“As you wish. Follow me please.”
And gracefully, she opened a door to the left which led to a long hallway made of marble. Amber and I followed behind the woman, our heels clacking loudly on the polished floor.
“Oh wow,” my friend breathed as we walked down the hall. “This is amazing.”
Because the passageway was decorated with various niches, and within each niche hung a painting or a sculpture, displayed to perfection under recessed lights that emphasized their grace and artistry. Each of these pieces had to be worth a fortune. As if reading our minds, Patricia turned, nodding.
“Yes, Mr. Major is a serious art collector, and he likes to put his things on show. This is only a small part of his collection,” she said obliquely. “I understand that only ten percent of his artwork is displayed at any point in time.”
I gasped. Could that be true? Because if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a Vermeer hanging to my right, with a sculpture from Calder on the left. Did this Mr. Major have more of these in storage somewhere? But Patricia had already moved forwards, and was turning to the right now.
“Come this way please,” she called. “Watch your step.”
Amber and I slowly followed, both of us with our mouths hanging open.
“Wow, this guy has to be loaded,” whispered my friend, eyes wide. “Even more than I thought.”
I nodded, swallowing heavily.
“It’s even better than a museum,” I managed in a strangled whisper. “It’s like a utopia.”
Because I didn’t go to college but sometimes, in my free time, I dream of being an art student. I love learning about a piece of work’s history, not to mention the techniques and thought that an artist puts into crafting a work. So while right now, I’m just a pool girl at the local country club, one day I hope to continue my studies and maybe work as a museum docent, or even better, as a curator at an art gallery.
That was all pie in the sky though. Right now, I was Kelsey Smith with the go-nowhere job and the flaky boyfriend who made lame excuses thinking that I wouldn’t find out. So I straightened my shoulders, whispering to Amber.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s see what this party’s about.”
But oddly, Patricia was leading us down a stairwell now, almost as if we were descending into a basement.
“Um, are there some lights?” I asked hesitantly. “I have really high heels on and don’t want to trip.”
“Certainly,” she nodded, flipping a switch somewhere. And suddenly, rows of wall sconces illuminated the passageway. I gasped because the walls of the stairwell were made of intricate mosaic, a beautiful sunburst pattern of gold, white and cobalt tile.
“Oh wow,” was my appreciative gasp. “This is amazing.”
“Yes,” said Patricia, her tone professional. “Again, Mr. Major spares no expense and the Manor is outfitted with the best of the best, from fixtures to decorative items to the pool area itself. I think you’ll like it,” she purred.
But if my spidey sense hadn’t gone off before, it was going full blast now. Because where in the world were we? I knew we were in the middle of the desert in Arizona at some rich guy’s place, but who was this person? And why did he have staff escorting us to his private pool party? Most parties I know have balloons out by the gate plus a sign with an arrow that reads, “This way.”
But it was too late because we were through the stairwell and into a lush indoor garden that overlooked a pool. Tinkling sounds of female laughter sounded out, as well as the low growls of men.
“If you’ll just remove your wraps,” said Patricia formally, “I’ll take them and make sure they’re safe. I’ll also need to go over some ground rules with you.”
I stood on my tippytoes, trying to see over the woman’s shoulder and into the pool area below. But the blonde wouldn’t budge, standing firmly in my way.
“Your wraps, please,” she said, holding out one hand expectantly. Amber nudged me.
“Come on, we’re almost there,” she whispered excitedly. “If his pool’s like the rest of his house, then this party’s going to be amazing,” she added. “Come on!”
And slowly, I undid the zipper at the back of my dress, stepping out of the gold fabric so that I wore nothing but my tiny bikini. Amber was dressed similarly, wearing a piece of red piece of floss between her cheeks and a top that couldn’t have been more than two napkins sewn together.
Patricia’s eyes skated over us, studying our forms thoughtfully. But it wasn’t sexual. It was more like she was looking over the goods and making sure that we were up to par. I guess we were because with a swift shake of her head, she nodded.
“Perfect,” she said smoothly, taking our dresses in hand. “You may keep your purses if you like, but I’m also happy to take them?” she offered again. “I can assure you that no one at the Manor is interested in your keys or money.”