how, as my father got older, his feet would bother him if he had to stand still for any length of time and how he hated being in a crowded room with lots of people talking; he said he found it hard to hear what people were saying. I imagine the effort it takes for this man to feign interest in his niece’s half-baked writers. To his credit, though, I see his vague over-the-shoulder look resolve into something unexpected—perhaps to him as much as to me: genuine interest.
“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” he says.
I tell him—trying to pitch my voice loud enough for him to hear but not so loud as to seem to be shouting—and he repeats it, taking a sip of red wine from his tumbler and wincing. He is, no doubt, used to a better vintage.
“Iris is writing a memoir about her mother who was a fantasy writer,” Phoebe says.
I am?
“Well, I’ve just gotten started.”
“Who was your mother?” he asks me so avidly that I’m a little taken back.
“She wrote under the name K. R. LaFleur,” I tell him. “You probably wouldn’t have heard of her.”
“LaFleur.” Phoebe’s uncle swishes his cheeks back and forth as if he’s at a wine tasting. I half expect him to spit. “The flower. Perhaps her first name was a flower name?”
“No, her name was Katherine, but everyone called her Kay. I don’t know why she chose LaFleur . . .”
One more thing I don’t know about my mother,
I think. Perhaps sensing my confusion Harry Kron comes to my rescue.
“I’m sure she had her own reasons. My name for instance,
Kron,
means ‘crown’ in German and so that is what I named my first hotel.”
He pauses—a little pause like an orator who’s penciled in the spaces for applause or laughter—and I realize that I’m supposed to recognize the name. The name
Harry Kron
doesn’t register at first, but then the words
crown
and
hotel
do.
“The Crown Hotel,” I say, “near Grand Central? My father always said it was the best-run hotel in New York. He admired the whole chain. He modeled our hotel’s management on the Crown Hotels.”
I notice Harry Kron grimace at the word
chain
and realize I’ve blundered. Holiday Inn is a chain, Hilton even, but the Crown Hotels, a dozen gemlike establishments known for their luxury and exclusivity, are more like a line, as in a line of purebred racehorses or the descendants of royalty. “Jewels in the Crown,” they’re called, all listed in the blue Michelin guides my father kept on the shelf above his desk in the front office. I feel an ache in my throat. The sight of old men sometimes does this to me. This is what my father would have looked like if he were still alive. (Curiously, the sight of old women never has this effect on me; I can never picture my mother as old.) But this man has not only attained an age my father never will, he is everything my father always wanted to be—the quintessential hotelier.
“Ah, your father ran a hotel and your mother wrote . . . what an intriguing combination. Perhaps I knew your parents . . .”
“Oh no, I doubt it. It’s a small hotel upstate—the Hotel Equinox. My father was the manager for almost fifty years. He died last year.”
“I’m so sorry. And your mother?”
“My mother died in 1973, when I was ten.”
“Ah, like my sister-in-law, perhaps, Phoebe’s poor mother, too sensitive to live in this world.”
“She died in a hotel fire—not ours—I mean she was staying at another hotel. The Dreamland in Coney Island.”
Something like distaste passes over Harry Kron’s face and I’m not sure if it’s the mention of such a déclassé hotel or the idea of a hotel fire—every hotelier’s worst nightmare.
“Yes,” he says, “I remember the incident. So tragic. Fire is a hotel’s greatest danger and fire regulations were once quite lax. Even now not all managers are as scrupulous as they ought to be in fire prevention. The Crown Hotels have been leaders in fire prevention in the field. We installed
“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” he says.
I tell him—trying to pitch my voice loud enough for him to hear but not so loud as to seem to be shouting—and he repeats it, taking a sip of red wine from his tumbler and wincing. He is, no doubt, used to a better vintage.
“Iris is writing a memoir about her mother who was a fantasy writer,” Phoebe says.
I am?
“Well, I’ve just gotten started.”
“Who was your mother?” he asks me so avidly that I’m a little taken back.
“She wrote under the name K. R. LaFleur,” I tell him. “You probably wouldn’t have heard of her.”
“LaFleur.” Phoebe’s uncle swishes his cheeks back and forth as if he’s at a wine tasting. I half expect him to spit. “The flower. Perhaps her first name was a flower name?”
“No, her name was Katherine, but everyone called her Kay. I don’t know why she chose LaFleur . . .”
One more thing I don’t know about my mother,
I think. Perhaps sensing my confusion Harry Kron comes to my rescue.
“I’m sure she had her own reasons. My name for instance,
Kron,
means ‘crown’ in German and so that is what I named my first hotel.”
He pauses—a little pause like an orator who’s penciled in the spaces for applause or laughter—and I realize that I’m supposed to recognize the name. The name
Harry Kron
doesn’t register at first, but then the words
crown
and
hotel
do.
“The Crown Hotel,” I say, “near Grand Central? My father always said it was the best-run hotel in New York. He admired the whole chain. He modeled our hotel’s management on the Crown Hotels.”
I notice Harry Kron grimace at the word
chain
and realize I’ve blundered. Holiday Inn is a chain, Hilton even, but the Crown Hotels, a dozen gemlike establishments known for their luxury and exclusivity, are more like a line, as in a line of purebred racehorses or the descendants of royalty. “Jewels in the Crown,” they’re called, all listed in the blue Michelin guides my father kept on the shelf above his desk in the front office. I feel an ache in my throat. The sight of old men sometimes does this to me. This is what my father would have looked like if he were still alive. (Curiously, the sight of old women never has this effect on me; I can never picture my mother as old.) But this man has not only attained an age my father never will, he is everything my father always wanted to be—the quintessential hotelier.
“Ah, your father ran a hotel and your mother wrote . . . what an intriguing combination. Perhaps I knew your parents . . .”
“Oh no, I doubt it. It’s a small hotel upstate—the Hotel Equinox. My father was the manager for almost fifty years. He died last year.”
“I’m so sorry. And your mother?”
“My mother died in 1973, when I was ten.”
“Ah, like my sister-in-law, perhaps, Phoebe’s poor mother, too sensitive to live in this world.”
“She died in a hotel fire—not ours—I mean she was staying at another hotel. The Dreamland in Coney Island.”
Something like distaste passes over Harry Kron’s face and I’m not sure if it’s the mention of such a déclassé hotel or the idea of a hotel fire—every hotelier’s worst nightmare.
“Yes,” he says, “I remember the incident. So tragic. Fire is a hotel’s greatest danger and fire regulations were once quite lax. Even now not all managers are as scrupulous as they ought to be in fire prevention. The Crown Hotels have been leaders in fire prevention in the field. We installed
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