The Glass House

by Bettina Wolfe

  The Glass House

  Bettina Wolfe

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  A Note from Bettina

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Glass House

  Copyright © 2020 Bettina Wolfe

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author.

  ISBN-13: 9780578735641 (paperback)

  Cover design by Stuart Bache

  Created with Vellum

  To my mom, with love.

  The cruelest lies are often told in silence.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  Prologue

  I gaze at your body lying twisted on the ground. It wasn't supposed to end this way. I promised you a life of love, not pain—a life of happiness, not sorrow.

  Your suffering is over and has now shifted to me.

  I don’t know what I’ll do without you. I don’t know if I will ever forgive myself—this house or this place.

  We were meant to be together forever.

  1

  Valerie

  I had never believed in love at first sight until the day that mysterious stranger walked into my life.

  We met when I worked as a cocktail server in Vegas, the absolute worst job on the planet for someone like me, but I needed money, and the money was good. I don’t know how I tolerated the nonsense that went along with it… the drunkards, the serial cheaters, and the married old geezers who thought they could buy you with a wad of hundreds or a stack of chips. At times it was too much to handle.

  Then one night, David appeared. Not only was he handsome, but there was also something different about him. He was unlike the others who visited the lounge. He wasn’t your typical obnoxious drunk, slurring his words while snapping his fingers in the air, demanding service. I guessed him to be in his late forties, give or take, judging from the flecks of gray in his thick head of hair. And I didn't notice a gold band or the telltale white line around his ring finger.

  I remember him sitting there through the haze of cigarette and cigar smoke, dressed casually in dark jeans and a black polo shirt. He kept to himself while sipping an almost empty glass of Merlot. The moment I approached him, he smiled genuinely, deep lines wrinkling around dark brown, almond-shaped eyes.

  “Care for another?” I asked, returning a slight smile of my own.

  “Sure, thanks,” he replied, swirling the last of the wine in his glass.

  As I walked away, I could feel his eyes on me watching my every move. Typically when men stared, it would creep me out, especially the way they would leer at me up and down. Of course, the ridiculous uniforms we had to wear didn't help either, too short, too tight, and way too revealing for my taste. It was the most uncomfortable piece of polyester I ever wore that didn’t breathe in the desert heat. I was a hot, sweaty mess in that costumed get-up. But it was only for a year—at least that's what I had told myself.

  I first started working at the Sky Royal Hotel as a front desk representative. That uniform, a navy blue pantsuit—another polyester garment, better matched my personality—buttoned-up and conservative. But Cindy, my roommate, had been a cocktail server for two years and made triple my salary. While she collected tips, hundreds a day for slinging cocktails, I checked guests in and out of their rooms for a few hundred a week.

  “Just apply for the darn job before someone else fills the last opening,” Cindy had said, shaking a bottle of crimson nail polish. “Do you know how many girls are vying for the position? Besides, I’m tired of hearing you complain about never having enough money,” she quipped. She quickly finished painting her long pointy nails as she prepared for her shift.

  “Okay, okay,” I groaned, “I’ll apply.”

  Pursing her lips, she blew short breaths of air onto each of her fingernails. After waving her hands in the air, she strategically grabbed her keys and handbag, rushing out the door.

  Two weeks later, thanks to Cindy, I was the newest yet one of the oldest cocktail servers in the Crystal Lounge. While I was thirty-two, I was thankful I could pass for twenty-five. Cindy had warned me about the ‘secret rules’ of the server girls. First rule—no one over thirty ever qualified for the job. Second rule—no fraternizing with the hotel guests. If you did, you had better keep it to yourself, and if it went any further, never kiss and tell. It was grounds for immediate termination.

  Thank goodness those days are behind me. I’ve traded toe-pinching high heels and itchy uniforms for a wardrobe of flip-flops, T-shirts, and shorts.

  When I had brought David his second glass of Merlot that night, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a business card.

  “I hope this doesn't sound too forward, but I’d like to take you out for dinner sometime,” he said, gazing up at me.

  I stood there, balancing the tray in my hand, contemplating a reply as he stared at my chest.

  “I'm here for the week, so you only have five days to choose from.” Squinting his eyes, he flashed me a half smile. “Sorry, I don’t have my reading glasses with me. Is it Valerie?”

  I realized he was trying to read my name tag pinned slightly above my left breast.

