by Jess Bentley
So we just get on the elevator and shoot toward the thirty-fourth floor without saying anything. I guess that is the best we can do.
It’s all right. It’s a start.
It makes working with her a lot easier. Once in a while she smiles. She asks questions. She lets me ask questions, too, which makes everything easier. We make a good team, and Lou notices it too.
A few days later, I get an email from my mother that is both a good opportunity and a fairly amusing excuse to get out of town.
“Something funny?” comes a voice from my doorway.
Clarissa saunters in and sets the box of my new business cards on the corner of my desk. She purses her lips and scans the surface of my work area, checking things over. She’s wearing a frilly lilac blouse tucked into slim, charcoal trousers.
“Do you know who Sunny Regales is?” I ask her.
Her eyes widen. “The movie star? The one with the hats and the monkey? The crazy one?”
“The very same.”
Clarissa narrows her eyes and gazes out the window over my shoulder, the tip of her tongue pressed against her upper lip thoughtfully. “Didn’t she go to prison? And then escape from prison? How did she die?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Oh, she’s never going to die. She’s a friend of my mother’s, and she wants to sell her cottage in Lake Geneva. Would you like to go?”
Clarissa takes a breath and holds it, then shakes her head in disbelief. “Go where?”
“To the cottage… To Lake Geneva. We can go for the weekend, if you’re free? You’ll love the place. It’s utterly insane.”
Clarissa opens her mouth, plainly excited, then seems to instantly retreat. Her gaze clouds over.
“It’s not really commercial property,” she waffles. “I mean, I don’t think Lou is going to be okay with that.”
There it is. My ace in the hole.
“He’ll be fine with it. They used to have a thing.”
Her mouth pops open in utter disbelief. “A thing?” she repeats in a stage whisper. “As in… together?”
I don’t answer. Her surprise is just too delicious. I don’t want the moment to be abbreviated in any way.
“Holy cow, that’s crazy!” she mutters to herself.
Considering the possibilities, she backs away and begins to pace around my conference table.
“I think he’ll make an exception,” I announce, pleased.
“Wow, wow!” she chuckles. “Like, recent? Since his wife passed away? Or like… college? Or like… did they run away and take a train across Russia together or something?”
“Okay, I wasn’t expecting this line of questions. So, are you interested? We will take a bunch of pictures, write up the descriptions, room sizes, the whole thing. Yes?”
I can see there is still doubt in her eyes when she stops pacing and leans on the conference table. She is still on the fence. But finally she agrees that a weekend in Lake Geneva to get the listing for my mother’s eccentric movie star friend is definitely a proper work assignment.
“Oh, hey, hi Clarissa,” Rosemary smiles as she walks in. “Paychecks! Here’s yours too. Saved me a trip to your office…”
She pulls mine out of the stack in her hand, then flips through to find Clarissa’s and hands it to her before swooping back out of the office. Absentmindedly I open the envelope, then take another look.
“Something wrong?” she asks from the other side of the room, tucking the stub in her back pocket.
“No, it’s just…”
Okay, this doesn’t make any sense. I’ve only gotten a few paychecks since I have been here, but this is way too much. Running a list of calculations in my mind, I add my base pay with the commissions for the dotcom startup, the aesthetician, and the—
“Oh, shit.”
It starts to spool out in my mind. I just got a huge commission from the purchase of Isaac Nelson’s new Victorian mansion naturopathy center. And that commission is about twice as much as it should be. Which means…
“Clarissa, I screwed up,” I admit slowly.
Cautiously she stares at me, her body somewhat rigid. She seems to be preparing herself for any of a number of possibilities.
“First of all,” I start, “I need you to know I didn’t do this on purpose. You believe me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies icily.
Shit.
“I meant to add you as the co-broker on the Isaac Nelson deal. I forgot. That is totally my fault.”
Her nostrils flare. I see her jaw square off as she grinds her molars together.
