Truth Be Told

by Holly Ryan

  I did manage to make up my mind to visit him instead of calling him, so at least I came that far. I figure if I’m going to turn down such a generous offer, the least I can do is show him the grace of doing it in person.

  I quickly change out of the messy sweats I was wearing for cleaning and slip on a pair of leggings and a long, warm sweater. It’s the sweater my mother gifted me a few Christmases ago, and I almost forgot about it until I rummaged through my closet just now. A few tosses aside of some clothes here and there, and there it was, folded neatly on a back shelf, just waiting to comfort me with memories. I lift the sleeves up to my nose, breathing in the scent, wishing it still smelled like her. Of course, it doesn’t. It’s been sitting far too long and has taken on the musty, stale scent of the back of my closet. I throw my hands down.

  My mother is in Florida with the rest of my family, and we haven’t seen each other in a year. At first, we tried to visit every few months, then twice a year and then we settled into a pattern of once a year. But this year, my work got in the way. I simply didn’t have the time to make the trip from Connecticut to Florida, even for a few days. It broke my heart, but the work I do isn’t exactly portable, and I have deadlines. I can only hope things will be different next year, but in my world, there are no guarantees.

  As a last-ditch effort at making myself presentable, I spray on a dash of perfume, then head out. In the car, I use my phone to pull up Cohen’s address and plug it into my GPS. My car is nowhere near as nice as his, I notice as I wiggle back in the uncomfortable seat. It’s about seven years old, racked up with miles, and the faux leather trim is starting to peel around the edges. That’s not to mention the most disturbing thing of all – it’s yellow. As in, taxi cab yellow. This is the car I bought at the beginning of my freshman year of college. It goes without saying that I’m well overdue for an upgrade, but there’s been too much chaos lately, and my mind couldn’t register the fact that I should be embarrassed about my car in front of Cohen, especially when compared to his. There also just so happened to be so much else on my mind at the time. You know, potentially big, life-changing offers involving quitting my side job.

  I set my phone down in the center console as the female voice spouts out directions. Cohen doesn’t live far from me, but his house is in an area I’ve never been before, and as I drive further and further through the unfamiliar winding roads, I can see why. The houses are huge.

  I expected that, of course, given what I now know about him. But I didn’t expect anything like this. All the homes are big, but when I see Cohen’s address in gold numbers against a brick entryway, I stop. His house is the biggest. It’s completely gated on all sides, and I can only see the house itself by trailing my eyes up the long, winding driveway that sits behind the closed security gate. There, sitting on the top of a hill, is a huge white mansion. Its outside lights are on at the moment, giving the house and its entire exterior a warm, hazy glow, as though the entire house is illuminated to be the obvious focal point of the city.

  I release my foot off the brake and my car rattles slowly up to the security gate. I’m confused at first, as there’s no obvious way to get through, and I pick up my phone to call Cohen to let him know I’m here. Then I drop the phone back down. There’s movement coming from a behind a patch of trees, and a man in a security uniform approaches my car. I can see it now, how he emerged from a small, tucked away booth. It’s not lit up, so it wasn’t obvious before.

  He taps on my window before I roll it down.

  “Hello,” I say, somewhat awkwardly. “I’m here to see Cohen. Er– Mr. Thatcher.” Thank goodness I remembered his last name. My mind can be slippery like that, and I’m not so sure Mr. Security Man here would have been impressed.

  The man is dressed in a black suit and tie, and he has a clipboard in his hand. “Can I say that he’s expecting you?”

  I nod. “Yes. Yes, you can.”

  He gives me a brief once-over, leaning down to peer past me into my car, and says, “Wait here.” Then he walks away.

  The thought of seeing Cohen again is bringing back that familiar feeling of butterflies in my stomach. Now I’m wishing I’d taken the time to dress better, or at least stick on a pair of earrings or something. I remembered to use some perfume, though, so at least I have that going for me.

  From here, I can hear the security guard talking into a phone. I can’t tell if he’s talking to Cohen, but I hear a few of his brief words: “Yes. She is. Okay, sir. Goodbye.”

  At the sound of “goodbye,” I snap back to attention and shift my eyes away from him so he won’t catch on to the fact that I’ve been trying to listen in. He returns, this time without his clipboard and with a friendlier look on his face.

  “You can go ahead,” he says.

  “Okay. Um, where should I–” Before I can finish asking where I’m supposed to park, he’s already left. He didn’t hear a word I said.

  I grip the steering wheel and drive through the slowly opening gate. My car works hard to propel itself up the incline, and when I reach the very top of the tall drive, I park wherever seems to make the most sense, which just so happens to be right next to the staircase leading up to the main entryway. I don’t want to be imposing, and who knows who else I might run into in there who might think something of my parking job, but this seems to be the best spot.

  I take a deep breath and head toward the stairs. This part of the driveway consists of white gravel, and it crunches beneath each of my steps, causing me to thank myself for not wearing heels.

  The blinds are still open on some of the windows, and various lights shine from inside the house. A fireplace glows in the corner of what looks to be a living room, but I can’t see any movement.

