Chapter Five
A Great Guy
Siena, June 18, 2011, North Virginia
I stood in my closet, contemplating my uniform of black skinny jeans and a crop jacket. Too casual? It wasn’t that I felt intimidated—far from it. Thanks to my father’s career in political consulting, I learned long ago that despite the fame of some and the notoriety of others, behind their public personas, the politicians were regular people—with all their prosaic character flaws and hidden desires.
Therefore, the idea of meeting with such a prominent senator as Connor Reat didn’t intimidate me in the slightest. I only needed to dress the part for his fancy residence.
After deciding on a black pencil skirt, a maroon button-down shirt, and tan heels, I applied a coat of mascara and lip gloss, arranged my hair into a neat bun at the nape, and grabbed my handbag.
My mom sat on the living room couch with smiling Austin in her lap and a board book in her hand.
“Your shirt is too tight. And too red.” She frowned at my outfit.
I shrugged. “All my shirts are too tight nowadays. And red is an assertive color.”
“It’s not right, Siena.” She shook her head. “You should be packing, not going to business meetings.”
I dug my fingers into my handbag strap. “Thanks again for watching Austin, Mom. You’re the best.”
My taxi waited outside when I came out. The day was uncharacteristically gloomy—the sky murky with rainclouds and the air thick with the promise of a downpour. It began to rain sideways ten minutes into the drive; ugly, long streaks hitting the windshield at an unnatural angle.
Although the gig was technically in North Virginia, the trip took only half an hour. But it may as well have been a world away. I’d seen a mansion or two in my life, but Connor Reat’s estate dwarfed them all. The place was a modern-day palace, sitting on endless acres with rolling mountain views, glittering ponds, and manicured gardens. The security detail, solemn and dressed in black like in the movies, escorted me from the heavy iron gate to the house, holding an oversized black umbrella very precisely over my head.
The first bolt of lightning cut through the sky in a deafening explosion the moment I reached giant frosted double doors with two square knobs.
I went still when the senator opened the door himself. He appeared imposing on the screen in his fitted designer suits and crisp oxford shirts, his chin always clean-shaven, hair perfectly styled. But I felt overdressed now that he stood there in his gym clothes, which consisted of clingy black shorts, a gray t-shirt, and black tennis shoes. Although he was in early forties, he didn’t look a day over thirty-five.
My hand flew up as if of its own accord to tug at my hair bun. There was something almost familiar in his face, beyond what I saw on the screen. I brushed this away. I’d probably come across him at one of my father’s take-your-daughter-to-work days or ran into him at a bar or at a restaurant.
“Hi—” He blinked, returning a confused gaze. “You must be...the artist’s agent?”
“I’m the artist.” I extended my hand, ordering myself to get it together. “Siena Forte.”
“Well, shoot.” He cleared his throat, though his handshake was firm and perfectly timed. “I’m sorry. You don’t look like an artist. Geez, I’m being rude, aren’t I? Please come in.”
“What do artists look like?” My laughter emerged a bit strained as I followed him into the foyer the size of my entire condo.
“I mean, I thought you’d have spiky hair, weird tattoos.” He had a smooth voice and a nice smile, warm and genuine. “Sorry, I’d just gotten off a treadmill, I should have changed—” He laughed. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“Oh, it’s okay,” I mumbled.
What in the world?Senator Connor Reat seemed friendly and pleasant. He was also tall, fit, and much better looking in person. Which was saying a lot because he was very good-looking in the pictures.
“Anything to drink? Water, soda, wine?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll get a water if you don’t mind. A little dehydrated after my workout.”
His ridiculously overscaled kitchen was straight from the pages of a well-known architectural magazine. It had to have been published there more than once. I stood, gaping, as he sauntered to an enormous designer refrigerator and took out two cobalt-blue bottles. “In case you change your mind.”
There was something stealthy, almost catlike in his gait as he brought over the bottle. And for some unfathomable reason, it made my skin crawl.
“Mind if I call you Siena?”
“Not at all, senator.” I twisted off the aluminum cap.
“Please—” He made a face. “Call me Connor. I need a break from work here.”
“Okay, Connor.” His name pricked the roof of my mouth.
He took an indulgent swig from his bottle. “Listen, thanks for your patience. I am very, very sorry this thing has gotten so delayed. My schedule is simply insane, but we’ll iron it all out, and you can get going as soon as you like.”
