by JA Huss
“I don’t understand,” Maggie says.
“What’s confusing about it?” I ask back.
“You want a Halloween party with no Halloween decorations?”
“I want an event, Maggie.” I look at her over the top of my eyeglasses. “One worthy of the Le Man name. Something visually stunning that will photograph well.”
“O-kay.”
“I want… I want people who match.”
“Match?” she asks.
“Yeah, what do you mean?” Eden says. “We need people dressed up in costumes, pretty orange and black streamers, pumpkin spice cupcakes, and hard apple cider.”
“No,” I say, pointing my perfectly manicured red fingernail in her direction. “That is the opposite of what we need. Our theme is not Halloween.”
“It isn’t?” poor, confused Maggie says.
“No. It’s… I mean, I don’t really know what it is. It’s just not that. We need sophisticated. And mysterious. We need—”
“Oh!” Maggie says. “I know! A masquerade!”
“Yes!” Eden says. “A masquerade ball! That’s brilliant!”
“Thank you,” I say, polishing my fingernails on my Victoria Beckham coat. Maggie shoots me the stink-eye, because I suppose it was technically her idea. But if I hadn’t come in here insisting on something… chic instead of cheap, she’d never have had that idea in the first place. “I am a fountain of inspiration. So listen, Maggie,” I say, getting out my credit card. “I’ve got an expense account like you wouldn’t believe. I want every man in a tux, every woman in a little black dress, and I want masks. I want tables set like we’re hosting royalty. I want mysterious, I want seductive, I want a night these people will never forget.”
“Of course! Of course! When is the party?”
“Halloween,” I say.
“On Halloween?”
“Isn’t that when most people have Halloween parties?”
“But that’s a Monday this year. And people sometimes have children to take out trick-or-treating. Is this a family party?”
“Of course not.”
“Then we should have it the Saturday before. Which gives me less than two weeks.”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s tight. Eden, we’ll have to split up for this. You take care of Maggie here, I’m going over to the printers to see about invitations.”
“Paper invitations?” Eden asks. “We could just send e-vites.”
I laugh. As if. “Meet me at the office when you’re done and we’ll go over all the details.”
I leave and head back toward the printer’s. I’m eyeballing that community center lady a block away, but there’s no way to avoid her. The printer is right next to the dry cleaners, which is right next to the community center.
“Classes start—”
“I know,” I say, brushing past her to make for the printer’s door. “All ideas are welcome.”
“You got our email!” She beams, stepping forward to block my way.
“Yes, I got your spam. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Have you ever thought about giving a class?”
“I don’t scrapbook, I’m sorry.”
“Not scrapbooking.” She laughs. “This is the TDH, ma’am. No one is scrapbooking at our community center.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then what do you do in there?”
“Well.” She shrugs, pulling her coat tight around her body. The wind is biting today. They must be really hard up for new classes if she’s being forced to solicit people outside in the cold. “We have pole dancing, belly dancing, tantric yoga—”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yes. We’re a very progressive community center. We’re looking for new, innovative ideas. Something worthy of the young professional types around here. We had a woman sign up last week to teach submission.”
“Sub… like…” I lean forward and whisper, “BDSM?”
“Yes,” the bright-eyed do-gooder says. “Exactly like that. It’s called Subs for Hubs and it’s almost sold out.”
“Sold out? People want to do that?” I ask. “Cow down to a man?”
“Lots of people. Yes.”
“Hmmm.” I chuckle. “Interesting.”
“Do you want to take it?”
“Me? Submit?” I laugh. So much laughing today. “No. I do not submit to anyone.”
“Oh, right. I’m totally getting that vibe. Maybe you need a dominatrix class then?”
“Honey, I could teach the dominatrix class.”
“Great idea! Oh, that’s perfect. Wanna go inside and talk about a lesson plan?”
She just wants to get out of the cold, I get it. But… there’s some small, nostalgic part of me that kinda wants to go with her.
“No,” I say, refocusing on my task. “I’m planning a party and I’ve got a lot to do. Have a nice day.”
Inside the printer, Jeremy, the salesperson at the counter, is confused. “A Halloween invitation that has no Halloween elements? And something that says ‘masquerade’ but no gaudy Mardi Gras colors?”
“Why is this so hard? Yes. More like a wedding. Classy, you know.”
“Ah… right. Where is this party?”
“It’s a private affair, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I just wanted to make sure I wouldn’t go by mistake.”
“Jeremy,” I say, losing patience with everyone right now. “Just get me some classy samples.” I would walk out and go somewhere else, but this is the only printer that doesn’t involve a car.
He leaves in a huff and it occurs to me—the people of the TDH are so damn judge-y. And what I’m doing is not insane. Those community center classes, now that’s insane. How is that normal but a black-tie affair for Halloween isn’t?
A book plops down on the counter and Jeremy opens it to reveal stunning silver and white handmade papers.
“Yes,” I say. “This is my Halloween vision.”
“If you say so, lady.”
There are so many exquisite options I take the book over to the table and get lost. More than an hour later I’m pulled out of the fantasy ball I’m planning when my phone rings.