  I raise my hand to the door, knuckles ready. Just as I’m about to knock, the door opens for me. Cohen swings it on its hinges and then he’s there, standing a few feet in front of me. A splash of warm air hits my face when it wafts out of his home.

  “Hey,” I say. He’s even more beautiful than I remember.

  “Hey there.” He steps aside, ushering me in. “Come in.” I do, and after he closes the door behind me, he says, “It’s cold out there.”

  “It sure is.” I rub my hands together for warmth.

  The inside of Cohen Thatcher’s house is exactly as I expected – it’s bright and open, huge, of course, with a large, sparkling chandelier above our heads and a winding central staircase as the focal point. The floor is made of slick black and white patterned granite. He offers to take my purse off my shoulder.

  “How many fireplaces do you have?” I ask curiously, because you know in a house like this, there’s most definitely more than one. I let him take my purse, shrugging my shoulders as he also helps with my coat.

  “Nine.”

  My eyes grow wide. “Nine?”

  He smiles in return and sets my things on a round table in the middle of the entryway, next to a huge vase full of red and white flowers. “By last count.”

  I get it. A joke, of course. “How do you take care of nine fireplaces?” If there are nine fireplaces, I can only imagine how many rooms this place holds. I bite my tongue. He’s probably thinking, Poor little Stella. Such a simpleton. She doesn’t realize that in a house like this, I don’t take care of anything.

  He shrugs. “It’s not that hard as long as you pay people to keep up with it.”

  Well, I was right, but at least he said it nicely.

  “I used to have live-in help,” he goes on, “and it was easier then. But now all I do is have someone come once a week. Come on.” He touches the back of my shoulder and guides me to the room to our left, one that’s off of the main foyer, the one with the warm glow of the lit fire.

  It’s cozy in here, the theme seeming to be one of rich, dark brown leather. All the walls are detailed with shiny brown wood, matching the color of the thick leather sofas. A row of windows covers one side of the wall, leading out to the expansive covered deck at the front of the house.r />
  I sit on the sofa that’s facing those windows, setting my hands comfortably in front of me.

  “I don’t mean to make this seem so formal,” Cohen says as he takes a seat on the sofa across from me. “I’d rather you think of this as a visit between friends than anything close to a professional financial arrangement.”

  Between friends. So that’s all he thinks of me? It’s only been a few days, yes, but that right there is confirmation that I better stuff my feelings away. I give a light smile. “It’s fine.”

  He leans back, sinking deeply into the leather, and lifts his arm onto the spine of the couch. “I assume you had a chance to think about what I offered?”

  I swallow, preparing to speak. This is a pretty serious thing we’re talking about. Giving someone such a large amount of money is no small matter, but Cohen is kind of acting like it is. His words are business-like, but at the same time, I can tell that this isn’t that big of a big deal to him. He’d prefer that I say yes, of course, but it wouldn’t be the end of his world if I turn him down. He’s doing this only for my sake, to be kind. He doesn’t need to. He’s doing it to rescue me yet again – only this time, it’s not quite life or death.

  “I did.” I look down at my clasped hands. I don’t know how to say this; plus, it’s easier to speak on tough subjects when I’m not distracted by his good looks. I close my eyes. When I open them again a second later, I say, “I decided not to do it. I mean– not to accept your money, at least.”

  He doesn’t react. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I am going to quit dancing. Because you were right, it’s too dangerous, and I think that’s some pretty good advice that I should take. And what happened the other day…” I shake my head, my hair moving around my face. “I can’t keep going after that. I mean, I can, but I know that I shouldn’t.”

  He’s watching me intently.

  My words are uncertain now that I’m holding his piercing gaze, but I manage to finish slowly. “So I’m not going to.”

  And that’s that. I did it. He knows that I don’t want his money. I clasp my hands together in my lap once more.

  I expect him to press me further, to ask if I’ll be okay doing that, if I’ll be able to make ends meet. But he doesn’t.

  Instead, he looks down and a tiny smile cracks at the corner of his mouth. Then he clears his throat, pulls his arm down from the back of the sofa, and leans forward toward me. From here, the soft, yellow-gold glow of the fireplace illuminates the side of his face. It brings out the lighter tones of his eyes, a detail which hits me in the gut as he looks deep into my own. He gives a relaxed shake of his head. “Okay. It sounds like you have this all planned out.”

  I sit up straighter. “I do. I had enough time to think about it.”

  There’s more he wants to say; I can feel it as he continues to watch me, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands holding each other as though mirroring mine. So why isn’t he saying it?

  He sits up again and rubs his palms against his pants. “Well then–”

  Oh, no. I know what he’s doing. He’s about to show me out.

  “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would go to a strip club,” I say suddenly. The words were a desperate attempt to keep the conversation flowing, and they escaped me without thought of consequence. I feel like hitting myself.

  He pauses, looking at me with that same, now familiar half-smile of his.

  “I mean…”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “I know you already admitted that it doesn’t fit you, and I agreed, but it’s just so obvious now.”

  “It’s obvious? How?”

  I look around. “Well, this is high class. You’re high class.”

  He laughs. “High class men don’t go to strip clubs?”

