Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
JULIET
The door clicks shut behind him with a soft finality that echoes in the sun-dappled room, and that is when I start to breathe again—really breathe, my lungs expanding like they've been held underwater too long.
The air rushes in, carrying the sweet strawberry scent of Freya's shampoo.
I shut my eyes for a second, leaning back against the plastic edge of a doll house, trying to steady the wild thrum in my chest from his kiss on my forehead—warm lips brushing my skin, his breath stirring my hair, leaving me tingling like I've been touched by lightning.
Freya's small concerned voice pulls me back, her little hand tugs at my jacket sleeve. "Are you okay, Carolyn? You look funny."
I open my eyes, and force a wobbly smile. My whole body still feels flushed from the heat he left behind.
"Yes, sweetie, I'm okay," I say, my voice a little breathy.
Then I try to continue with her, straightening up to pour more phantom tea into Mr. Bunny's cup, the teapot’s lid rattling in my shaking hand.
Inside, I'm reeling. Blake's presence lingers on my skin; the woody richness of his cologne is still in my nostrils, making it hard to focus on the tea party.
The stuffed animals stare back with button eyes.
“I have something to do, Freya. I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Okay.” She sounds disappointed, but I honestly cannot stay another minute in that room.
I head back to my room, the hallway stretching long and quiet, the polished hardwood cool under my bare feet, the distant crash of waves comes through the many open windows, carrying the salty tang of the sea.
I decide to occupy myself with the housekeeper's birthday. I’m very good at organizing so I’ll throw a surprise party for her.
It’ll be something tangible to focus on, to distract from the way Blake's kiss still burns on my skin, from the ache that's settled low in my belly since the gym this morning.
In my room, I grab the Chanel purse from the nightstand, sling it over my shoulder, and head out, calling Franklin from the foyer to bring the Bentley out front.
That is exactly what Carolyn said she would do and that is what I do too.
It is a relief to leave the house.
The car purrs smoothly along the winding roads of the Gold Coast, past estates hidden behind iron gates and manicured hedges heavy with late-blooming roses.
The weather is milder today, mid-70s with a humid breeze that ruffles the leaves, but in the car, the temperature is perfectly cool.
I pull out my phone—my secret burner one—and text Emma, my fingers flying over the screen as I ask what I should do about the gift I’ve volunteered to buy on behalf of Frances.
Me: Em, I'm lost. Scarf from Frances? Something cute from Freya? What about from me for the housekeeper?
She pauses—three dots dancing.
Emma: Get a Hermes scarf from the old dragon. One of the old classic designs. Navy with horses. They’ll both get a kick out of it.
I laugh softly.
Me: What should I get her from Freya?
Emma: A bracelet or a small necklace. Something sparkly from Tiffany, like a little heart with diamonds.
Me: And from me?
Emma: A real leather purse—maybe something designer. I don’t know. Just make it timeless but practical."
We carry on sharing ideas as I go through the mall—Short Hills in New Jersey. It’s a quick drive over the bridge, the place a gleaming temple of luxury with marble floors, air-conditioned and air scented with designer perfumes from Saks and Neiman Marcus.
As soon as I have ditched Franklin, I call her and tell her about Blake, the words spilling out as I wander the aisles, pausing at display cases that sparkle under LED lights.
"Em, he kissed my forehead goodbye—and you won’t believe it, but I freaking broke out in goosebumps… everywhere. I nearly melted. What's wrong with me?"
“OMG! Jules, this is dangerous stuff. You’re not allowed to sleep with Carolyn’s husband. She could void the whole agreement. No, definitely don’t go there.” And then, of course, she gets silly. “But just for the record, who’d you rather have park his boots under your bed? The gardener or Blake?"
"No one," I mutter, my cheeks heating as I duck into Hermes. "I just don't know how to avoid him. I just wanted to spend a little time with Freya—she's so sweet, Em, but he pops in like a magnet."
We keep talking as I buy the items Em recommended.
A scarf for Frances. Soft blue silk with equestrian prints that flows like liquid in my hands.
A delicate butterfly bracelet for Freya; and a lovely real leather tan purse from Coach for Dora.
It is supple and roomy with great quality gold hardware.
I ask Emma what she wants. "What about you? What shall I get you?"
"Don’t get anything for me, Jules. It sounds like you're having a difficult time, and I don’t want to feel like I’m profiting off your hardship.”
"Are you insane? Buying you something is the only way I'll feel good in my situation," I insist, leaning against a display case of Chanel wallets. The glass is cool under my elbow. "Please."
"Okay... I don’t really want anything, I mean I do, but I guess, what I’m trying to say is I want something I can sell at one of those pre-loved designer stores downtown.
That way I’ll be able to cover the rent for my studio for a few months.
I’d really love that," she admits reluctantly, and my heart aches for her scrappy artist life.
I ring off and get her two designer purses, each worth about ten thousand—a classic black Chanel flap and a Gucci Dionysus in suede, the chains tinkling softly as the saleswoman wraps them up.
Out of sheer habit, I hold my breath as Carolyn Bessant’s black Amex card is swiped through the credit card machine, and I almost can’t believe it when it glides through the reader like it's nothing, the total flashing approved as if it is the most natural thing in the world. I arrange to have the stuff, along with the receipts, delivered to Emma. The store’s courier service promises same-day drop-off in the East Village.
Then I have another brilliant idea. I decide to commission Emma to do a little painting for the housekeeper as a gift—a whimsical watercolor of the estate's gardens, something personal—so that's more extra money for her as well, two thousand two hundred to be exact, wired via Venmo.
That sure makes Emma very happy. She texts back a string of hearts and…
Thank u. Thank u. Thank u. Thank u from the bottom of my heart, Jules! You're a sweetheart and the best friend a girl could ever have.
Feeling very pleased with myself, I head out of the mall to where Franklin waits, the Bentley idling smoothly.
As the car pulls away, I phone Eileen's Special Cheesecake in Nolita, that little shop on Cleveland Place, is legendary for its chocolate cake.
I arrange a custom chocolate layer cake with buttercream frosting with Happy Birthday in elegant script, to be delivered on the day.
Ringing off, I think of exactly how I'm going to organize my surprise party. The music room with its grand piano and velvet settees would be the best place. I’ll get hundreds of balloons in gold and soft pastels, order a chocolate fountain from Godiva, and book a string quartet.
Maybe even get a singing telegram. An Elvis one would be fun.
But I require more logistical information and a way to make sure Dora suspects nothing while I plan and decorate.
I need someone else to loop into my secret, but don't know who to approach. The butler is too formidable, Blake's too intense, plus I’m staying well away from that simmering sexual tension he evokes in me. Even thinking about it now makes my skin flush. I’m not looking forward to seeing the disgust in Frances’s face, but she’ll have to do.
She’s fierce, but there’s no undercurrent of heat to navigate.
I decide that I will go to her.