Chapter One
Two weeks after I graduated high school, Ronnie Lee Nors and I were sitting on the bench swing in my backyard, eating homemade ice cream. I’d just licked the chocolate syrup off my spoon so I could see my reflection to make sure my ponytail hadn’t sprung from its rubber band when Ronnie Lee popped the question. Suddenly, staring back at me on the spoon’s surface was a tired, haggard-looking woman with a runny-nosed kid straddling her hip. If it weren’t for the curly red hair, I wouldn’t have recognized myself. Mrs. Nors and my mother were privy to Ronnie Lee’s plan and were sitting at the kitchen table making out the guest list. At that moment, I realized life was short and I’d better get the hell out of Houston while I had a chance.
That liberating day is still as clear as glass shards. I shoved my bowl of ice cream into my now ex-boyfriend’s hands and ran upstairs to complete the application to the University of Texas, which had been collecting dust on my desk for the past six months. In my panic to save myself from domestic slavery, I persuaded my father to drive me to the university the next day. I turned in my application in person. Four years later I was teaching biology at Limestone Ridge Middle School in Austin and living in a cute little apartment off Enfield Road.
I’ve never, for a moment, regretted that pivotal decision. In a few months I’ll turn thirty—still single and still running from any man who gets too close. I have a successful career and can do as I please. When I left my apartment yesterday, the phone was ringing. I let it ring. I was due at my next assignment in Palacios, Texas, and didn’t have time to talk; even though there was a good chance the person calling was the hottest fellow to have ever come my way.
My name is Sydney Jean Lockhart. I recently left the classroom to pursue a new career as a reporter. My assignments usually involve travel and entertainment, but my recent exposé in the in the Austin American Statesman about the true people of Hot Springs, Arkansas, earned me the reputation as a budding journalist. The article caught the attention of the news editor, and landed me my current assignment here at the Luther Hotel; the fact that the reporter initially assigned to the story came down with measles helped as well.
“You snot-nosed, little punk!”
The sound of a sharp slap silenced my thoughts. I’d been watching the flirtatious behavior of an older woman with a young waiter as I sipped my coffee in the Luther’s dining room. When she threw a glass of water in the waiter’s face, my surreptitious glances lost all dignity and turned into a shameless gawk. The woman shouted a few expletives, rose from her chair, and slapped her napkin down. In her haste to leave the table, her bangle bracelet caught the tablecloth. Dishes and silverware flew. The embarrassed waiter was now on his knees gathering up pieces of broken china.
“My, my.” The elderly woman sitting at the table next to me had been watching the interchange, too. “She’s much too old to coquet with the help.”
“Evidently she didn’t have much luck,” I responded.
“This place used to be so dignified. A gentleman couldn’t enter the dining room without a coat and tie and women acted like ladies.” She smiled. “My name's Amelia Meadows.” She picked up her cup and saucer and moved, uninvited, to my table.
“Sydney Lockhart,” I said, sliding my trouser-clad legs under the table. The gesture brought my casual appearance to her attention.
“Don’t mind me, honey. I’m full of myself sometimes. Modern women are everywhere nowadays. Are you and your husband here for the Ball?”
“Yes and no. I’m a reporter covering the hotel’s anniversary and New Year’s Eve Ball. I’m not married.”
“You’re attending the Ball alone?”
“I won't be alone, Mrs. Meadows. Two hundred other people will be there.” You would think after all women did in the war, we would have earned the right to a little independence. But here it is, 1952 is coming to a close, and times are still archaic.
“Well, I’ll see to it that my husband, Preston, dances with you.”
“Preston,” I said. “Preston Meadows, the Lieutenant Governor, is your husband?”
“Retired Lieutenant Governor.” She held up her cup—her pinky looked out to the side. Youthful blue eyes sparkled over the rim. Although she must have been nearing eighty, her rose complexion was as polished and smooth as the Wedgwood set before us. “I wonder who that woman was,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen her around the hotel before.” Then suddenly, a conspiratorial look spread over her sweet face and her fine features turned sharp. I knew at that moment Amelia Meadows was not a woman to be reckoned with.
“Do you spend much time here?”