  “No, of course they do. That’s not what I mean.” I wait for him to step in, to explain my own thoughts for me as he seems to be so genuinely good at doing. But he doesn’t. He lets me finish. “I just mean that you’re… classy. Classy is very different from high class.”

  His hands are still unmoving from where he’d placed them on his knees, ready to get up.

  “Oh, God,” I say as I realize how ridiculous I must sound. “Please take that as a compliment.”

  His gaze hasn’t broken mine this whole time, and it doesn’t now. “I’m pretty sure that’s the best compliment I’ve ever been given.”

  That leaves me speechless, but something else suddenly catches my attention. Something is moving behind Cohen. I shift to the side to get a closer look over his shoulder. Snowflakes. It’s snowing, and as I watch for a moment, they quickly become larger and begin to fall more heavily. They’ve already formed a thick coating on the ground and my car.

  Cohen turns to see what I’m looking at. “I didn’t know it was supposed to snow tonight,” he says. He doesn’t seem too concerned.

  Me, on the other hand? I’m a different story. I can’t stand driving in the snow. Like, I really, really hate it. It gives me anxiety.

  He turns back to me. “I should have asked earlier, but would you like a drink?” He thumbs in the direction of this room’s exit, no doubt toward one of the dozens of rooms in this place. “I have a full bar. Whatever you want.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t drink.” At this point, even despite all that I now know about him, I still expect him to react with shock, because who’s ever heard of a stripper who doesn’t drink?

  But he doesn’t bat an eye. He stands and excuses himself, I’m sure to help himself to one.

  The crackle of the fire increases in the quiet now that he’s gone. I get up and walk to the set of full-length windows, then cross my arms when I feel the slightest cold draft seeping through the edges. The snow has picked up, and there’s already a good three inches out there. If I’m going to have a chance at getting out of here, I’d better leave now.

  Just as the thought crosses my mind, a wind gust blows a flurry of powdery snow against the window, blinding me.

  I sigh. This could be bad.

  I make my way around the room, taking in the décor, which I can only assume to be Cohen’s, but knowing that with the amount of money he has, he more than likely hired someone to decorate it for him. I’d be better off not assuming like I did when I first arrived, thinking he might actually maintain his own mansion.

  A painting of a man on a horse hangs on an otherwise empty wall, and if I look close enough I can see the actual texture of the paint strokes. I extend a finger to touch them, as inviting as they are, but pull my hand back. If the painting is genuine, I’m sure touching wouldn’t be appreciated. I have to remember to act like I’m in a museum in this place.

  When I make it to the mantle above the fireplace, I stop. Another vase of flowers sits in the center, but off its sides are bunches of picture frames. They’re full of smiling faces, all of people I don’t know, but one of them includes Cohen. It’s the last one in the line, and it looks to be a picture from many years ago, judging by how young he looks. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old when it was taken. I’m sure it’s him though. He has the same blue eyes, the same dark hair and the same strong, distinct jawline. He’s posing with a group of three others, two of which are adults, who I can only assume to be his parents, and one is a young girl, who must be his sister. They’re standing together in front of a shoreline on a sunny day, all of them dressed in their swimsuits, and the picture is a lighthearted one – the girl is smiling sweetly, but Cohen has one arm absently wrapped around her shoulders, the other raised and curled to jokingly show off his muscles, his nose scrunched at the camera.

  I smile.

  “So,” comes a deep voice from behind me, “do I need to worry about you shanking me?”

  I turn at the sound. Cohen is holding two mugs in his hands, their contents steaming.

  He approaches me and then stops, taking a quick look past me, glancing at the picture and then back to me. He offers me the mug with that sa
me knowing half-grin on his face. “Sorry,” he says, changing the unspoken subject. “I know you don’t like that word.”

  I smile. He’s not really sorry. “I never said I don’t like it. I said it was strange.” The smell of hot cocoa fills my nose. It’s hot and fresh, sprinkled with fluffy white marshmallows and topped with a drizzle of chocolate. It’s obviously homemade. I inhale the rich chocolate scent and wrap my fingers around the cup.

  He takes a sip then stuffs one of his hands in his pocket. “From classy to strange in such a short amount of time.”

  I take a drink, too, and then roll my eyes. “And no, you don’t have to work about me shanking you. I really only worry about carrying my knife on me when I’m working.” I pause to second guess what I’m saying, then smile. “That’s not say you shouldn’t watch yourself.”

  He raises his drink a bit. “Fair enough.”

  I bring his attention back to the picture. “Is this you?”

  “Yep.”

  “And those are your parents?”

  He nods, coming closer. “And that’s my sister, Olivia.”

  I lean in again, taking more of her in now that I know who she is. “Are you guys close?”

  “My sister and I are pretty close. My mom died shortly after this picture was taken, and my dad passed a few years ago.” He brings the drink back to his mouth and walks away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “It’s alright. I’ve moved on as well as I could. And you didn’t know.” He looks out at the snow. “We’d better get you out of here soon if you’re going to have a chance at making it home.”

  I step next to him. I anxiously watch the snow fall over the rim of my cup. “Oh shit,” I say while it continues to pour down. “It looks worse.”