I followed him down a long, wide corridor, gaping at the original Pollocks, Warhols, and Lichtensteins peppering the pristine white walls. At the end hung a limited edition of Hopper’s “Morning Sun,” bleak and somber beside its cheerful companions.
After passing several bedrooms, we entered an enormous playroom with three adorable tow-headed children inside—two girls and a boy, all under the age of seven. On the large plush sofa sat a woman who looked nothing like Connor’s tall, elegant wife.
“Here she is!” Connor beamed at his brood as they ran to him, squealing. “A magical fairy who will turn your playroom into an enchanted place!”
That was quite a high bar, but I discovered I was up to the challenge. Each kid wanted their own fairytale-inspired wall: Rapunzel and Cinderella for the girls and a dragon for the boy. It was all very straightforward, and I calculated that if I worked every day, five days a week, I’d be finished in about three months.
The children grew excited as they described their visions, talking over each other despite their nanny’s futile attempts to bring some semblance of order to our meeting.
“And also...”
“And then...”
“No, my turn!”
I nodded and smiled at their earnest little faces as I took notes on my phone, trying to make sense of their convoluted descriptions.
“Why don’t we head back to the kitchen to go over the specifics.” Connor touched his elbow to my arm. “It’s a bit quieter there.”
After pulling out a bar stool that appeared to be upholstered in real zebra, he took out a bottle from a giant wine storage. Whistling, he produced two glasses from a gleaming designer cabinet and poured a generous measure into each, sliding one toward me over the slick Carrera marble counter.
Something about his hushed whistling gave me the goosebumps. What in the heck? To distract myself, I studied the bottle—a fancy Italian Pino grigio, and no doubt, very expensive. I didn’t want to be rude. Besides, the complex bouquet emanating from the glass made my mouth water. The breast pump that hadn’t yet made it out of the box would come in handy today.
“I’m famished.” Connor returned to the refrigerator. “I hope you don’t mind if I have a bite while we chat.”
He brought over several lidded containers and two square white plates. “Please, help yourself, Siena. There’s always way too much food here.”
The containers were filled with gourmet sandwiches and appetizing salads that made my stomach growl. I reached for the turkey with cranberry and popped the lid open.
“First things first,” Connor said between the bites, taking a stack of papers out of a drawer. “Since you’ll be working at my private residence, I’m going to need an NDA. Kind of a nuisance, but—” He waved with his ham and cheese sandwich.
“Not a problem.” I put down my lunch and wiped my hands on a napkin.
“No, no—” He raised his free hand. “Please—take this home and sign at your leisure. Just bring it back on your first day. We don’t have to be so formal.”
I picked up my sandwich again. It was ridiculously delicious with his chilled Pino.
“Good stuff, right?” He took an indolent sip. “Anyway, the gist of the NDA, Siena, is that my wife and I are separated. This is, obviously, not public knowledge.”
I nodded. This explained her absence.
He gave me his disarming smile. “Look, I’m not supposed to tell you this before you sign, but I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed. I only have the kids on the weekends—when I’m here. So, you can work Monday through Friday if you like. Either way, I’m rarely around, so really, almost any day is fine. Also—” He poured himself more wine. “I think some artists keep odd hours, so if you prefer to work late, you’re more than welcome to stay in the guest bedroom that’s next to the playroom. It’s got its own bathroom and everything you might need.”
He touched the bottle to my glass, but I shook my head. Delicious as it was, one glass was one too many for Austin. I was already regretting it.
“The fridge is usually stocked with food and drink. And this thing—” He pointed his chin at the wine storage, “is always full. You’re more than welcome to help yourself any time you like. Really, I encourage you to. Meryl—my nanny-slash-housekeeper—she’s always here, so you’ll never be completely alone. I know that can be a little uncomfortable.”
The odd feeling had passed, and I couldn’t help but like Connor’s easy, unassuming manner and friendly air. Good thing I didn’t give up on this commission. A great client with a generous pay and a pleasant project for three adorable kids. A sweet way to exit my professional life in D.C. What more could I ask?
After we agreed I’d start on Monday, I grabbed my phone to call a taxi.
“No need, Siena—” Connor held up his hand. “My chauffeur will take you home. He’ll drive you both ways while you’re employed here.”
“It’s no problem.” I drew back, flustered. “I’m used to the taxi—”
He grinned, cocking his head to the side. “I’ll have my office send you his contact info. Very excited to finally get this done for the little rugrats. They’ve been begging me for ages.”
What a great guy. I smiled to myself ten minutes later, leaning into the soft leather cushions of his souped-up SUV.