“I hope that means I get most of the masala, it’s my favorite.”
I laugh and shake my head as I adjust myself back into a decent state.
How the hell did I ignore such a prize living right across the hall from me for the past year?
Who needs Emily when you can have Honey?
* * *
We end up on the couch, eating the takeout and drinking beer while we watch a movie.
“I still can’t believe you got me to sit through a Disney movie.”
“Technically, but Enchanted is hardly your typical Disney princess movie.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Come on, you secretly loved it. The Central Park scene alone was worth it.”
“When he gets hit by the bicyclists? Yeah, that was pretty good.”
Honey laughs. “We’re just going to have to drag you kicking and screaming into the romance world aren’t we?”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Honey.”
“Oh, so you’re the adventurous type then. That’s good to know,” she says with a wicked smile.
“Do you want another beer?” I ask, noting her bottle is almost empty. More importantly, not wanting her to leave.
She lifts it and swirls the remaining contents, then shrugs. “Sure, tomorrow’s Monday.”
That triggers something in my head as I pop up from the couch to get her a new bottle.
“So you’re an actress?” I ask as I open it and walk back to the couch. “I figured based on your party that might be the case.”
Her brow rises as she takes the bottle. “I work in the theater. Singing, dancing, that sort of thing.”
“You definitely have talent,” I say, remembering her performance to “You Can’t Hurry Love.”
She laughs softly as she takes a sip. “That was just the tip of the iceberg.”
“I suppose I should come to one of your shows this week, see what lies beneath the surface.”
Her beer goes down the wrong hole and I pat her back as she erupts into a coughing fit.
“You okay?”
“Yes…yes,” she perks up, her eyes watery as she recovers. “I was just going to say that the show is sold out this week.”
“That hot, huh? Well, I should probably buy a ticket now for the next open show.”
“I can get you a ticket, Giuseppe,” she says leaning in and wriggling her adorable nose.
“Pays to know someone on the inside.”
“Certainly does.”
“What theater do you work at? I figure I can at least drop by after the show with flowers or somethin’. That’s what Valentine’s do, right?”
Honey pulls back and takes a long sip from her bottle. She pauses a moment swallowing, her eyes wide.
“Not this week,” she finally says, her face creased with a grimace. She lifts her leg and wiggles her socked foot, the same one I bandaged this past Tuesday. “I’m just barely able to perform so it isn’t going to be my best. I don’t want you running into a crowd that’s less than enthralled.”
“I have a hard time believing anyone could be less than enthralled with you.”
Her grimace fades and turns into a soft smile. “You really are a doll.”
“I hope that’s Georgia Girl speak for devilishly handsome, charming, smart—”
“Sexy,” she interjects, crawling closer to me until she’s in my lap, “great in bed, horrible sense of decor though,” she finishes looking around.
“Ay!” I protest in my best Sopranos imitation. “I spent a lot of time making this place the utilitarian utopia you see.”
Honey throws her head back and laughs, still in that ear-seducing way I love so much. When it comes back to face me she puts her arms around me and plays with the hair at the nape of my neck.
“Just, promise me this. You’ll wait until I get you the ticket to see me before you so much as google my name to find out about my performance. It’s…it’s best going in totally blind.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
Something anxious and excited passes across her eyes. “You have no idea.”
“You have my promise then.”
“Good,” she says, tapping my nose. “In the meantime, this Saturday you’ll get to see me in action. I’ll put on the best performance you’ve seen. Those attorneys at your firm won’t know what hit them.”
My smile fades as I consider what she’s saying. I bring my arms around to circle the small of her back.
“You don’t have to perform, Honey. Me? I like you just the way you are. You don’t have to change just to impress them.”
A half-smile spreads her lips. She brings one hand up to comb through the hair on my forehead. “That’s sweet, Giuseppe.”
She doesn’t buy it.
Even the name Giuseppe, which she probably knows I don’t go by at work, is a giveaway.
Suddenly I realize it isn’t just Honey that I’m talking about. This act I put on to fit in at ABC is the kind of bullshit that the old Giuseppe would have kicked my own ass over.
“It’s true,” I say. “And if they can’t handle it, fuck ‘em.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Honey
“De-tails, missy. Ya girl needs the deets.”
It’s Monday morning and I’m moving some of my stuff in with Jerome. Rose and Esmerelda had to work during the day, so Annabelle is the only other one here with me today.
I’m sleeping on Jerome’s couch for about a week until the roommate of another friend of mine moves out and frees up the second bedroom in her apartment. I forgot what a game of tag it is when you can’t afford to pay agent’s fees to find an apartment.
Still, it will be fun living with people again.
Friends also landed me a temporary job as a barista and an interview for a receptionist position tomorrow.
Frankie Peck is being an absolute gem handling putting my stuff into storage for me until I can sell or donate it.
Already it feels like my life with Francis is a distant memory.
Janet Jackson’s “That’s the Way Love Goes” is playing in the background as we all sit on the couch and I tell them (almost) everything that’s gone down this weekend.
