Chapter 21: The Rostrum

Ford's POV

She said, "Ask me in daylight," into my chest, and she fell asleep.

I lay awake and looked at the gold ceiling until it turned gray.

At seven she woke and found me watching her.

"It's daylight," I said.

"It's barely."

"Marry me again."

She propped herself on one elbow, with her hair across her face.

"Do the board first," Dessa said. "Say what you came to say to those people."

"Then ask me again, and I'll answer."

"You want me to earn it."

"I want you to do it sober and in a suit." She almost smiled. "The suit's your friend's. Return it."

At ten on Monday, I stood at the rostrum in the Bexley Hotels boardroom on the nineteenth floor.

I had never stood in that room.

I had walked past its doors at twenty-six with a duffel bag, the week my father died.

I had not looked in.

Nine directors faced me.

Lowell sat at the head of the table with his hands folded.

Dessa sat at the foot in her navy dress, with her chin up.

There was a podium, and a glass of water, and a microphone I did not know how to talk into.

I put my hands on the wood.

"My father left me a vote," I said. "I've had it for ten years and I never wanted it."

Nobody moved.

"I'm not going to run this company."

A man down the left side shifted his weight.

"I don't know hotels. I know boats," I said.

"I'd be bad at it, and you'd lose money, and a lot of people would lose work."

I looked at Lowell.

"My brother ran it for thirty-four years, and he ran it decently until he stopped looking."

Lowell's jaw moved.