But no more remembering.
She had a mission.
Antonia marched through the main entrance, into the lobby, right over the fancy tiled floor, right up to the desk, gaining a few stares from the toffs who probably wondered why she was walking in, bold as brass, rather than coming in through the ladies’ door. As she’d hoped, the nob with the over-starched stand-up collar standing behind the desk hurried over, saying, “Excuse me, miss, can I help you?”
“You can, my good man.” She used a haughty, high-toned voice, like the one that Mrs. Stannert had used when talking to the Palace “staff.” For good measure, she tilted her nose in the air so she looked high and mighty herself. Good thing she was wearing her school clothes and they weren’t all mussed up. “I must speak with Mr. Gallagher. Please tell him I have an important, private message for him from Mrs. Stannert.”
“Certainly. Why don’t you wait in here?” Starched-Collar Nob marched her out of the lobby and into the ladies’ reception room.
“And tell him,” Antonia continued imperiously, “that it is a matter of some urgency, about his son.” That’ll get his attention. “But I must speak with him privately,” Antonia admonished.
Nob did a small bow, so she must’ve done it right. “Of course, Miss. May I tell Mr. Gallagher who is calling?”
She hadn’t expected that. “I am Miss Gizzi, a ward of Mrs. Stannert’s. However, my name will not mean anything to him. Just tell him, please, that it concerns Master Robert Gallagher.”
Now the nob seemed a little suspicious, but he inclined his head and said, “Please wait here, Miss Gizzi.”
The waiting took longer than she thought it would. At first, she thought maybe Gallagher wasn’t in and she’d end up cooling her heels until he returned from wherever he was. And then, she started to wonder if maybe Gallagher hadn’t gone off to see Mrs. S. Maybe even now he was demanding what did she think she was doing, sending a messenger girl when it should have been the missus herself coming to tell him whatever it was that was so urgent?
She started to seriously sweat in her flannel petticoat and woolen stockings. It was because it was so warm inside, she told herself, not because she was nervy or anything like that. She’d just taken off her glasses to clean them—they were all fogged up—when a bellboy came into the reception room and looked around. His gaze stopped on her. She hastily stuffed her glasses in a pocket as he walked over. “Miss Gizzi.”
“That is I,” she said primly.
“Mr. Gallagher will see you now. Please follow me.”
They headed for the elevators, and Antonia silently rejoiced. When she and Mrs. S were staying at the hotel, Antonia’d loved going up and down in the elevators. She could’ve done it all day. The grille closed, and the operator pulled levers, pushed buttons, and the elevator rose silently, giving her that special thrill in her stomach.
They rose higher and higher. “Seventh floor,” announced the operator.
That was when Antonia began to wonder if she’d made a mistake.
The seventh floor held some of the grandest of the grand rooms. The ones with really tall ceilings and windows that looked out over the city, making you feel like you were living in the clouds. Antonia knew this because the bellboy who’d fed her the bosh about millions of bricks had once brought her up here and opened a door to let her peek inside.
And now, she was being led right to one of those doors! For a corner room!
Antonia began to sweat more.
The bellboy knocked. A voice inside called “Enter.”
He opened the door, said, “Miss Gizzi, sir,” and turned to Antonia giving her that head-wag that said, “Go on, get in there!”
Knees quaking, Antonia entered. The bellboy closed the door, nearly clipping her heels. Her feet sank into the deep carpet as she looked warily around. The far windows, curtains drawn back, gave her the view she expected—a view of the city, fit for gods, letting in light that almost blinded her.
The man standing in the middle of the parlor was dressed like he was going to some swank party on Nob Hill, even though it was only afternoon. He was older and taller than Antonia thought he would be, with silver hair, and a dark mustache and eyebrows. But then, she’d only seen him from above through the knothole. His eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, although all he said was “Miss Gizzi, is it? You told the front desk officer that Mrs. Stannert sent you. Is that true?”
He didn’t invite her to come in, have a seat. And Antonia was glad, because she wanted to stay right where she was, with the doorknob close at hand for a quick escape.
She’d originally intended to quiz whoever claimed to be Mr. Gallagher to be sure she had the right gent, but she’d abandoned that idea the minute she’d stepped into the room and saw him.
This was Mr. Harry Gallagher, for sure.
And now, all she wanted to do was say what she’d come to say and get out as fast as possible. “I have a message for you. From Mrs. St-Stannert,” she stuttered. “About your son, Robert Gallagher.”
The frown deepened. His words were “And that message is?” but his tone said things like I am a busy man and don’t keep me waiting and definitely I doubt you are who you say you are.
The speech Antonia had worked up on the way to the hotel now came out in a nervous jumbly rush. “Mrs. Stannert wants you to know, he, uh, your son, he’s in the city. He changed his name to Jamie, uh, James Monroe. He’s a pianist. And, I’m sorry sir, I really am, but he’s dead.”
Mr. Gallagher didn’t move, but Antonia got the distinct impression
