The Hiltons: The True Story of an American Dynasty Read Free

was a good one, Maria quickly set a table for one on the patio, starting with the unfurling of a fresh white organdy tablecloth. Many years later, her daughter, Connie, would recall, “My mother often told me that it was the same thing every day: One plate. One set of utensils. One cup for coffee. One glass for juice. She would put a single rose in a crystal bud vase as a centerpiece. As she would serve his meal, usually something simple like scrambled eggs or pancakes, Mr. Hilton would watch with a grim expression. ‘It’s just you and me, again, Maria,’ he would say to my mom. ‘It’s just you and me.’ They had that kind of relationship.”
    Conrad had been married, back in 1925, to Mary Adelaide Barron in a union that had produced three children: Conrad Jr.—known as Nicky—Barron, and Eric. He and Mary divorced in 1934, almost a year after Eric was born. The marriage ended so badly that some felt Conrad never really got over it. Because he was a devout Roman Catholic, the divorce left him perpetually unsettled, with deep unresolved conflicts of faith. Since then, he had dated a few women, but would always lose interest quickly. No woman ever seemed to have a permanent hold on his heart—not since Mary Barron, anyway.
    To say that Conrad Hilton was a good catch would be an understatement; he was already becoming known as “the Innkeeper to the World.” With a dozen hotels bearing his name having already opened in Texas, California, and New Mexico, he next had his sights set on New York and then… the world.
    Conrad was a new breed of businessman for his times—optimistic when there seemed little reason to be, especially during the war and the Depression. He had faith in America and in her ability to rise once again, to be a nation greater than ever before and to prosper if just given a bit of time to do so. But more than anything, he wanted to be at the forefront of this national renaissance. He was also a firm believer that the eventual expansion of his hotel empire to Europe would stimulate the tourist industry there, and by extension, the travel industry as well, bringing much-needed American dollars to the strife-torn continent.
    Instead of sitting down at the table on the patio to enjoy his breakfast, Conrad walked back into his elegantly appointed bedroom. Decorated with expensive antiques and fine oil paintings, this room, with its deep blue domed ceiling and expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, had long been a place of repose where the busy mogul could retreat after a hectic day. Maria de Amaté was the only one of his maids ever allowed entry into this sanctuary. She had made it her mission to keep the room alive with vibrant colors by filling it with fresh-cut flower arrangements on a daily basis. They permeated the room with the sweet fragrance of the outside gardens.
    Against one wall of the bedroom there was an old-fashioned handmade Spanish wooden bed, so austere in its design that it looked as if it belonged in a monastery. Next to it was a carefully constructed bedside shrine with religious statues, candles, prayer books, and a shiny gold crucifix before which Conrad would kneel and pray every night on a small Persian rug. When he was just a boy of about ten, his first confessor, Father Jules Derasches, had told him that if he said the Hail Mary and then “Saint Joseph, pray for us” three times in rapid succession, God would always take care of him. Therefore, every single day for the last forty-some years, he had made sure to start each prayer session with his God with those specific prayers, in that exact order.
    His religion was always a source of comfort for him. Still, he often wondered how it was that a man so accomplished could also be so lonely. “I guess you could say it’s the curse of the ambitious,” he observed to a close friend when describing his life. “Perhaps I am a walking cliché,” he would admit. “I have everything. Yet it sometimes feels as if I have little.”