Forbidden Fruit. Erica Spindler

didn’t have to ask permission to leave her corner. With her father she didn’t have to apologize or explain what she had learned during her penance. Her daddy always loved her, no matter what.

      He swung her into his arms and hugged her tightly. She hugged him just as tightly, feeling as if the day had just begun, sunny and full of promise.

      When he set her away from him, she knew by his expression that tonight she would hear her parents’ raised voices. Her father would call her mother too harsh, she would call him lenient. Her mother said that if left to him, Glory would grow up evil and wanton.

      Her parents’ fights always ended the same way—with absolute silence. Once, Glory had crept down the hall and listened at their bedroom door. She had heard her father groaning, as if he were in great pain. She had heard her mother’s breathless laugh. The sound had been triumphant and had seemed full of power.

      Something inside the bedroom had fallen, hitting the floor with a crash. Terrified, Glory had scurried back to her own room, climbed onto her bed and under the covers, drawing them tightly over her head.

      Breathing hard, heart thundering, she had waited—for her mother to come and punish her; for the morning when she would learn that her daddy was hurt or dead. What would she do if she lost her daddy? she had wondered. How could she live without him?

       She couldn’t, Glory had realized. She would die herself.

      She hadn’t slept for the rest of that night, the fears roiling inside her, colliding, stealing everything but her ability to cry.

      “Precious?” Her father tipped her face up to his, his expression concerned. “Are you all right?”

      “Yes.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she hung her head. “But I…I was bad, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

      He didn’t respond, but when she peeked up at him, she saw that his throat was working, as if he wanted to say something. She lowered her eyes once more. “I picked some flowers from the garden and gave them to Mr. Riley. He’s so nice to me, and I wanted to make him smile. He looks so sad sometimes. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

      Her father squatted in front of her and tipped her chin up. “It’s all right, precious. We have plenty of flowers in the garden. And it’s good to want people to be happy. I told your mommy that you can pick as many as you like and give them to whomever you like. She just didn’t know.” His mouth tightened. “Do you understand, Glory?”

      “Yes, Daddy. I understand.”

      And she did, because they had been through this many times before. But it was her father who didn’t understand. If she did as he said she could, whether it was picking the flowers, or running down the church steps after mass, or playing hide-and-seek without permission, her mother wouldn’t punish her, but she would still look at her in that way. The way that made Glory feel ugly and bad. The way that made her want to curl up and die for shame.

      Glory shuddered. She couldn’t bear that look from her mother, it was worse, much worse, than any amount of time in her corner, any amount of physical reproach.

      So, despite her father’s assurances, she wouldn’t pick flowers for Mr. Riley or anybody else—until she forgot again and acted without thinking first.

      “I have an idea,” her father said suddenly. “How about going to dinner at the hotel tonight? We’ll go to the Renaissance Room.”

      Glory could hardly believe her ears. Every Sunday after mass, for as long as she could remember, her father took her down to the French Market for beignets and café au lait. Just the two of them. Afterward, they went to the St. Charles, and he walked her through, explaining every aspect of the workings of the hotel to her, letting her spotcheck the café dining room, pretending not to notice when she sneaked nuts from behind the bar or chocolate mints from the cleaning carts.

      But he had never taken her to the Renaissance Room, the hotel’s five-star restaurant. Her mother said she wasn’t old enough, that she was too ill-mannered for the elegant restaurant.

      “The Renaissance Room?” Glory repeated. “Could we really?”

      He tapped the end of her nose. “We really could.”

      Glory remembered her mother, and her spirits sank a bit. Visiting the hotel wasn’t nearly so fun with her mother. When her mother accompanied them, Glory had to be quiet, as good girls are seen and not heard. She had to concentrate on her table manners, remembering to sip and nibble and use her napkin often. When her mother accompanied them, the usually friendly hotel staff was stiff and solemn; they never winked at her or gave her treats.

      Glory bowed her head. “Mama says I’m too young for the Renaissance Room.”

      “We won’t invite her,” he said, tilting her face back up to his. “It’ll be just you and me.” He grinned. “But remember, you’ll have to wear a dress. And your good shoes, the ones that pinch.”

      Glory didn’t care if she had to wear mousetraps on her feet, she still wanted to go. She threw her arms around her father, unable to suppress her excitement. “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you!”

      Glory did, indeed, wear the shoes that pinched. She and her father had only just arrived at the hotel, and already her toes hurt. Ignoring the discomfort, she gazed up at the St. Charles’s balconied facade, her chest tight with a combination of pride and awe. Glory loved the St. Charles, everything about it, from the old, paneled elevators that creaked as they took passengers up to the thirteen guest floors, to the constant flow of people moving through the lobby, to the way it always smelled, of furniture polish and flowers.

      Everyone here liked her. Here she could laugh and skip and have as many yummy minty chocolates as she wanted; here she could roam about at will, without worry of a scolding.

      And, too, she loved the hotel because it was completely her father’s. Everything here had been touched by him, and in a strange way, to her, bore his resemblance. She felt safe in the hotel, as if her father’s arms were wrapped protectively around her.

      Sometimes Glory thought that as much as she and her father loved the St. Charles, her mother hated it. Because she had no influence here, no say in how Philip ran the hotel. On a couple of occasions, Glory had heard her mother make a suggestion concerning the hotel, and Philip had responded sharply, in a way Glory never heard him speak to his wife.

      The valet rushed over and opened her car door. He smiled. “Hello, Miss Glory. How are you tonight?”

      She returned his smile, feeling very much like a grown-up lady. “Very good, thank you.”

      Her father came around the car and handed the valet his keys. “We’ll be a couple hours, Eric.” Her father took her hand. “Ready, poppet?”

      She nodded and they crossed the sidewalk to the hotel’s grand, leaded-glass doors. The doorman greeted Glory with a wide grin. “Evening, Miss St. Germaine. It’s nice to see you again.”

      She returned his greeting, acting as adult as she knew how. “Thank you, Edward. It’s nice to see you again, too. We’ve come for dinner.” She lowered her voice reverently. “We’re going to the Renaissance Room.”

      “Very good.” He opened the door for them. “I hear the strawberry sundae is excellent tonight.” He winked at her, and she giggled.

      Her father laced their fingers and together they stepped into the St. Charles’s sweeping front lobby. As always, her first moment in the hotel took her breath away. It was so beautiful, so grand. Above their heads, a huge chandelier sparkled like a thousand diamonds; under their feet, thick oriental carpets cushioned each step. The brass fixtures gleamed, the solid cypress woodwork had been waxed to a high shine.

      Her mother called the hotel’s decor tasteful opulence; Glory thought it, simply, the most beautiful place in the world.

      “You did very well out there, Glory,” her father murmured, squeezing her hand lightly. “I’m proud of you. You’ll