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It was almost a week before I presented my father with the letter fro out before he told Kennedy about the offer I’d spent the week drunk I’d spent it playing long ballads on et to the next I’d canceled lected work

“What’s this?” My father took the paper stained with drinks and food splotches It hadn’t left my hand

I had showered and shaved before appearing at the office At last I didn’t look like a man who had been desperately lost

“It’s from Lucien Martin,” I explained “I told him it wasn’t an acceptable offer” I waited for my father to read it He folded it

“He can’t have my hotel”

“I know”

He shoved the letter in a drawer in his desk “The Vieux Carre is critical”

“I told him you will have the hotel I don’t knohat else to say He’s not going to get it There are lots of way to make that happen”

“His daughter, though? Have you met her?”

It wasn’t a question I expected I nodded “I have”

“And?”

“She’s beautiful Se”

“But you’re not interested in a beautiful young girl?”

“The hotel is the cornerstone to your entire plan Trading Lucien’s daughter for that property isn’t a good move for you” I couldn’t even bear to say Kennedy’s name out loud

“What about for you?”