“It happens,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Yeah, well… Whatever. What is accounting’s extension? Oh, I remember…”
Picking up the handset, I press the orange button then dial the four digits that are scrawled on the sticky note next to the old-fashioned phone. The tone chirps twice before the call connects.
In any company, accounting people are perpetually annoyed. There’s nothing you can do to make them happy. They are just always annoyed. I think it is a job requirement. But Anita listens to me patiently, and so I patiently listen to her lecture before repeating myself for the third time and asking her to do what I need her to do.
“Okay,” I finally announce, setting the phone back in the cradle. “They say they’ll have to cut you a check, and it won’t be instantaneous, but you’ll have it in the morning.”
“Cut me a check,” she repeats vaguely.
“I hope that isn’t a big inconvenience,” I reply, stuffing my check back in the envelope. “I don’t know why they can’t just do it today, but she says they can’t.”
Clarissa squints at me suspiciously. After a moment, she tips her head to the side and wrinkles her nose. “Wait… What are we talking about?”
We just stare at each other for a few seconds. I’m not sure what is happening.
“Are you saying…” she begins, then her voice trails off. “No. Just tell me. What are you saying?”
She’s confused, but I’m confused too. I’m not sure what the subtext is, but something tells me I have to be very careful here.
“The Isaac Nelson commission?” I begin slowly. “Your half? They can’t cut you a check until tomorrow morning because I have to give this one back to them first. Some kind of accounting rule.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re returning a commission check? To accounting?”
I am starting to feel like I am not in on the joke, especially when she starts grinning at me, one hand fluttering upward to cover her mouth.
“Am I missing something?” I ask carefully. “You’re laughing at me?”
“No!” she objects, now smiling in earnest. “I’m just… really surprised, I guess? Because… I wasn’t listed on the contracts at all.”
“You sold him that property,” I remind her.
“And you signed the contracts with just your name on them,” she reminds me pointedly.
It only takes a moment for me to really realize my mistake. That means she’s been carrying this information around with her for the last couple of weeks. She thought she made this great sale, and I had just taken both the credit and the cash, just like that.
Man, was Greg like that?
“Clarissa, it was a mistake. I didn’t mean for it to work out like that. Really. It was an oversight. I wouldn’t do that on purpose.”
“No, that’s great!” she grins back at me. “I mean… I accept your apology and everything. But it’s great. Thank you. I appreciate that.”
The way she’s smiling at me, I can tell that she truly is surprised. She had accepted the idea that I was going to take that from under her without even saying anything. I feel like an absolute heel.
But, weirdly, it’s nice to see her smile. It’s nice to know I made that happen.
“Okay, so are we good?” she continues, her body language changing drastically.
She swishes her hips to the opposite side, flexing her h
eel to raise the shiny toe of her shoe in the air. It seems strangely at ease, like I haven’t seen her quite this relaxed before. I’m afraid to ruin the moment by doing anything.
“We’re good,” I confirm.
“Great. Then good night!”
She pivots and strides from the room, her hair streaming behind her in waves. It takes me a moment to catch my breath, and I have to wonder what I just witnessed.
Chapter 6
Clarissa
Saturday morning, I wake up with just enough time to get packed. It’s just two days, but I can’t even remember the last time I went anywhere for two days. It’s been so long that it takes me a good fifteen minutes to even find my overnight bag.
I’m already running out of time, and that makes it half impossible to really plan. What are we going to do? Swimming? Hiking? A cocktail party? Not only do I have to make sure I have outfits flexible enough for any event, I have to bring shoes. The shoes are a major complication in packing.
Landry comes in as I’m muttering in front of my closet, a pair of hiking boots in one hand and a pair of tennis shoes in the other. Not that I play tennis, but I do like the outfits.
“Going somewhere?” she asks, the smile plain in her voice as she sits on one corner of my bed, tucking her ankle underneath her.
“Actually, yes,” I answer distractedly and put both pairs of shoes back in their respective cubbies, opting for a pair of sensible, slip-on sneakers and a pair of dark blue ballet flats.
