Suite Scarlett by Maureen Johnson Page B

thirties. Mrs. Amberson was settled on a small sofa in its dark paneled and richly appointed lobby. Where the Hopewell had sparkle (or used to have sparkle), the Algonquin had a deep, cultivated charm. And…guests.
    “It’s this or a short hospital stay,” she said, greeting Scarlett with a raised glass of a deep red liquid with a celery stalk sticking out of the top. “Bloody Marys are one of the truly medicinal cocktails. The only way I can beat this jet lag is by staying up all day, and this is going to keep me alive. And who is this?”
    This was directed at Marlene, who was stalking along behind Scarlett like a wet cat.
    “My sister Marlene. We were at an event this morning for her group.”
    Marlene dropped into a plush chair at the farthest end of the little table.
    “Group?” Mrs. Amberson said, pulling out the celery and taking a big bite out of the stalk.
    “Powerkids,” Scarlett said, sitting down a little closer. “It’s a cancer survivor thing.”
    This was usually the place where people would go into a long, “You had cancer? What a brave little girl you are! How terrible, at your age. You know, they say that children who have been ill…” Blah, blah, blah. It was always the same, and Marlene never listened to a word of it. Mrs. Amberson, however, didn’t say a thing. She just cocked an eyebrow at Marlene and jabbed her celery stick back into the glass. It was a strangely satisfying reaction for Scarlett, who was equally sick of hearing the speech.
    “I’m hungry,” Marlene said.
    Mrs. Amberson smiled lightly and passed Marlene the menu.
    “Help yourself,” she said.
    This, Scarlett had not expected. The Alonguin was a nice place, which meant it was also an expensive place.
    “I…um…I only have eight dollars on me,” Scarlett said. That was half of her current fortune.
    “It’s on me,” Mrs. Amberson said. “Get what you like, Marlene. You, too, O’Hara.”
    The menu was surprisingly heavy, bound in very thick pieces of leather. The food on it was fairly normal—just some sandwiches and snacks—all stupidly expensive, as she had figured. This was odd…being taken out to a place like this for lunch, by a guest, no less. She was supposed to be doing things for Mrs. Amberson, not the other way around. She quickly picked the cheapest thing and said water was fine. Marlene had no such compunctions. She ordered a plate of the house special miniburgers and a nonalcoholic pina colada with extra cherries.
    “A girl who knows what she wants,” Mrs. Amberson said.
    “Can I go make a call while it’s coming?” she asked.
    Oh, yes. The fifteen-year-old rule did not apply to Marlene. She’d had her cell phone for years. The excuse was that she needed it to call home when she was in the hospital, which was a pretty good excuse, but still.
    “Go right ahead,” Mrs. Amberson said. “I have some things to discuss with your sister.”
    Marlene skulked over to an empty sofa on the other side of the room, far from them.
    “I’m sorry,” Scarlett said. “She’s just a little…”
    “You are an interesting bunch,” Mrs. Amberson cut in. “And you don’t have to apologize. I hope you don’t mind that we’re meeting at another hotel. No offense to yours, but this one has a pedigree and a fabulous bar.”
    “You said this was your first time in New York in a while?” Scarlett asked, out of a sense of obligation.
    Mrs. Amberson smiled wryly. She reached for her cigarette case, then seemed to remember that she wasn’t permitted to smoke inside. She dropped it back into her purse with disappointment.
    “I used to live here,” she said, “some time ago. Back during the glam and the disco and the punk. But I was mostly a Broadway girl.”
    “Broadway?” Scarlett repeated. “You should talk to my brother. He’s an actor. He’s trying to get on Broadway.”
    “Sweetheart,” Mrs. Amberson said, “a quarter of the people in this town are trying to get on Broadway, another quarter