying around the cabin.
What the hell—?
The jet slowly straightened.
Freddie's hands trembled as he depressed the intercom button. 'What happened?' he demanded hoarsely.
'Sorry, Mr. Cantwell,' the pilot said calmly over the speaker, so calmly he might have been parking a car in a garage. 'We had it on autopilot. We're on manual now. Wouldn't hurt if you fastened your seat belt, though.'
'But—'
'Just turbulence, sir. Nothing to worry about.'
Freddie buckled up. Just turbulence, he told himself. Nothing to worry about—
And then it happened again. Another CA-RACK! but a lot louder than the first. The plane lurched again, this time pitching to port. But instead of straightening, it continued to spin around, whirling sickeningly around and around like some carnival ride from Hell.
Freddie's heart was in his throat. He couldn't understand what had gone wrong. The plane was always kept in tiptop condition. Mechanics swarmed over it regularly. No expense was spared.
Then suddenly he became aware of the silence ... the sudden, horrible silence.
The engines had died, and without their thrust the jet was no longer propelled forward but cartwheeling straight down in a freefall, whistling as it plunged silently through the night like a whirling bomb, down, down, down through the clouds, and Freddie knew this was the last flight he'd ever take, and suddenly he could no longer hold his screams inside.
LoveMakers Page 53