“Oh, seriously?” she quips. “I was just joking. You never go anywhere. I just thought you were taking your luggage out for a walk. You know. So it doesn’t feel neglected.”
“Wow, you are hilarious,” I mutter as I flip through my dresses, looking for the navy blue one with the empire waist and fluttered sleeves. It is flexible enough for a luncheon or casual dinner party. This plus a pair of brand-new jeans and a sea-green wrap sweater should get me most of the way through the weekend, I think?
I hold up my outfits for Landry’s approval and she squints, nodding.
“Are you leaving, like, today?” she asks carefully, dragging a finger across the stitching of my coverlet.
“I’ll be back Monday night. Just work stuff.”
Two pairs of shoes should do it, I tell myself. Now I can get my makeup and hair accessories organized. And a toothbrush! Jeez. I really need to get out more.
“Work stuff, gross,” she groans. “Why don’t you just stay here? You worked last weekend. We could stream all of the Mandy Moore movies. Or Ryan Gosling. You like him.”
“Tempting,” I admit. “And you can still stream all you want to. But I gotta do this. It’s just work.”
“It doesn’t look like work,” she pouts as she pokes at the nightie on the top of the pile.
“Why? Because I’ll be sleeping eventually? In a nightgown? That doesn’t look like work too?”
“I don’t know, Clarissa!” she groans suddenly, flopping down longways on the bed. Her hair fans out over the side as she rolls her head back and forth dramatically.
Forcing myself to pause, I just look at her for a second. Is she for real? Is this a thing?
Honestly, she’s been a great houseguest. Not leaving messes like she used to do. Not trying to keep me up all night, then sleeping all day. Practically a proper roommate. Practically an adult. I know she is technically an adult but…
“So what do you want to do for your birthday next month?” I ask brightly, covering for the fact that I had just about forgotten.
“You forgot,” she accuses me through narrowed eyes.
“It didn’t happen yet, so I couldn’t have forgotten,” I counter. “And what do you want to do?”
“I want you to hang out with me… this weekend,” she pouts.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
“Landry, I wish I could. But I gotta go. My boss is here to pick me up. Okay? You’ll have fun. Think about what you want to do next weekend. Seriously. Sister weekend.”
“Yeah, all right,” she grumbles.
My phone buzzes again and I snatch it off the dresser, tucking it into my back pocket as I rush down the stairs, stuffing my clothes into the overnight bag and tugging the zipper closed.
Maxwell waves over his head as I leave the front door, and I am taken aback by the sight of a cherry-red Mustang convertible, growling in the street in front of my townhouse.
He jumps out and trots around the back of the car to open the passenger door for me. Grinning behind a pair of dark sunglasses, in a short-sleeve button-down that shows off some pretty impressive biceps and a broad chest, Maxwell takes my overnight bag politely and gestures toward the car with a flourish.
“This is pretty nice too,” I admit.
The thick leather creaks beneath me as I settle in. Restored to mint condition, somebody put a lot of love into this vehicle, I can tell. No wonder he is so proud of it.
There is something about driving in Chicago with the top down in late summer that is indescribable. There’s nothing like it. We head for the North Side, both grinning like fools, warm and free in the golden sunlight. Though there is some traffic as we head toward the North Shore, I don’t mind it. It’s nice to be free and let my hair down.
The miles fly beneath us as we head for the border between Illinois and Wisconsin. Soon the traffic dissipates and we are the only ones on the road. Gentle hills are covered in golden, waving seas of wheat and corn. Sometimes they give way to deep, cool forests, filled with animals and their mysterious sounds.
Too soon, I see the green signs pointing toward Lake Geneva. I didn’t even realize how much I was enjoying our road trip until I knew it was coming to a close.
Lake Geneva is an interesting mix of wealth and middle-class, twentieth-century-style nostalgic luxury. Much of the area is taken up by 1950s and 1960s ranches arranged around private docks where traditional family units from Chicago would spend a couple weeks in the summer fishing and boating and playing along the rocky beaches. Good old-fashioned Americana.
