“Is that what you want, Will?”
It was near high noon. The sun was pouring in through the sunroof, heating the tops of our heads. It was making me a little dizzy.
“Sure it is. I mean, why not, right? Why wouldn’t I want that? She’s a great gal,” he said. He was looking straight ahead at the road. Then he turned to me for a moment, smiling weakly.
“Wow, your passion is blinding,” I said, and we both laughed.
We arrived at the auction parking lot. It was half empty, and that was good—fewer people meant lower prices.
“Let’s go buy some junk,” he said, turning off the engine and almost jumping out of the car.
I had a momentary urge to sit there with him awhile, to comfort him, to touch his hair, to tell him it would be okay, that all he had to do was be honest with himself. But I also felt a pang of jealousy. Tracina had never seemed to mind my friendship with Will, wasn’t the slightest bit suspicious of our time together, which I actually found a little galling. I knew I was no threat to her, and yet there was a part of me that wanted to cause some discomfort, a growing piece of me that wanted to prove I was a force to be reckoned with, even if just a small force.
But I didn’t have a chance to say anything. Will was already halfway to the auction house, so I opened the car door, stepped out and followed him.
Friday came far too slowly. I had laid out a new pair of black yoga pants and a stretchy white T-shirt, which I decided to wear over a tight black tank top. Bad enough that I was wearing workout clothes, but I was careful to keep Dixie away from the pants. I didn’t need to show up at the Mansion covered in furballs like some middle-aged cat lady. Right at the appointed time, I saw the limo pull up in front of my building. I was down and out the door before the driver could reach the buzzer.
“I’m here,” I said, greeting him breathlessly.
With a gloved hand, he directed me to the car and opened the back door for me.
“Thank you,” I said, settling into the plush seat and glancing back at my building. A lace curtain on the main floor parted and dropped. Poor confused Anna.
In the limo, there was a bucket with champagne and water on ice. I grabbed a water bottle; I did not want to arrive half-drunk. It was 7 p.m. and traffic was light, so we were in front of the S.E.C.R.E.T. headquarters in no time. Normally I took the gate off the street to the coach house, which was walled off from the main estate. This time the double gates leading directly to the Mansion opened automatically to allow the limo. Driving past the coach house, I could see over the wall of vines that all four dormer lights were on. I wondered what kind of work was being done in the coach house on a Friday night, what kinds of scenarios were being plotted for me and perhaps for other women who might also be going through the steps right now. Is there more than one? Am I the only one? So many questions I knew Matilda would never answer unless I became a S.E.C.R.E.T. member.
If the courtyard surrounding the coach house was a tangle of vines and bushes, the grounds of the Mansion beyond were trimmed and pristine, giving off an unearthly bright green glow that made the short grass look almost fake. There was a thick smell of roses in the air, roses that climbed halfway up the sides of the Mansion and looked like a giant crinoline in pink, yellow and white. The building had an Italianate facade typical of some of the grander homes in the neighborhood, with wide white columns that shaded the cool porch and supported a rounded balcony above. But it was grand in a way that the other houses in the area weren’t. And though beautiful, it felt standoffish, a little too perfect. The whole building was covered in pale gray stucco with white cornices, and the porch wrapped around the top and bottom. Ornate Juliet balconies framed small doorways on the second and third floors. The whole place was lit from within by a warm, dusky glow that was inviting but also strange. We pulled up at the side entrance, but the cobblestone driveway continued over a rolling hill that led to a garage in the backyard. It looked like a place you’d never want to leave, but that you could never really live in either.
A woman dressed in a black-and-white uniform appeared from the side door. She waved. I lowered the limo’s back window.
“You must be Cassie,” she said. “My name is Claudette.”
I’d become accustomed to waiting for the driver to get out of the car and open my door. When I stepped out, I noticed a few bodyguard types wandering the grounds, all wearing tailored suits and dark sunglasses, one of them speaking into an earpiece.
Claudette said, “He’s waiting for you in the kitchen. He doesn’t have very long, but he’s quite excited to meet you.”
“Who’s he?” I asked, following her. And what did she mean by he doesn’t have very long? Wasn’t this supposed to be my fantasy? “You’ll see,” she said, keeping a reassuring hand on my back as she ushered me in through the door.
The side entrance had a marble floor in a black-and-white houndstooth design that carried down the hallway. A small fountain framed by two cherubs spilled water from vases into a shallow pool. Peonies poked out of giant vases. I caught a glimpse of a spectacular foyer to my right. Another bodyguard was sitting on a chair at the base of the stairs, reading a newspaper.
“Why don’t you wait outside,” Claudette said to him.
The big man hesitated before abandoning the seat.
We made our way down a long hall, following the sound of loud hip-hop or rap music; I didn’t really know the difference. My heart was pounding. I felt terribly underdressed for this place and wondered why they had me in such a plain, everyday outfit. The bodyguards, the tight schedule, the music—all was very confusing. We headed for what seemed to be the back of the house, passing a number of small plush chairs that lined a wide hallway, the mu
sic getting louder as we appraoched a set of double oak doors. I noticed the round inlaid windows were covered in black tissue paper. What was going on?
Claudette swung open a door and I was hit with the sound of music and the smell of warm soup, seafood, tomatoes, maybe, and spices. I turned to ask her where I was going and who I was going to meet, but she was gone, the door swinging quietly behind her. I looked around the large kitchen, decorated like an old-fashioned scullery, the shiny lacquer walls white to halfway up, then black. Dozens of stained copper pots were strung high over the kitchen island. The appliances were as big as small cars, but they were modern, only decked out to look old. The Sub-Zero fridge was like the one we had at work, except much newer and spotless. The stove was black iron, with eight burners, nothing like the one in the Café’s kitchen. This was the kind of kitchen you’d find in a castle.
Then he popped up, in front of the stove, his shirtless back facing me. He had been bent over, adjusting a flame, and now he stirred something cooking in a big pot, all the while talking loudly into a phone receiver cradled in his neck. His back had the muscles of a natural athlete, not a bodybuilder; his brown skin was flawless. His baggy jeans were slung low but not too low, just enough to show off a ridiculously lean waist. He was talking and stirring at the same time.
“Excuse me?” I said, over the loud music, but not loud enough for him to turn around.
“I’m not saying I don’t like the whole track,” he was saying, “just that bridge. Listen.” He waited for a beat to hit and held the phone into the air. “Hear that? I don’t think it’s the right sample. Did you ask him if I could hire Hep to pull it out for me? I know he’s using him on his album, but this would be a personal favor.”
He turned to face me, jumping a little at the fact that I’d been standing there and he hadn’t known. He looked me over from head to toe, placing his free hand on his hip. His abs clenched. I tried not to stare, but it was difficult. This was perfection, this man. I glanced over my shoulder at the double oak doors. Still listening to the conversation on the phone, he gave me a smile that only people born with charisma to burn know how to give. It literally changed the temperature in the room. Then he held up a finger to signal one more minute. He looked familiar, that wide smile, those sleepy brown eyes.
“Tell him I’ll pay him double to cut the single with me,” he continued, the phone back at his neck, but now his eyes were on me, making me self-conscious all over again. Though not a big guy, he carried himself like he was a giant, almost as if he were famous or something, which of course he couldn’t be. “We’ll put him up at the Ritz. Has to be France. That’s where we’re cutting the album.”