Chapter 11
My mother hasn't called.
That's the first thing I think when I wake up. Two days of silence from a woman whose entire personality is noise. She's planning something. I don't know what yet, but I know she’s coming.
I push it aside. I have a more immediate problem.
I pull the floral dress off the hanger and hold it up.
It looks like I'm going to someone's outdoor wedding and brought a backup outfit in case I cry. It’s just too much.
I put it back. I reach for my black pants, get as far as stepping into one leg, and stop.
I wore these the day I cleaned vomit off a grand piano.
I know I washed them. I step back out anyway and fold them onto the shelf.
I try on the gray blouse. I look like I'm going to work.
I take it off.
I sit on the edge of my bed in my underwear and look at the pile on the floor.
The problem is, I don't know where he's taking me.
I don't know what this is. There's no manual for what you wear the morning after a man kisses you against a dumpster and says, “I'll pick you up tomorrow,” with his eyes still dark and his voice still low.
If there were a manual, I wouldn't have it anyway.
Renée called twice this morning. I know what she wants. She’s probably trying to bug me into creating an online profile. The idea is as foreign as it is scary. What if it doesn’t work out? I’d end up hiding in a corner and licking my wounds. I’m not ready for that yet.
I look at the pile again. I pick the gray blouse back up. It's the least wrong thing I own.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Unknown number. I look at it for a moment.
Unknown Number
Car will be there in an hour. Go open your front door. — C
I read it twice and register the number. I put the phone down.
I think about how he got my digits. From Roger, probably. Roger would give him my shoe size if he asked. Roger is such a sexist wimp. I should be annoyed. I'm mostly just standing there in the gray blouse, trying to understand how this has become my morning.
I open the front door.
The woman on the other side is not what I was expecting, though I'm not sure what I was expecting — maybe a note or a second envelope I'd have to tear up.
She's small, somewhere in her 40s, with dark hair cut sharp at the jaw.
She has a garment bag over one arm and a rectangular case in the other, and she looks me over.
"Ms. Jenkins, I'm Gabrielle." She steps past me into the apartment before I have fully processed that she has arrived, sets the garment bag over the back of a kitchen chair and her case on the table, and then turns and looks at me properly. Her eyes go to the gray blouse. "Absolutely not.”
"Excuse me?"
She's already unzipping the garment bag. "The blouse. No." She pulls out three hangers and fans them across the back of the chair. "Come here. Tell me what you actually like."
I cross my arms. "Cade sent you?"
"Yes, I’m here on behalf of Mr. Nightingale.
" She holds up two of the options, one in each hand, head tilting between them.
"Which colors do you like? How much do you want people to look at you?
Do you want to feel like yourself or like someone completely different?
" She glances at me over the hangers. "Which one? "
I look at her. "Myself."
She puts both hangers down and picks up the third — deep green, wrap-style, a plunging neckline. She holds it out. "Try this."
I take it. I look at it. "Did he pick it?"
"He gave me a budget and a general direction. I made the actual decisions." She waves a hand toward the bathroom. "Go."
I go.
In the bathroom, I step into the dress. The fabric settles. I tie the wrap. I stand in front of the mirror and look.
I don't look like I'm going to work or like I'm going to someone's wedding. I look like a person who is going somewhere on purpose.
I come back out.
Gabrielle is already pulling up a kitchen chair for me to sit in. She looks at the dress, makes a small circle with two fingers to make me turn, and when I do, she makes a sound that means yes.
"Sit down. I'm doing your hair."
She doesn't ask how I want it. She just starts, fingers moving through my curls. She hums while she works, low and tuneless. I sit still. It's early, and the apartment is quiet, and there's something almost peaceful about having someone's hands in my hair.
"Does he do this often?" I ask. "Send someone."
"What do you mean?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. How exactly do I ask my question plainly without sounding like an overly attached girlfriend? I toss around a few options in my head, but none of them seem appropriate.
