25. In Which Juniper Makes Another House Call
IN WHICH JUNIPER MAKES ANOTHER HOUSE CALL
“ Y ou can’t just visit someone like Lionel Astor.”
Aiden’s words go in one ear and out the other.
Actually, if we’re being truthful, I’m not sure they make it in that first ear at all. They might just bounce right off the side of my head.
“I don’t see why not,” I say. Nothing is going to deter me from this mission.
If that means living in relative denial until I’m smacked in the face with reality, so be it.
Maybe if I just manifest like crazy, I can will into being a reality where someone like me can march up to Lionel Astor’s front door and manage to actually get a meeting with him.
Crazier things have happened.
The passcode to the visitor’s entrance in the Heights hasn’t been changed since we came to see Tonya von Meller, which seems a little irresponsible, if you ask me.
Any old loon could drive through this neighborhood to drop in on an unsuspecting virtual stranger.
We pull in with ease, Sunshine clanking and clunking cheerfully as we go.
I didn’t have to drag Aiden to the car with me when I left, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled by my plan, either.
I’m pretty sure he only came along to keep me from getting in too much trouble.
He’s currently sunk down in the passenger seat as low as he can go, his head barely high enough to see out the window, his long legs wedged comically in the front seat of my Volkswagen Beetle.
He keeps rubbing his hands over his face and muttering to himself, every now and then shooting me dirty looks.
“That’s not a very nice facial expression to make at your girlfriend,” I say in a singsong voice, mostly just to push his buttons.
“I regret everything,” he says darkly.
I shake my head. “It’s too late. We are one. We are Aidiper.”
“I take it all back.”
“And we’re so cute together?—”
“Everything. I take everything back.”
“No take backs. Sorry.” I shrug, looking over at him. “I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.”
“ I make the rules,” he says, and I laugh.
“No. No way. Last time you made the rules, you said we would never be romantically involved. Remember that?”
“Meh,” he says, turning to look out the window.
“And if you’ll recall, I never actually broke any rules or crossed any lines,” I say reasonably. “That was all you.”
His head whips around as he looks at me in outrage. “It was not all me ,” he says. He might look formidable if he weren’t still slouched down in his seat like a teenager who doesn’t want to be seen with his parents. “What about when you got stuck in the window?”
I gape at him. “I did nothing then! You, on the other hand—your hands went all Lewis and Clark and started exploring?—”
He snorts loudly, struggling to sit back up, wrestling with his seatbelt.
“They didn’t explore,” he says, glaring at the lap belt that’s currently holding him hostage around his rib cage.
He fumbles around, finally releasing the seatbelt with a loud click.
Then he resumes his proper seat, straightening up and refastening the seatbelt.
“That,” I say, “was hard to watch.”
“Shut up.” He swivels his upper body to face me. “After you got stuck in the window, do you remember what you said? You said if I didn’t stop touching you, you were going to kiss me. How is that not crossing the line?”
“But I didn’t,” I say. “I didn’t kiss you. And I only said that because you were holding me very—very intimately.”
A flash of silence, during which I know we’re both remembering the same thing: our bodies pressed together, his hands tight on my rib cage, my lips skimming his skin.
When he speaks again, I know I’m not imagining the hoarse note in his voice. “All right,” he says. “That’s fair.”
I nod, fanning my face. “It’s more than fair. And you kissed me in the library, too. You practically attacked me.”
He hums, but there’s a spark of amusement in his eyes when he says, “Hard to argue with that one. Turn here.” He points to the left turn I’m just about to miss.
Sunshine doesn’t do well with last-minute decisions,? * but I manage to make the turn, and we continue our ascent.
The Astor home is at the very top of the hill that makes up the Heights.
Everyone in town knows this. Most of us have never been to the Astor home or even set foot in the Heights, but we all still know who lives in that house.
Funny how that works, isn’t it?
We wind round and round, corkscrew-style, until we’ve reached the top of the hill.
Lionel’s home is at the end of the drive, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to have to pass through security of some sort to get there.
Bodyguards? Metal detectors? What kind of protection does a man like Lionel Astor have?
The answer emerges as we approach the end of the drive, though: it’s a security booth, manned by a stern-looking man who is for sure going to tell us to turn right back around if I can’t convince him otherwise. Crap.
