Cutler 04 - Midnight Whispers

can come along," Melanie finished. "Do you want to come, too, Christie?" she asked.
    "No, I'm going to see Mr. Nussbaum. He told me to stop by this morning."
    "The kitchen . . . ugh," Richard said.
    "You shouldn't despise the hotel so much, Richard," I chastised. "You're a Cutler."
    "He didn't say anything bad," Melanie snapped, coming to his defense quickly. It was as if I had said it to her.
    "It's bad to look down on our staff and give them the impression you feel superior."
    "We own the hotel," Richard reminded me.
    "But it wouldn't be any good to us if staff members didn't want to work here and do a good job," I said pointedly. The two of them gaped at me through their thick lenses, which magnified their eyes so they looked more like frogs than kids. Richard finally shrugged.
    "Let's go," he said to Melanie.
    "Oh," Melanie said, turning. "Happy birthday, Christie."
    "Yes," Richard cried like a parrot. "Happy birthday."
    Jefferson followed them away and I headed for the kitchen. Mr. Nussbaum's face brightened the moment he set his eyes on me. Mommy said he had been with the hotel forever and probably lied about his age. She estimated him to be in his early eighties. During the last few years, he had agreed to take on an assistant, his nephew Leon, a tall, lanky, brown-haired man with sleepy chestnut eyes. Although he always looked half-awake, he was a wonderful chef and practically the only person Nussbaum would tolerate interfering in his kitchen.
    "Ali, the birthday girl," Nussbaum said. "Come . . . see," he beckoned and I approached one of the counters on which he had trays and trays of hors d'oeuvres prepared. "There will be three different kinds of shrimp, each baked in a special dough, fried won-tons, fried zucchini and a cheese selection, some with ham and some with bacon. That one Leon made," he added and pointed. "Come," he said and took my hand to show me the fine cuts of prime rib.
    "I have a chicken in wine sauce for those who don't want the beef. See what my baker has made," he added, showing me the small rolls and breads. The breads were shaped into musical notes.
    "You can't see the cake yet. That's a big surprise," Mr. Nussbaum said.
    "It all looks so wonderful."
    "So, why shouldn't it be wonderful? It's for a wonderful young lady. Right, Leon?"
    "Oh, yes, yes," he said, cracking a smile quickly.
    "My nephew," Mr. Nussbaum said, shaking his head. "That's why I can never retire." He beamed his smile at me. "But you don't worry about anything. Just enjoy."
    "Thank you, Mr. Nussbaum," I said. I left the kitchen and headed for the lobby, but when I rounded the corner, I met Uncle Philip, who was coming from the old section of the hotel.
    "Christie," he cried. "How wonderful—a chance to congratulate my favorite niece privately. Happy birthday." He embraced me and pulled me to him and then pressed his lips to my forehead, softly at first and then, surprising me by continuing his kiss down the side of my head to my cheek.
    Uncle Philip was handsome, a debonair man who always dressed elegantly in tailored sports jackets and slacks with creases so sharp they looked like they could cut your fingers, gold and diamond cufflinks, gold rings, and gold watches. His hair was always well trimmed and brushed, not a strand out of place. I never saw him with shoes not polished into mirrors. His idea of being sloppy was wearing a jacket without a tie.
    Aunt Bet was just as prim and prissy, not wearing anything that wasn't in style or created by some designer. She never came down unless her hair was perfect and her make-up was applied to bring out what she believed were her best features: her long eyelashes, thin mouth and small chin.
    Uncle Philip did not release me after he lifted his lips from my cheek. He held me out at arms' length and looked down at me, nodding.
    "You have become a very, very lovely young lady, even lovelier than your mother was at your age," he said softly, so softly it was practically a whisper.
    "Oh no, I'm not, Uncle Philip. I'm not prettier than Mommy."
    He laughed, but still kept me in his arms. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I knew that Uncle Philip loved me, but sometimes I felt I was too old for his affectionate hugs and caresses and they embarrassed me. I tried to shrug out of his arms without being rude, but his hold grew a little tighter.
    "I like the way you're wearing your hair these days," he said. "Your bangs make you look very grown-up, very sophisticated." He ran his