Finally, I ask, "Has he needed something like this before?"
Her hands pause for half a second. "No." She resumes her work.
I look at the mirror she's propped on the table. My own face looks back at me, less familiar than usual — the green dress and my hair almost finished.
She steps back to look. She adjusts one thing and steps back again. "There."
She's already repacking her case, moving with quick, precise motions. She zips the case, picks up the garment bag, and gives me one more look — the full picture, head to toe.
She kisses my cheek and walks out.
The door closes.
I stand in the kitchen for a moment. Then I go look in the mirror.
Maeve appears from her bedroom and walks to the kitchen. She stops. She looks at me. “You look nice, Suzanne.” She gets her mug from the fridge and raises it in a small salute. She turns and goes back to her room.
I pick up my bag. I check the time. I look at my phone once — Renée's name still sitting there unanswered — and put it away.
The black sedan is at the curb when I come downstairs. The driver says my name before I reach him and opens the door. That's the full extent of our conversation. I get in.
We drive. The city loosens outside the window, blocks traded for highway, then valley. I put my hands flat on my knees and try to keep them there. They don't cooperate. I press them together instead, look out at the road, and tell myself that I'm fine, almost believing it.
I don't ask where we're going. I realize that I haven't wondered about that. That's strange for me because I'm someone who likes to know things in advance — exits, schedules, exactly how much the light bill will be. The not-knowing should bother me.
It doesn't, particularly.
We take an exit I don't recognize. The road narrows and turns through a gate, then it opens onto a small airfield, where I see the plane on the tarmac.
I don't move for a moment after the car stops.
The driver opens my door. I get out. A man in a dark jacket is already walking toward me from the base of the stairs.
"Ms. Jenkins. Welcome." He falls into step beside me. "Mr. Nightingale will meet you at the destination. He flew out earlier this morning."
I stop walking. "He's not on it?"
"He had a matter to attend to first. He'll be on the ground when you land."
I go up the stairs.
The inside is quieter than I expected. It is smaller too — cream seats, a low table, windows letting in flat morning light.
I take the seat facing the cockpit. The steward offers me champagne, but I ask for water.
He returns with a bottle of water on a tray, and I take it and look out the window as the engines start.
The ground begins to move. The buildings shrink. The sky opens up, and I let myself, just for a minute, admire the view from above.
We land forty minutes later. The sky is different down here — bluer, lighter, and softer than home. I come down the stairs.
He's on the tarmac, wearing dark trousers, with the shirt open at the collar, and no jacket. He's watching me come down, like he's been waiting for this moment to happen.
I reach the bottom of the stairs.
"Hi," I say. It's the only word I have.
"Hi." He smiles and takes my hand.
The restaurant is small with only eight tables, maybe nine. There’s a terrace facing the water, with whitewashed walls and a vase of yellow flowers on our table. We sit across from each other. He orders quickly, while I take my time with the menu, longer than I need to.
The bread comes first — still warm, faintly blistered from the oven. I eat more of it than I intend to.
"I can't believe I'm here with you," I say.
He looks at me. "Really? I believe it very much. I always knew we’d get here.”
“You sound a little too confident over there. Do you need me to shoot down your ego?”
He laughs. “It’s not a matter of my ego. It’s a matter of the heart. You’re very beautiful, Suzanne Jenkins.”
“I…I…uh… Thank you.”
“I don’t get a compliment back?”
I scoff. “Only when you deserve it.”
“What do I have to do to earn it? I’m very eager to please, Suzanne.”
I look at him.
He looks back.
I pick up my glass.
The food comes at that exact moment.
“Tell me… When did you start painting?”
“For as long as I can remember. Marguerite, my aunt…she got me my first materials and pretty much taught me everything I know.”
“No art school?”
“I wish. I couldn’t even afford it after my mom took my college fund. She must’ve thought it was really funny that I wanted to go to art school. My only option was to get a job to survive.”
“Your work shouldn’t be at the bottom of a cleaning cart, you know?”