  “Yes, it is,” I replied, inching my free hand to my chest. “But my friends call me Val.”

  As I leaned over, setting the glass on the table, he reached up and placed his card on my tray.

  “Nice to meet you, Val.” Another smile. “Listen, I’ll understand if you say no or have to think about it,” he winked.

  I gave the card a cursory glance. David Radferd, International Sales Director, Limón Export.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, turning away.

  The following night, I had just begun my shift at the Crystal Lounge. As I stood at the bar picking up an order, I carefully organized the drinks on my tray by glass size and volume. When I turned around to head over to a table of guests, I almost bumped right into him.

  “Oh, David, hi!” I took a step back, gripping the tray as liquids swayed, the drinks spilling over their rims. In an instant, he reached out, steadying my hands to help save the glasses from falling.

  “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, now holding the tray with both hands. I took anot
her step to the side. “Are you stalking me?”

  “No, no,” he declared, shaking his head. Pointing over his shoulder with his thumb, I noticed three men sitting at a table.

  “I’m with a few business associates. We stopped by for a drink before dinner.”

  “Okay, well, that’s not my section, but I’m sure someone will be right with you.”

  “Speaking of dinner, I wanted to remind you that you only have four days left to choose from,” he leaned in slightly, eyes smiling.

  I gazed at him for a few seconds, up and down, just as men do to women. I couldn’t deny an attraction to him, but I wasn’t sure it was worth risking my job. I stood there for a moment in thought. Oh, what the heck—it’s only dinner—a girl’s gotta eat.

  “I’m off tomorrow night. It’s the only time I’m available.”

  “Sounds good. Where shall we meet?”

  “Not here,” I stated, “definitely not here. I could be fired if my supervisor found out.”

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “As long as we meet someplace else, it should be fine.”

  “Well, one of the guys is staying at The Amethyst. He mentioned the steakhouse is pretty good. We could meet there, say around seven. Will that work for you, Ms. Valerie? I don’t even know your last name.”

  “Seven’s fine, and my last name is Vinnello. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have drinks to serve.”

  “See you tomorrow, Ms. Vinnello. I look forward to getting to know you.” Flashing a smile, he turned and walked back to his table.

  Our dinner conversation along with a bottle of wine flowed freely that evening. David told me about his work, his travels to Central America, and about wanting to move there to a small house and live a quiet life in the jungle. He said he had grown tired of living in one place and welcomed a change of scenery.

  I shared my longing to live by the ocean again as I wasn't much of a desert person. I had only moved to Las Vegas after running into Cindy, an old coworker from back home. She would tell me these wild, crazy stories and talk about all of the fun she was having since moving to Vegas. She practically begged me to move in with her and rent a house together. I told her I’d give it a year to see if it was the right place for me.

  Two years later, however, sweating through multiple days of one hundred and fifteen degrees, I was ready to move somewhere else. I planned to save as much money as I could and move to California. Since I had lived by the Atlantic Ocean for most of my life, I thought it would be nice to see sunsets in the Pacific.

  It was coincidental when David shared that he lived just outside of LA as he loved the ocean too. Despite our age difference, we seemed to have a lot in common.

  “You should come to LA and visit me sometime,” he said, handing me a spoon and nudging his crème brûlée toward me.

  “I'd love to,” I reacted a bit too quickly, the wine obviously talking for me. “It's been so long since I've stuck my toes in the sand and sat by the ocean.” Scooping up a spoonful of the custard, I savored its sweetness as the caramelized sugar melted on my tongue.

  “What about next weekend?” he asked. “Monday’s a holiday, and I’ll be home for three days… alone, unless you care to join me.” Reaching for his wine, he took a long sip while staring at me over the rim of his glass.

  “I do have a few vacation days saved up. I guess I could find someone to cover my shifts.”

  Did I just say yes? Where are these words coming from? Note to self: Do not drink half a bottle of wine among strangers.

  “Great, I can’t wait.” He beamed, his eyes lighting up as if he had hit the jackpot.

  The waiter came over and politely asked if we needed anything else.

  “I’d like a cup of black coffee, please,” I requested. I needed it to stave off the effects of too much wine and sugar.

  “Make that two,” David added, “with a side of cream.”

  When the waiter turned away, David rested his arms on the table, palms up.

  “Give me your hands,” he instructed, wiggling his fingers.