But hidden among those areas are secluded, gated communities where the truly wealthy built palatial estates, out of sight of the middle-class riffraff. Some of these are ostentatious mansions right at the water’s edge, with towering windows that you can see glowing with party lights late into the summer evenings, in a kind of Great Gatsby display of wealth. Others are more subdued, perhaps hidden from direct view by artful arrangements of imported ginkgo trees and carefully planned decorative hedges.
As Maxwell drives the Mustang slowly through deliberately confusing curled roadways among the dense forest, I can periodically pick out outbuildings, wrought iron security fencing, and even the occasional guardhouse. I get the sense that we are pushing further into a private area of wealth, the sort of thing you wouldn’t even know was here unless you’d been explicitly invited.
Finally the Mustang maneuvers under an ornate archway composed of granite pylons and red iron spanners. It looks like Salvador Dali was commissioned to make a garden sculpture. Immediately the lawn spreads out in front of the car, with gently sloping planes covered in spongy moss. Periodically, circular divots are scooped out of the lawn and blossom with strange-looking plants. The overall effect looks sort of like a golf course, if a golf course was planned by sculptor Joan Miró.
Maxwell leans toward me, one wrist draped over the top of the steering wheel. He extends a finger toward the front door of the house structure, some fifty yards away. Squinting, I can see an undulating, sea-green figure materialize from a darkened portal, like a mermaid swimming up from the depths of a coral cove.
“That’s her?” I breathe in disbelief. “That’s Sunny?”
“In the flesh,” he chuckles quietly.
Reminding myself that this is a work trip, I take a moment to appreciate the grandeur of the entrance. The landscaping certainly makes an impression, but the house, even more so. I’m certain that Maxwell referred to this as a “cottage.” Can I use that word in the listing? I’m
not sure anyone’s going to believe it.
The architecture is definitely nontraditional. It looks sculpted out of soapstone, with towers jutting out of a central dome at random intervals. The spires glitter in the sunlight, topped by various religious symbols like crosses, orbs, and even Egyptian ankhs.
I can barely find a straight line anywhere. Even the windows are circles, ovals, and other freeform shapes I couldn’t name. The house barely looks planned. It looks planted.
“Sunny is very into organic everything,” Maxwell informs me, as though he is reading my mind. “You can see why I thought taking a couple of days to absorb all of this would be helpful.”
“It’s definitely… challenging,” I agree breathlessly.
“Just wait until you get inside.”
“Maxwell!” Sunny calls out as Maxwell pulls the brake, her pronunciation strangely putting the emphasis on the “well” portion of his name, somehow making it sound more robust.
“Hello, gorgeous!” he calls out, startling me.
I haven’t heard him act like that before. He’s usually so polite, so straitlaced. Except for that first day at the coffee kiosk. I don’t know if I’ve ever even really heard him crack a joke. Was that just his work persona? Despite myself, I am intrigued.
Maxwell keeps his eyes on her as he offers me a hand to help me out of the car. It seems to be a natural gesture for him, an old-fashioned expression of masculine manners. Even though it’s not something I have experienced much of in my life, I find it easy to simply place my hand against his palm and allow him to assist me from the passenger seat, then guide me toward the front door. It’s like participating in a dance I didn’t know I knew.
Sunny Regales is a beauty. That is her primary claim to fame. In the 1940s, she was one of the early movie stars, the sort of woman who would simply coo and blink charmingly for much of the movie. She barely had to say any lines. She simply glowed.
Throughout the 50s and 60s, she stayed in the national imagination by being mischievous and sort of naughty. Who even knows how many lovers she had? She was always turning up at unladylike events, challenging what people thought of her. She smoked cigars. She was rumored to have carried on a torrid affair with Sophia Loren. She knew how to scuba dive. She wrecked a racecar once in Monaco. She ran with the bulls and the young Spanish man next to her was gored to death while she was merely a little winded.
