Chapter Nineteen #2
But best of all, I decide, is the view of the goddess, the golden statue of Diana that presides over this tower.
Up here, she is not some distant and miniscule figure soaring over all of us.
Here, at the top of the tower, she’s practically within arm’s reach, and as I take in her strong, naked form, I see that she is fierce, noble, entirely unapologetic.
Stanny’s golden lady dancing for all of the city.
I stand for a few minutes in dazed silence and admire her as she spins in her naked glory, hundreds of feet above the rest of the world.
I’m so absorbed in my admiration that Stanny’s voice catches me by surprise when he speaks, though he is quiet, even a bit tender.
“I wish I had known you, Evelyn. When I designed this Diana. I would have put you on top of my tower.”
I wrest my eyes from the golden goddess, sliding them to meet his stare. His face is open and earnest, and his next words surprise me even more. “Never mind. Instead I’ll just have to put you on top of the world.”
I smile, unsure what to make of the remark. Of any of this, really. Including the fact that I do believe, in this moment, that Stanley Pierce is a man remarkable enough to make anything possible.
We are standing side by side now, before the balcony of the terrace, as he asks: “Do you like it?”
“Like it?” I gaze out over the view. “It’s like I’m in Eden.”
“Eden?” He tips his head toward me. “Eden was dreadfully boring. I was thinking something a bit more exciting. You know Bosch?”
“Bosch?” I grip the railing, looking down on the buildings far below. Buildings that, from the street, seem impossibly tall. How Stanny has a way of changing my view on things.
“Of course you don’t know Bosch.” Stanny shrugs and offers a smirk. “A great Renaissance painter. He did a thrilling work called The Garden of Earthly Delights. A scene of humans enjoying themselves in every way. That’s how I envision this garden to be.”
Before I can form some reply, Stanny goes on: “I’ll take you to Spain one day to see the piece.”
“Really?”
“It would be fun to see it together. You could learn a lot.”
I thrill at these words. “Like what?”
Stanny narrows his eyes, holding me with half a grin, weighing his next words for a moment. “Things that you’ve probably never imagined possible. But speaking of delights—how about some food? You worked hard tonight up on that stage; I don’t want you wasting away.”
He’s always so thoughtful. He guides me across the terrace and past the large hall, toward a smaller room just adjacent, one that looks almost like a greenhouse with its wrought-iron framing and wall-to-wall glass panes.
“Oh!” I pause at the doorway, delighted, as I take in the next scene.
There’s a colorful Turkish carpet laid across the center of the room and on top of that a spread that makes my stomach groan.
I clap as I walk toward it, seeing medallions of filet mignon and lollipop bites of roast lamb.
Cheese, olives, strawberries coated with chocolate, and éclairs.
“Are we going to eat like pagans on the floor?” I ask.
He flashes me a grin. “Could be fun, no?”
We settle onto the carpet, and Stanny serves me a heaping plate. Where are the servants who conjured this magical spread? I don’t hear even a distant sound of footsteps.
Stanny, who has made himself a plate and settled in beside me, says: “Open that perfect little mouth of yours.” I do as he says, and he places a chocolate-covered strawberry on my tongue.
I close my eyes and bite into it, the sweet flavors exploding across my mouth.
I smile appreciatively as I open my eyes and see the look on Stanny’s face—he’s staring at me with intent concentration.
He stares a moment longer and then asks: “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
I barely have to think before the answer spills out. “Paris.”
“Why is that?” He takes a bite of the lamb on his plate.
“Who doesn’t want to see Paris?” I muse aloud, hoping I sound sophisticated. “Why, the buildings, the art, the food, the fashion.”
Stanny chews, swallows, then offers a decisive nod. “Yes, you’d love it.”
As I fill my belly with Stanny’s delicious food, he fills my mind with images of the Seine, and the massive Notre-Dame Cathedral, the gardens, and the cafés where they serve pastries filled with liquid chocolate and sugared cherries.
Then he changes tack, pointing down to the fabric that pools all around my legs. “So, do you like your new cape?”
I shift, swallowing a salty bite of olive. “I do. It’s warm, and it’s soft, and I do feel as though I could be Little Red Riding Hood in it.”
He leans toward me, tipping his head as he answers, “Well, then, I promise I will always protect you from the Big Bad Wolf.”
“I know you will, Stanny.”
“Stanny,” he says, repeating the nickname, and for a moment I fear that I’ve been too familiar with him.
That perhaps he regrets inviting me to be so presumptuous.
But then he says, “I like that, when you call me Stanny,” and a feeling of relief washes over me.
With his voice quiet, he looks back down at the red material that drapes over my shoulders and says, “I would like to have you photographed in that cape.”
I nod. This is not a surprising statement to me, given how much of my life is spent getting either painted or photographed.
The only reason it catches me slightly by surprise is that it’s the first time Stanny has suggested it.
With his eyes still cast downward, he asks: “What do you have on underneath?”
“Oh.” I shift in my seat on the carpet and show him, slipping the velvet aside to reveal the red satin dress that Mamma has fashioned especially for this evening.
She had such high hopes that Stanny would like the way this new dress complements his gorgeous cape, but to my surprise, Stanny raises his hand and quickly slides the top garment back into place, covering my shoulders and my new dress entirely.
“It’s all right,” he says, his voice sounding slightly scratchy. “Keep it on.”
He gets up, walks to the far side of the room, and returns a moment later with a bottle of champagne, which he shows to me as if I’m a discerning society gal who might send it back.
“Moet I’m merely seeking clarification. For he’s the one who poured me champagne. He’s the one who brought me out here tonight, late as it is.
“I’m different!” His voice is gravel. “Haven’t I proven that? I wish to protect you. Can’t you see?”
My breathing has gone shallow. I can’t understand this sudden turn. When I say nothing, he breaks the silence, his voice decisive: “I think you’ve had enough. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Home. I’m bringing you home. You need your sleep. And your mamma.”
I pull the cloak snug around my shoulders, shivering beneath the plush red velvet as I rise from the carpet.
I’m no longer interested in the view, the food, the distant lights of the beautiful city so far below.
Now I really do feel like Little Red Riding Hood, wondering why Stanny—who mere moments ago was crooning that he was my protector, the friend who would take me to Paris and put me on top of the world—is growling at me like a wolf.