  I glanced to my left and then to my right, checking to see if anyone was watching us.

  “Why?”

  “Just do as I say,” he pleaded, his gaze lingering.

  Unwillingly, I stretched out my arms, placing my hands next to his. He slowly curled his fingers around mine, massaging the sides of my palms with his thumbs.

  “Now, this may sound a bit strange, but I feel as if we've met before.”

  “But… we… haven’t,” I said, drawing out each word and lowering my head.

  “It’s as if I've known you in another lifetime… as if we were destined to meet again.”

  At that point, it had sounded like the wine was talking for him too.

  “Really?” I half giggled. “I bet you say that to all the women you meet.”

  “I'm serious. I feel a strong pull when I'm near you.”

  Holding his gaze, I felt a spark pulsate through my arms. I couldn't deny it. I did feel something as he held onto my hands, a warm, peaceful feeling that connected us, binding us together. It was as if, at that moment, I happened to be in the right place at the right time.

  The waiter soon returned with our coffee, setting the cups down near the edge of the table, careful not to disturb our interlocked arms.

  David nodded at him and turned back to me, keeping a firm grip on my hands.

  2

  David

  This one is different; she has potential—a diamond in the rough. I like that Valerie isn’t reed-thin. Her chocolate brown hair and voluptuous curves are a breath of fresh air. She's so unlike the painstakingly thin Barbie dolls that travel in flocks in this city. Sure they're cute, but they could all use a good meal.

  Not my Val, though, she’s no ‘Valley girl.’ Not only did she eat a meal I paid for, but she also indulged in a dessert with me—a rarity. I can't remember the last time I shared something sweet with someone. Val is a great gal. She’s someone who can keep up with me.

  I glance at my watch and realize she'll be here any minute. I check the room one last time, making sure everything's put away. I wouldn't want her discovering items from my past… from my previous life. It’s too much information too soon.

  I feel a vibration in my pocket as my cell phone buzzes against my thigh. Sliding it out, I gaze down and see a text message.

  I’m here, out front. Hope I'm at the right place. Val

  Oh, you’re at the right place, all right. You’re home. I’m tempted to text back. But instead, I slink down the stairs with my head held high, thoughts swirling, excited as I open the front door.

  “There she is,” I reach for her overnight bag. “How was the drive?” I ask, and then smile.

  “Not bad, it took me a little over five hours. I followed the GPS and made a few pit stops along the way.”

  “You’ve never been to California?” I tilt my head ever so suavely.

  “No, it's my first time.”

  “Really? For some reason, I thought you had been here before.”

  She follows me inside, up the stairs, and into the living room. I place her luggage down and then turn to her, enveloping her in my signature bear hug. Her body feels rigid, reluctant at first, but then her hands gently press against my lower back as she returns my gesture of affection.

  “I've missed you,” I lean back to stare into her eyes.

  “It’s only been a week,” she remarks, breaking away from our embrace. “Besides, you don't know me well enough to miss me.” Her gaze travels across the room and along the walls, studying each and every frame for a few moments.

  “Wow, these pictures are stunning.” She inches her way closer to them.

  “Thanks. I'm a pretty good photographer if I say so myself.”

  “You took all these?”

  “Yes, over the years of my travels.”

  “So, they were all taken in Central America.”

/>   “Costa Rica to be exact.”

  “The waterfalls, the jungle, all these colorful birds… they’re all so—exotic.”

  “Glad you like them.”

  “I do. I'm trying to imagine what it would be like to see it all in person—to experience the rushing sound of the waterfall, the birds chirping, and the earthy smell of rain in the air.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask. Glancing over, I study her as she stands by the waterfall photo.

  “All that's missing is a tropical drink in my hand,” I hear her say.

  “I have a better idea. You must be hungry from all the driving, so why don't we head out for a late lunch, early dinner. We can go down to the marina and relax by the water.”

  “Sounds wonderful, but first, I'd like to freshen up a bit.”

  “Down the hall and to the right is the spare bedroom. It connects with your own private bathroom. Take as much time as you need.”

  “Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  I watch as she picks up her luggage and saunters down the hallway. I must say the jeans she’s wearing hug every inch of her in all the right places.

  We enter one of my local haunts, The Wharf Bar and Grill, standing in the foyer waiting to be seated. To our left, local patrons perched on stools along the bar sit nursing their assorted drinks.