“Then you’ll just have to be disappointed, because deets, you most certainly won’t be getting,” I sass. “Suffice it to say, it was a very nice Valentine’s Day.”
And how.
I spent the night at Giuseppe’s, and the second time around was even better. Sending him off to work this morning like some housewife from the fifties was the cherry on top of the perfect ice cream sundae that was this weekend, even if there were a few bumps here and there.
As Miss Jackson compares her love to that of a moth being drawn to a flame, I reminisce for perhaps the fiftieth time today.
“Honey’s right, Jerome,” Annabelle says, leaning around me to give him a critical frown. “What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom.”
“Yea but, who says it was only in the bedroom?” I add with a cryptic smile, causing both of them to laugh and pester me for details.
“All the more reason to stay your ass in that apartment right across the hall from him, at least until the lease runs out, Honey!”
I give Jerome a scolding look.
“Right, stay in the apartment paid for by the man I was with before Giuseppe, a man who doesn’t even have the balls to call and tell me it’s officially over. That’s the perfect way to start a relationship.”
“Exactly,” Annabelle says, agreeing with me. “You did the right thing moving out.”
Jerome rolls his eyes. “I suppose.”
“If you don’t want me sleeping on your couch, just say so.”
He gives me one quick pat on the shoulder and purses his lips. “Girl, you know your ass is welcome here anytime. Even better if you bring some of those designer dresses you’re so intent on getting rid of.”
I give him a skeptical once over.
“Don’t be giving me no side-
eye.” He points to himself. “This lady right here owns a sewing machine and I can take a Vera and Wang the hell outta that bitch with it.”
“Save some for me,” Annabelle adds. “I know pink is your color but that one Chanel skirt is just so…”
I grin and throw both hands up in the air, waving them in every direction. “They are all yours. I’ll let you and the rest of my friends fight over them all.”
“At least something good should come out of that hot mess. That asshole still hasn’t even texted?”
“Not a peep,” I grit out.
“That bastard,” Annabelle mutters, her cheeks going pink. She’s the sweetest out of all The Girls so it’s amusing to see her so inflamed.
“You know my ass would have had him dumped about a hundred different ways by now, each more painful than the last.”
“I think he pretty much ended it with that damn ring,” I say, feeling even more resentment set in.
“But you didn’t even get the fun of telling him off, Honey. At least get some closure. Dang it girl!”
“I agree with Jerome. I know it sucks, him making you go to him, but I’m a firm believer in energy and it’s just bad energy to leave it open-ended this way, even if it is technically over.”
They’re both right, of course. Hell, Francis probably thinks I’m still open to the idea of this whole public-private thing he suggested, despite my telling him exactly where he could stick that idea last week at lunch.
Especially since he has yet to call me, publicly or privately!
I sigh and sit back against the sofa. “You know what? Y’all are right. In fact, I’m going to—”
My phone vibrates and I reach down in my bag to pick it up. I don’t recognize the number, so I just set it down on the coffee table instead of answering. Probably a sales call or something.
“Anyway, like I was saying. I want this thing with Giuseppe to get started on the right foot.” Or at least as right as it can be until he finds out what I do for a living. “So I’ll—”
An alert sounds, letting me know that the caller has left a message.
That piques my interest to at least take a listen.
“Hello, Honey, Miss Dewberry?”
It’s a woman’s voice, completely unfamiliar to me.
But my blood goes cold despite this.
Because I know exactly who it is.
“This is Maude Aston. I’m aware Francis has told you about me. I think perhaps we should meet. I imagine you have things to discuss, as do I. Please call at your earliest convenience. Perhaps we can do lunch today at my residence?”
“What is it, Honey?” Annabelle asks, seeing the look on my face.
“It’s Maude Aston—Muffy.”
The look on their faces would be comical if the situation wasn’t bizarre enough to stun me into numbness.
I play the message out loud for them.
“I don’t know, Honey,” Jerome warns. “You don’t mess around with the other woman. That shit can get messy.”
“Technically, I think I might be considered the other woman at this point.”
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of taking her up on it?” Annabelle asks.
“Y’all are the ones who said I should get this out of the way.”
“By kicking him in the balls or something, not this hot mess!” Jerome says.
“I’m going,” I say, feeling confident about it. “I’m too curious not to.”
Before they can protest again, I hit the Callback button.
“Miss Dewberry, I see you got my message,” Maude answers, sounding surprisingly pleasant. “Are you amenable to meeting today? As I understand, it’s your, ah, day off work?”
My eyes narrow at the insinuation there. Just how much has Francis told her about me?
“It is and yes, I think meeting would be a good idea.”
Jerome silently throws his hands in the air as though he’s done with me.
“Perfect, I’ll have Arnaldo whip something up for the two of us at my residence. I can have a car sent for you. Let’s say around one?”
Well, lah-dee-dah.
I think about telling her I can take the subway instead, but change my mind. Why should I use my money to come to her?
“That should work, the address is—”
“Yes,” she says, giving a small cough. “I’m aware of the address.”
