They Gave My Sister the Hotels, So I Stayed to Take Them Back novel · Chapter 1 of 32
Chapter 1: The Toast
At her father's memorial, Elise is cut out of the hotels and served an auction notice with her signature dated the day of her surgery; she refuses in front of everyone, and Damon tells her her father saw that signature.
My mother handed me the champagne bottle in front of three hundred people and told me to pour.
"Start with the head table, Elise," she said. "Your sister first."
The Harbor Ballroom smelled like lilies and the Gulf.
My father's photograph stood on an easel by the windows, sixty-seven years old and laughing at something off to the side.
He'd been dead eleven days.
I was nine weeks out of liver surgery, and the bottle was heavy.
I poured anyway.
Vanessa held up her glass without looking at me.
Her ring caught the chandelier and threw little lights across the tablecloth.
"Not so full," she said. "I'm speaking."
Damon Halberd laughed beside her.
He wore a pale linen suit to a memorial.
Nobody seemed to mind but me.
My mother tapped the microphone.
The room went quiet for Lucinda Bell.
"Thank you all for coming," she said. "My husband loved this hotel more than anything he ever built."
She let that sit.
"And he trusted his family to carry it."
I set the bottle down on the head table.
"As of this week, our daughter Vanessa controls all three Bellweather hotels," my mother said. "The board has named Damon Halberd our chief executive."
The applause started near the front and rolled backward.
I didn't clap.
I stood there in my black dress with my hands at my sides and waited for my name.
It didn't come.
Vanessa rose and kissed our mother's cheek.
Damon rose and kissed Vanessa's mouth.
Someone near the bar whistled.
"Elise," my mother said, still into the microphone. "The bottle, darling. People are waiting."
Three hundred faces turned to look at me.
The bellmen I'd known since I was a child. Dad's golf friends. The mayor's wife.
Dorinda Dillard, our head housekeeper, by the service doors with her arms folded.
I picked up the bottle again.
A man in a gray suit was making his way along the head table.
He wasn't holding a glass.
"Elise Bell?" he said.
"Yes."
He held out a long envelope.
"I'm with the bank. You're being served as guarantor."
My mother's smile didn't move.
I put the bottle down and opened the envelope.
Notice of foreclosure sale.
The Bellweather, 2400 Seawall Boulevard.
Auction in thirty days, on the courthouse steps.
Fourteen million dollars, borrowed against this hotel.
Not one payment made.
And on the last page, the personal guarantee, signed Elise Bell.
It was my signature.
It had the little hook at the top of the E that my mother taught me when I was five.
It was dated February 10.
I remembered February 10 very well.
On February 10, a surgeon cut a third of my liver out while I was unconscious on a table in Houston.
"Is there a problem?" Damon asked pleasantly.
The bank officer cleared his throat.
"Ma'am, I'm only here to serve."
"I know," I said. "Thank you."
I folded the notice once and held it against my chest.
Vanessa leaned toward the microphone.
"Lise, can we not do this today? It's Daddy's memorial."
"Then you shouldn't have let him bring a bank officer," I said.
A few people laughed nervously, then stopped.
My mother's hand closed on my arm.
Her rings pressed into the inside of my elbow.
"You'll go upstairs and lie down," she said, very low. "You're not well."
I took the microphone out of her other hand.
The feedback squealed across the ballroom.
"I'm sorry," I said into it. "I'll be quick."
Three hundred people went silent.
"This hotel has been mortgaged for fourteen million dollars," I said. "The bank says it'll be auctioned in thirty days."
Somebody at the back said, "What?"
"The loan has my signature on it," I said. "It's dated the day I was in surgery. I was under anesthesia. I didn't sign anything."
Vanessa's face went white, then pink.
Damon didn't move at all.
"So I want everyone in this room to hear me," I said. "That isn't my signature, and I'm not leaving."
I looked at the bellmen, and the waiters with their silver trays, and Dorinda.
"Nobody sells this hotel while I'm standing in it."
I handed the microphone back to my mother.
She took it like it was dirty.
The room broke into a hundred conversations at once.
Vanessa hissed my name.
Dorinda, by the service door, unfolded her arms.
I picked up my purse.
My side ached where the scar ran under my ribs, and I didn't care.
Damon came around the table and stopped close enough that I could smell his cologne.
He was smiling for the room.
He bent his head.
"Your father saw that signature, Elise," he said softly. "Why do you think he cut you out?"
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