The Grand Celestial Hotel shimmered beneath ten thousand Christmas lights when my old Toyota rolled into the circular drive on Christmas Eve. The car gave its familiar little rattle as it slipped under the covered entrance, its windshield catching the glow of the hotel lights until the glass looked dusted with gold. Snow drifted down over downtown Chicago in soft, patient flakes, turning the sidewalks glossy and silver.
Beyond the portico, the city moved in bright December layers: traffic on Michigan Avenue, office towers glowing late, people hurrying through the cold with shopping bags and wrapped gifts tucked under their arms. The Grand Celestial was the kind of hotel people slowed down to look at. Valets in crisp black uniforms hurried between polished cars and revolving glass doors.
A black Mercedes glided ahead of me. A Range Rover followed close behind it. Then came a silver Bentley so clean and gleaming that the lights above seemed to slide across its hood like water.
My Toyota idled in the middle of all that wealth. It waited there, plain and practical, with a small dent near the rear bumper and a heater that made a clicking sound on cold mornings. The young valet who finally approached me could not have been more than twenty-two.
He wore a polite smile, but his eyes made the quick little calculation people often made when they saw an old car in front of an expensive place. He looked at the Toyota, then at me, then at the covered entrance behind him. “Good evening, miss,” he said.
“Are you here for an event?”
“Family gathering,” I said, handing him my keys. “Under the name Chin.”
Something in his expression shifted. “Oh,” he said.
“The Chin party. They’re in the Grand Ballroom tonight.”
“That’s right.”
“You can leave your vehicle here.”
“Thank you.”
I stepped into the cold and opened the trunk. My duffel bag was small, dark blue, and worn soft at the corners.
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