“We come here every year for several weeks in the winter. Have a suite on the third floor. I insist you join us for dinner tonight, dear. I want someone interesting to talk to. We haven’t missed this stupid Ball in three decades. The conversations are always the same; who’s making money, who’s losing money, and who’s been stuffing the ballot box. Frankly I’d much rather be in overalls digging around in my garden. I’ll introduce you to some . . . suitable young men. Not to worry.” She reached over and patted my hand. “You’re such a pretty, shapely little thing, I’m sure every man in the room will want to dance with you.”
Pretty and shapely? Well, maybe, but little? Now that required a stretch of the imagination, for I stand unfashionably tall at five feet, ten inches in my stocking feet.
The waiter, red handprint on his cheek, came by and presented our checks. Although it was ten in the morning, he was dressed in a tux, albeit soggy, wearing polished shoes which now squeaked when he walked. The Luther Hotel’s heyday was on the wane, as Mrs. Meadows had eluded, but the elegance and luxury had maintained a toehold. In the thirties and forties, this remote spot on the Texas coast was hopping. Camp Hulen, a nearby military-training facility, drew movie stars and celebrities eager to entertain the troops. A photograph, which hangs on the wall near the fireplace, shows Rita Hayworth dressed in sequins and silk, floating down the lobby stairs. During the last decade the Hollywood crowd has disappeared, but the Luther is still a place that attracts the Who’s Who of Texas society. With this year’s crowd, 1952 promised to go out with a bang, and I was here to capture every last moment.
“I’ll let you get back to work. Preston is probably wondering what I’ve been up to.” Amelia reached over to sign her check when something caught her attention. “Now look at that?”
I turned to see six elderly gentlemen waiting for a table at the hostess stand. They were all wearing skirts.
“That’s what I call dressing for a meal,” Amelia chuckled. “They must be here for the Scottish convention over in Bay City. Come by our room at eight, and call me Amelia.”
I didn’t argue. I’m sure Amelia Meadows was not accustomed to having people tell her no. Her husband, Preston Meadows, had been Lieutenant Governor of Texas for over thirty years before he retired last year. It’s a well-known fact that politicians made forays to the Luther to listen to Preston hold court on matters of eminent importance. Some people say the Luther Hotel is the Texas White House. Sitting at their table would give me an opportunity to meet some of the people I was scheduled to interview over the next few days.
Before I sat down to breakfast, I had gathered up a collection of photo albums and scrapbooks from the hotel library. Some of the pictures date back to when the hotel was built in 1903. The white, three-story hotel is separated from the Gulf of Mexico by a sweeping green lawn and a small, sandy beach. Built over the water is a pavilion where the infamous New Year’s Eve Ball is held every year. Guy Lombardo and his orchestra were scheduled to help dozens of the most influential and wealthy Texans ring in the New Year. It was also a special year for the Luther family. In a few days the hotel would celebrate its fiftieth anniversary.
I’d opened a scrapbook and began taking notes when I noticed the waiter peering at his face in the bar mirror.
“Are you okay?” I called. “That was an awful thing for that woman to do.”
He turned around and the rest of his face turned as red as his cheek. “You’re not going to tell Mr. Luther. Are you? I don’t want to lose this job. Besides, it wasn’t my fault. I tried to be nice to her.”
“I’m not telling anyone anything.”
He let out a sigh and walked over to my table with the coffee pot.
“I mean, she’s old enough to be my mother,” he said.
“She propositioned you?”
“It happens all the time. Single women stay at the hotel and—” He glanced at my naked ring finger. “I didn’t mean you . . . I always seem to put my foot in my mouth.”
“It’s okay. You’re safe with me.” I held out my cup for a refill. “What did you tell her?”
“I just said that she was old enough to be my mother.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jimmy, ma’am.”
“My name's Sydney. You need a better line, Jimmy. Try something like I'm working a double shift, or my mother is picking me up after work.”
“I never thought of that. Think it’ll work?”
“What have you got to lose?”
“You’re right. Hey, thanks.”
As I left the dining room, one of the Scots called out. “Scottish are you, lassie?”
Lockhart is an old Scottish family, but all I know about my ancestors is that they came from a small village near Kirkcaldy. Rumor has it Dad’s line of descendants were a bunch of rogues who had been run out of the country around the turn of the century. However, because of my red hair, the question had been asked many times before.
“Sydney Jean Lockhart,” I said, “from the Houston Lockharts.” They hooted, and I left before I had to explain the rogue thing.
© Copyright Kathleen Kaska 2009