“Actually,” I stress, feeling a tight smile come to my face. “I don’t live there anymore.”
“Oh?”
“Oh,” I say, my smile growing. Jerome gives me a cunning look as he observes. I give the address to his place.
“My, you certainly did move out, didn’t you?” Muffy remarks. I feel my blood boil at the obvious judgement. Jerome is definitely more than a hop-skip-and-a-jump away from the Upper West Side where I used to live.
“I look forward to seeing you at one, Muffy.” I make sure to add a little spice as I utter her name, then hang up before she can even respond.
“Done,” I say, giving Jerome and Annabelle a satisfied look.
“Honey child, I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah,” Annabelle says. “Good luck.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Honey
The address for Maude “Muffy” Sinclair Aston is about as upper-crust as I expected. Some grand mid-rise on the East Side abutting the park with a white-washed facade and a doorman in full uniform.
I’m in my standard pink.
No spa manicure today. Just one of the many things I have to start being self-reliant about.
With Jerome and Annabelle, it was fun though. After all, in a luxury day spa you don’t get uncensored trash talk while Diana Ross’s “Love Hangover” is blasting in the background.
I may not be Maude “Muffy” Sinclair Aston, however, I know what my charms are and the dimple I give to the doorman as he opens the door for me proves that you don’t need money to win people over. His cheeks are about as pink as the sweater I’m wearing.
I glide to the front desk and offer the same smile to the man in a suit. “I’m Miss Honey Dewberry, here to see Miss, ah, Muffy Aston.”
“Of course, Miss Dewberry. She’s expecting you. It will be the elevators to the right. The thirtieth floor. Residence 30A.”
“Thank you, kindly,” I simper.
A dimple rewards me with yet another shade of pink from him. I could certainly give Cupid himself a run for his money. It’s enough to re-bolster my spirits as I head up in the elevator, a pleased smile on my face. Francis may not think I’m worth more than his family business, but my smile could turn lead into gold.
I exit into a hallway that is fit for a royal palace. I doubt even The Ritz has such rich carpet and fine crown molding.
There are only four doors on the whole floor. Residence 30A (not “apartment” or “unit” but “residence”) is no doubt the one situated on the side facing Central Park. My suspicion is confirmed when I near it.
There’s a doorbell, understated and sophisticated. I press my finger into it and hear a noble chime on the other side of the door. It takes exactly five seconds for the door to be opened by a woman dressed in all black, from her thick tights and sensible shoes to the pencil skirt and high-collared blouse. A more diplomatic version of a housemaid, I suppose.
“Good morning, Miss Dewberry,” she says in a pleasant enough tone. “Please follow me. Ms. Aston is expecting you.” I don’t miss the difference in titles.
I’ve spent enough time orbiting in Francis’ universe to avoid being awed by “Ms. Aston’s” residence. I doubt the average house you’d find in the rest of the country has this much square footage.
But the vision of Central Park I’m met with when we finally reach our destination is enough to practically blow me over. It’s a panoramic view through the very large picture window looking out on the trees and the reservoir.
Muffy is seated at a table that typically seats four. She is in a simple but elegant
pair of slacks and a blouse that I’m sure cost more than the monthly maintenance on this place. In person she looks even more severe than in her photos, made of thin edges, sharp points, and unyielding surfaces.
The camera not only adds ten pounds, but in her case, it obviously adds ten megawatts of charm. But heck if she doesn’t look elegant.
“Forgive the humble accommodations,” she says with a cool but casual air. “This is one of the more comfortable residences I use while I’m in the city.”
If she’s hoping to leave me nonplused, she’s going to be disappointed.
“Oh, don’t go gettin’ embarrassed on my account,” I say in a sweetly sympathetic voice, drenched in that Georgia accent that I know for a fact works wonders in chipping away at even the most hardened exteriors. “I’ve certainly seen worse.”
To her credit, she keeps her cool, and a tiny smile that hints at respect touches her lips. I can practically see the wheels in her head shifting gears as her entire inner workings realign to accommodate this version of me she probably didn’t expect.
The woman who opened the door for me steps in to offer something to drink. Despite Muffy’s suggestion for food, I certainly don’t intend to stay that long.
Still, no need to be rude. I match her request for tea and we have the room to ourselves again. The time is spent sizing each other up, both of us realizing there’s no reason to get into it before the tea is brought back.
“As I stated, Arnaldo can make us something. He makes a wonderful egg-white, feta and chive omelet or perhaps—”
“I don’t want food.”
“Very well,” she says thinly.
When the tea is poured, the kettle left, and we have the room to ourselves, I feel the air around us begin to buzz. I smile and pick up my dainty cup—it reminds me of the one I use to get coffee at Norton Place.
Muffy meets my smile with one of her own and lifts her cup.
The ring on her left hand glimmers in the light reflecting from the windows.
I’m sure it’s not by accident.
“I suppose I should congratulate you.” I raise one eyebrow and pointedly stare down at the ring.
Tease Page 14