I pull up and roll down my window, ignoring the judgmental looks Mr. Security is giving my poor car—it’s not her fault she’s beat up; she’s doing her best just like the rest of us—and smiling at him.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “What brings you here today?”
“Um.” The words sound just as stupid in my head as I know they will out loud, but I spit them out anyway. “I was hoping to talk to Lionel. Mr. Astor, I mean.”
Another judgmental look, this time tinged with incredulity. “Uh-huh,” he says. “You wanted to meet with Mr. Astor.”
I clear my throat, trying not to feel small. “Yes, please. It’s important.” Should I make up something outrageous so they’ll let me in? Should I tell him I’m pregnant with Lionel’s baby?
Ew. No. I think that man is my uncle. Gross.
“All right,” the man says, looking smug and amused and frankly just very punchable. I know he’s only doing his job, but that smirk needs to exit stage left immediately. “Well, I’m going to have to ask you to set up an appointment. You’ll need to get in touch with?—”
“Please,” I say. I’m getting ready to scrape the bottom of the desperation barrel. “Please. Can you just—can you ask him if he’ll see me?” Because I truly think he might.
Something in my expression must convince Mr. Security, because he sighs—although I do notice him shooting a look at Aiden that specifically seems to say Control your woman , which I do not appreciate. Aiden, smart man that he is, just shrugs at the guy.
“I can ask,” the man says, sounding reluctant. “But if they say no?—”
“Then we’ll go,” I say quickly. “I promise. Just tell him Nora’s daughter wants to meet.”
The man narrows his eyes at me before nodding once. Then he disappears inside his little booth.
“I have to admit,” Aiden says, frowning at the dash, “I’m surprised this car made it all the way up that hill.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t talk about her like that. She’s trying her best.”
He snorts. “An admirable effort.” Then he looks out the window past me, narrowing his eyes on the security booth. “You think we’re actually going to be able to get in?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s a long shot, I’m aware of that, but I still think we need to try.”
“And what exactly do you plan on saying to Lionel if you manage to snag this meeting?”
“Nothing that will make him very happy,” I say, my voice grim.
“As long as he doesn’t call the police on us or anything,” Aiden says. He looks and sounds more concerned than necessary—like he doesn’t have any faith in me at all.
“He’s not going to call the police on us—oh.” I stop talking as the guard’s head pops back out the window of the booth. He still looks slightly incredulous, but gone is the smug expression that went with it. Now he just seems confused.
“Go on ahead,” he says as the security bar lifts mechanically, clearing the road for us to proceed.
“Wait, really?” I say. Then I turn to Aiden. “Ha.” Looking back at the security man, I add, “Thank you!”
And with that, we’re in. I am fairly certain no car of Sunshine’s (lack of) caliber has ever been on these grounds before. We’re making duct-taped history.
I pull up the drive, heading toward the mansion just visible at the end. It’s a monstrosity of red brick, white columns, and stately shutters. Definitely nice, definitely classy, but bigger than probably three of my childhood houses all put together.
There’s no parking lot, of course, so I end up just parking in the fancy circular driveway, letting my little clunker sputter to a halt right in front of the house. Then Aiden and I get out, both of us staring up at the mansion.
“Maybe I should run for governor,” he says, sounding dazed.
“That would be your worst nightmare,” I say back, examining the lion statues on either side of the double front doors. “You’d have to schmooze and talk to people and make them like you.”
“You’re right,” he says. He frowns. “That sounds awful.”
I nod. Then I take a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
“I’m glad you showered and changed out of your yoga clothes,” Aiden says as he follows me up the brick steps.
Me too. I don’t necessarily care what Lionel’s opinion of me is, but I’d like to at least feel good about myself when I’m coming in at such a disadvantage.
A nice-looking lady answers the door when we knock, but her niceness is thrown into question when she gives us a quick once-over, sniffs, and then swings the door open wide and retreats without waiting. I hurry in after her, Aiden at my heels.
“This is most irregular,” she says over her shoulder. “I advise you not to make such visits a habit. Mr. Astor is a very busy man.”
“We won’t,” I murmur, taking in every inch of the place I can see.
It’s decorated in deep reds and golds, heavy fabrics and brocade—sumptuous and gaudy, somehow sucking in the natural light and making it feel darker than it really is.
It’s not someplace I would want to live, or even work.
But maybe Lionel Astor likes that stifled, starchy feeling?