I look at my plate. I know this. Renée tells me a version of it every time we talk, but Renée is my cousin who loves me dearly. I always think she's being biased, so I discount it. Cade doesn't love me, but he's telling me the same thing.
"You don’t have to say that, Cade. I'm fine where I am, and I don’t think you understand what it feels like to live with someone like my mom. She knows how to ruin a person's self-esteem.”
He scoffs and stabs at his plate. “You’d be surprised.” Before I can ask what that was about, he quickly fixes a smile on his face. “My company is captivating, isn’t it?” He gestures at my plate. “You’ve barely eaten anything.”
“I could say the same thing to you. You’ve been staring at my lips all night.” I bat my eyelashes. “Do you want to kiss me, Mr. Nightingale?”
His eyes darken. “I want to do more than that.”
I reach across and take a small roasted tomato from his plate.
I hold it between my fingers. His eyes go to my hand.
I bring it slowly to his mouth. He doesn't break his stare.
He opens his mouth and takes it from my fingers, his lips warm just at the tips, he chews, looks at me and says nothing for a moment.
“Why don’t you?”
I tilt my head. “Why don’t you do something first?”
“That’s not a question I want to answer, Suzanne. But there’s something I want you to answer.”
I lean toward him. “No, Cade. I’m not wearing anything underneath this dress.” He swallows. His jaw tightens for half a second. He reaches for his water. He takes a long, slow sip. He sets the glass down. He looks at me.
I pick up my fork and point it at him.
He catches my hand. His thumb moves once across my knuckles, and he turns my hand over and sets the fork back down, his hand still over mine. He doesn't move it. He's looking at me.
I find his knee under the table. I move my hand up, past comfortable. I hold it there and watch his face.
Something shifts behind his eyes.
He raises his free hand without looking away from me.
"Check," he says.
He signs without looking down. He stands. He holds out his hand.
I take it.
The hotel is ten minutes away, maybe less. He has a key. We go up in a small, wood-paneled elevator. He stands next to me and doesn't touch me, and somehow that is the loudest thing in the room. We reach the second floor, the elevator stops, and he opens a door.
I don’t even look at the room. My entire focus is on him — just him. As soon as the door closes, I pounce.
His lips are on mine. His hands are everywhere, touching, teasing, provoking. But I have a clear plan, a clear destination in mind.
My fingers land on his chest, and I push him back carefully until he’s forced to sit on the bed. He looks up at me with surrender in his eyes. I want this. I want him. I want everything.
He’s waiting for me with his hands on the bed.
“Take off your clothes.”
He grins. “Yes, ma’am.” He makes quick work of it. Even though I’ve seen him naked before, this feels different. It’s not awkward, and I’m able to appreciate it. I try to think of a word to describe him — sexy, attractive, handsome.
Mine.
Slowly, I ease the dress off my shoulders until I feel it pool around my ankles. I move to him and climb on top of him. I feel him poke my thighs instantly. My thighs begin to part on their own.
His hands lift up to my chest. “Maybe we should…”
“No. I don’t think I can wait.”
“Neither can I, but I want to do this for you.”
I lift my hips up and descend on him to shut him up. He lets out a low groan. “Forget about that for now. This is what I want.”
Cade doesn’t speak after that. His hands move to my waist. He clutches my skin tightly, rocking me back and forth. I let myself go, let my body do the work. My head falls back. I moan and moan until I reach the high I’ve been chasing.
I collapse against his shoulder. The sound of our heavy breathing fills the room, and I have one singular thought. I don’t want this to ever stop — ever. His hand moves from my waist to my hair.
"Cade."
"Hmm…"
"I want to do this."
His hand stills in my hair. Then starts moving again. "Yeah?"
I pull back to look at him. "Yeah."
“Are you sure?”
I nod. "Yes. But you have to promise me something."
He doesn't move. "What?"
I hold his gaze. "You can't tell anyone."