In the third month after the divorce, I sold the Westbury Hotel.
The buyer was Whitmore Hospitality Group. Their offer was reasonable, and the process was straightforward. I retained the memorial wall on the ground floor. It held old photos from my mother's early days in business, as well as the story of the hotel's journey from decline to revival. On the day of the handover, I looked one last time at my mother's portrait in the lobby, took it down, and brought it home.
Baxter yawned at my feet.
I now lived in a small house on Seabrook Island. The yard was large enough for Baxter to run across the lawn all afternoon. I hired a dog walker and a gardener, and sometimes I cooked for myself. I made the pot roast my mother taught me to make before she died seven times before I finally recrea