“Yes,” I say. Curtly, because it’s Pierce.
“Where did you go?”
“I’m at the printer choosing invitations for the Halloween party.”
“Invitations? Is that really necessary? Can’t we just send an email?”
“Who’s planning this party, Pierce?”
“Who’s the boss, Myrtle?” he snaps back. It’s an uncharacteristic response from him, but not altogether unpleasant. At least he’s not placating me.
“I thought we discussed this already, Anastasia?”
I hear him huff through the phone, but I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a snarl. “Eden is here waiting for you.”
“And?”
“And she’s talking my ear off and I feel compelled to listen since, you know, she’s practically my sister-in-law now.”
“God, you’re such a baby. Tell her I’ll be there in fifteen minutes and then we can go to lunch and discuss what she and the event planner came up with.”
“Event planner? For a Halloween party? Myrtle, it’s a potluck. All they have to do is bring a bag of chips and dress in a costume.”
“Surely you jest.”
“No. I do not. This is the extent of the Halloween party. You should know, you’ve been to seven of them.”
“Have I?”
He hesitates. Like he can see my perfectly-groomed eyebrow rising up on my forehead. Like this is a trap. Like he took a wrong turn and he’s not sure when that happened. “Haven’t you?”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” And then I end the call, look at the four options in front of me, and choose the one that looks like lace. I fill out the form with all the pertinent information, and take my choice up to Jeremy, who has been side-eyeing me the entire time.
“This,” I say. “With this printed on them.”
He picks up my sample, fingers lingering on the cut-paper filigree lace that folds over the front like a door, and then reads my slip. “You’re sure?”
“Jeremy, do I look like a woman who second-guesses herself?”
“Uh… no, I guess not.”
“Good. Then place the order. I need them in five days.”
“That’s, well… that’s gonna cost you.”
I plunk down my platinum American Express corporate card and say, “Make it happen.”
Outside it’s even colder than when I came in. And that perky community center lady is still doing her thing.
“Think about it!” she calls as I briskly pass her by. “I could totally see you bossing around some lucky man! You’d make a great mistress!”
I stop in my tracks, consider this, then turn to her beaming face. “I would, wouldn’t I?”
“So great!” she says, her words blowing out in a puff of steam.
“And that would be the whole point, right? To boss a man.”
“Yup. It’s perfect. All the subs would get their hubs to take it! You’d sell out too!”
I think about it. Picture it in my head.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to discuss my qualifications. Legal restrictions. So if you need that in order for me to sign up as an instructor—”
“No, no! We don’t. This is a community center. If you have a lesson plan and can commit to the time, you’re in.”
I take a moment to formulate what might turn out to be the diabolical plan I was looking for. And then I smile and say, “I’ll be in later with my course syllabus.” Because I just came up with a delicious way to get back at Pierce. Something that will drive him so much crazier than Eden’s cupcake fiasco this past summer.
CHAPTER FOUR - PIERCE
“Monsieur Chevalier, your Vichyssoise,” the server says, as she places my soup in front of me. I only like to eat Vichyssoise in colder temperatures. I don’t know why. Normally, one would prefer to eat a cold soup in the summer, I suppose. But for me, there’s something inversely comforting about cold and cold. I’ve never been comfortable being too comfortable. Not sure what that’s about. I just like Vichyssoise in the cold.
Colette is the server’s name. She’s been working here almost as long as I’ve been coming here. And I’ve been coming here since it opened. I feel a little like they should have a plaque with my name on it somewhere around. I’m not an official investor, but it was struggling a bit when it first opened its doors and I made sure I ate here every day. Sometimes twice a day. And I’d have business meetings here, and tell people about it, and essentially just stamped it with my imprimatur. And, slowly but surely, it became the spot in the TDH.
I know who I am.
Which is to say, I know the influence I have. I have a fair amount of influence everywhere because of who my father is, but here, in this little corner of the world—the TDH neighborhood of Denver, Colorado—I have an exceptional amount.
I try not to abuse it. I really do. I know Andrew thinks that I have a monarch complex, but I don’t. Or, at least, I don’t think I do.
And even if I do, I’m a beneficent ruler. I’m more like Louis XIV and less like Marie Antoinette. I would never dismissively tell someone to eat cake.
I would have Eden’s dad bake everyone a cake and then I would deliver it to them personally.
Okay, so maybe I do have a monarch complex. But whatever. It’s not easy being the boss and I’m a very generous ruler.
“Anything else, monsieur?” Colette asks it with bedroom eyes. I know she’s coming onto me. She’s been coming onto me since the first time we met.
It’s also possible she just has bedroomy eyes. She always kind of licks her lips when she asks if I need anything else, so I have to assume that the combo of the two is her making a pass.
“No, thanks, Colette. I’m good.”
Suddenly, her bedroom eyes turn dark. They’re still bedroomy, but now they’re bedroomy and angry. She takes a step back. “Gabrielle.”
“Sorry?”
“Gabrielle, Monsieur Chevalier. C’est mon nom. Pas Colette.”
Really? Her name is Gabrielle? I wasn’t even close.
I start to say, “Je suis désolé,” but she walks off in a very Parisian huff before I get a chance. I have to say, that is one of the things about this place I like best. Its authenticity.
I’m eating alone. I like to do that occasionally. It gives me a chance to just… be. I rev at a pretty high idle a lot of the time, and being alone, in a place that feels familiar, it lets me power down a bit. And I need that every once in a while.
Again, I know who I am.
But just as I’m about to lift a spoonful of cold soup to my lips, I look up from the table to see Myrtle walk through the door.
She looks incredible.
She’s wearing that black blouse she has with the lace patterns on it. It’s sheer and covered at once. I remember when she bought it. She wore it the day she came to help me pick out new upholstery for my office furniture and I told her that I wanted something like that in my office. It was a double entendre. I know she got the joke because she rolled her eyes at me the way she does.
Did.
The way she used to.
She still rolls her eyes at me, but it’s different. It has something like contempt in it now when she does it.
And, if I’m being honest, that makes me fucking sad. In my entire life, I’ve known only two people I can trust completely. Andrew is one. The other one is standing in the entrance of this restaurant, wearing a semi-sheer blouse with lace patterns on it and a skirt so tight that even after having seen her maneuver around in ones just like it for the last several years… I still don’t know how she does it.
The real tragedy of this whole thing is that I still feel I can trust her completely. She just knows she can’t trust me anymore at all.
I’d give just about anything to have her trust back again.
Sacre motherfucking bleu.
She’s looking around like maybe she’s meeting someone. There are a bunch of assholes wearing Rolexes over by the bar. It’s a beautiful bar. Deep, rich oak accented by a brass railing and runner. Too bad it has to be cheapened by idiots who think that wearing a fancy watch makes you a gentleman.
I glance down at my Breguet Grande Complication Tourbillon to see that it’s eight o’clock.
A little early for a date. I can’t imagine she’d be meeting one of the assholes. They’re all laughing and patting each other on the back. She’d eat any one of them alive. I wonder who she’s here to see.
I’m also a little surprised that I’m so curious and, dare I say, possessive.
“Hey!” I almost look around to see who’s shouting, until I realize it’s me.
Myrtle, along with much of the restaurant and bar, turns my direction. I wave her over to join me. She doesn’t move, lowers her head, and stares at me instead.
I stand. Wave her over again. Again, she doesn’t move in my direction, and continues staring, her head lowered, her eyes reminiscent of the angry bedroom eyes on Colette.
I place my napkin on the table and head in her direction. She stays in place, but her upper body moves back and away. She twists her neck.
“What are you doing here?” I ask upon arriving.
“I’m sorry?” It’s not an apology. Nor do I think she didn’t hear the question. But I ask a different question. The one I suppose I actually mean to ask.
“Are you meeting someone?”
“Pierce—”
“It’s not one of those Rolex idiots, is it? You remember what I told you about the last Rolex guy you went out with. If you have to broadcast how well you’re doing, you’re not doing that well.”
“Pierce. You’re wearing a half-million-dollar watch.”
“Six hundred thousand. But that’s the point. You wouldn’t know it to look at it.”
; “Pierce—”
“You’re saying my name a lot. Wanna sit?” I gesture to my table, I believe invitingly.
“No. I don’t want to sit.”
I nod a bit. We stand there saying nothing for what is probably less time than it feels like, but more time than two people who have known each other as long as we have should.
Finally, she says, “Your food is going to get cold.”
“It’s Vichyssoise.”
“Then it’s going to come to room temperature.”
I lower my voice. “What do I have to do to get you to stop being pissed at me?”
“I dunno. What would it take for you to stop being pissed at someone who publicly humiliated you while at the same time questioning your loyalty, integrity, and character?”
I try to think of an answer that isn’t total bullshit. “Um… a raise and a promotion?”
She starts to walk past. I take her arm. She looks at my hand. “Anastasia, you need to let go of me. Right. Now.”
I shake my head, release my grip, and say, “This is fucking ridiculous. You’re full of shit.”
“I’m full of shit?”
“You. Yes. You are. If you were really so upset, you wouldn’t still be working for me.”
“No? You don’t think that it makes infinitely more sense for me to take your money, a cushy job, the liberty to do whatever I want, whenever I want, secure in the knowledge that you can’t do a goddamn thing to me? Because if you suddenly got it in your head to fire me, I’d rain down an unlawful termination suit on you that would fuck. Your. World?”
She says that last three words in a really breathy, sexy way while stepping in very close. I have a sudden urge to bite my nails, but just tug at my vest instead. Dignified.
I say the only thing I can think to say. “Why are you talking to an event planner about a Halloween party?” I do not know why it is what manifests in my brain, but there it is.
“Don’t worry about it. You want me to do something special? Help create a special spread for the magazine? I’m doing something special. I’m helping create a special spread for the magazine.” She gets even closer now. Her lips right by my ear. Her warm breath on my neck. In all the time I’ve known her, I don’t think she’s ever been this close to me. It is both weird and pretty… um… great. “Why?” she whispers. “Don’t you trust me?”
