Chapter 11
MARLENA
Wanted: Secretary/writer. Girl Friday to help with organizing files and making appointments. Casual attire. Hiring ASAP.
Iread the short post and move on. The last thing I want is to be anyone’s Girl Friday.
I’m not even sure what that means, except that there’s no official job description and I’ll probably be asked to pay more attention to the boss than I want to.
What I’d really like is a position in some office building where I’m only one of many secretaries.
Actually, what I’d like is not to be a secretary at all. It feels too much like dating, except that sex is theoretically off the table. That hasn’t stopped people from asking for it, though, and I’m not interested.
If I decide to get involved with anyone, I want it to be on my terms. I’m not looking for a paycheck with strings attached. How come I can’t find anything that looks like it wasn’t posted by a freak?
Small nonprofit searching for a bookkeeper/receptionist. Part-time but full-time possible if it works out.
Another no. I need a company that has the funds to pay me a living wage.
I appreciate all the good things that nonprofits do, but I’m not interested in eating ramen for the rest of my life just so some kids can have an afterschool program.
I don’t even know what this particular nonprofit does, but I’m not interested.
There are postings for salespeople, but I know myself well enough to realize that I’m horrible at sales. I don’t like to talk to people, much less try to get them to part with their money. I roll my eyes and glance around the room.
My apartment is small, but it feels like home. My kitchen is pushed right up next to my living room, so I can see the stove from where I’m sitting. Out the window, I have a fabulous view of the parking lot with all its modest cars. I’m living the dream.
“Why is this so hard?” I demand of no one. I’m all alone and drowning in my own guilt.
The last time I saw Francisco, he invited me to a party. I’ve been to his house several times since then, and received a formal invitation. He’s really going all out. The problem is that I’m not sure I want to go.
Theoretically, the party is for Frankie to celebrate his success in school.
But I’m not sure. It seems more like something Francisco Senior is throwing together to impress me.
I know he’s rich, and I get the feeling that he’s dangerous.
He’s also incredibly attractive; much more so than his son.
But that’s where I’ve got to draw the line.
The more time I spend with them, the more paranoid I become. I don’t want to go to this party, and I don’t want to continue tutoring Frankie. He can find another tutor, I tell myself. He’ll do fine without me. I’m just not the right person for the job, and I know it.
I find myself teetering on the edge of panic whenever I go over to that house.
It rubs me the wrong way–all those burly men standing still, guarding whatever door Francisco is behind.
They’re obviously mafia; there’s no question in my mind anymore.
And if Francisco isn’t the Don, he’s pretty high up.
Everyone defers to Francisco and walks on eggshells around him.
That’s not the kind of energy I want in my life right now, and I’ve decided to make a break for it.
If I can find another job, then I’ll simply tell Frankie that I’m moving on.
It might be difficult to extract myself, but the longer I stay, the worse it’s going to get.
That means I have to get out ASAP. But the classifieds aren’t helping.
There isn’t a single interesting job in the entire city that I’m qualified for.
I’m getting frustrated, and a quick check of the time at the bottom of my computer screen tells me that the party is coming up.
I pick up my phone and call Rebecca. She’s much more social than I am, and she should have some ideas about how to tactfully decline an invitation.
“Hey, girl,” I say when she answers.
“Hey, stranger,” she teases. “What are you up to?”
“Just looking for jobs,” I answer with a sigh.
“What for? I thought you were tutoring Mr. Cutie,” Rebecca jokes.
“I never called him Mr. Cutie,” I remind her. “And I’m done with that gig. I need something real. Something normal.”
“Normal is boring,” Rebecca scoffs.
My phone call is interrupted by a knock at the door. Who could be looking for me at home? I’m not aware that anyone knows where I live.
“Hang on,” I tell Rebecca, setting the phone down.
I open the door to find a skinny man dressed in a business suit.
He looks suspicious, but I can’t put my finger on why.
Maybe it’s the curve of his nose, or the way he squints.
Whatever it is, I don’t trust him. “Can I help you?” I ask, hoping he’s got the wrong address.
“Ms. Mancini?” he asks.
I swallow. My voice wobbles as I answer. “Yes.”
The man turns around and picks up a large white box that had been resting against the side of the door. I didn’t even see it there. I’ve been so focused on the stranger. He hands the box to me, and I struggle to lift it. It’s not that heavy, but it’s huge.
The man turns to go, and I yell after him. “Wait! Do I have to sign for it?”
“No, ma’am,” he replies, giving me a gentle nod.
I smile at him, relieved to have concluded our business so quickly. I set the box down on the couch and look at it. Then I remember that Rebecca’s on the phone. I pick up my cell and check to make sure that she’s still on the line.
“Hello?” I ask.
“I’m here,” she sings cheerfully. “What was that?”
“It’s a package,” I respond curiously.
“What’s in it?” Rebecca asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Well, open it,” she prompts. “Turn on the camera so I can see.”
I do as she requests, switching to a video call and propping the phone up on the table so that she can see the box. Carefully, I undo the tape that’s holding the pieces together and lift the top away. Inside, there’s a lot of crepe paper. I push it aside to reveal a folded gown.
Holding it gently, I ease it from its resting place. It’s beautiful. A dark shade of blue, it sparkles with a kind of pearl-like shimmer, as if the entire thing is made of precious minerals. At the bottom of the box, I find a pair of matching shoes and an even smaller box.
Rebecca is shouting something, but I can’t hear her over the rush of blood in my head.
I know exactly who this is from. I don’t need to read the card.
Francisco has just spent a fortune on a dress for me, even though I was hoping not to attend the party at all.
I’m trying to calculate the exact dollar amount he dropped on the sumptuous dress, but I can’t. It’s probably more than my rent.
“Try it on!” Rebecca screams.
Finally, I hear her, replacing the dress in the box. “I can’t.”
“You have to,” she demands.
“I can’t,” I repeat. “This is too much. I was going to try to get out of this party altogether.”
“Well, you can’t now,” Rebecca replies with a laugh.
“You have to help me,” I plead, turning my back on the dress and the mysterious little box that I’m sure holds something far more expensive. “I don’t want to go. You have to help me get out of it.”
“Oh no,” Rebecca says. “When a man buys you something like that, you have to at least show up.”
I moan, sitting down beside the gift. “What am I going to do?”
“Hang on,” Rebecca says, taking pity on me. “I’m coming over.”
In the short half hour it takes my best friend to drive to my place, I haven’t moved. I just keep looking at the dress, wondering how I’m going to return it. I don’t have the heart to try it on, and I don’t have the courage to look at the contents of the smaller box.
Thankfully, Rebecca isn’t as shy. She barges into my apartment, swinging her purse onto the kitchen counter.
“Where’s that dress?” she proclaims, spying it on the couch. With expert hands, she smooths the crepe paper away and dangles the dress in front of me. “Go try it on,” she insists.
I don’t want to, but I feel like refusing would be petulant.
So I grab the thing and march into my bedroom.
It fits like a glove, as if it was made specifically for me.
I wonder how the hell Francisco got my measurements so perfectly.
He must be paying way more attention to me than I previously thought.
And I’m not sure what to do with that information.
Part of me is honored, while another part is terrified.
I walk out into the living room to show off the look. Rebecca gasps, clapping her hands together with unabashed joy. “It’s perfect!” she exclaims.
“I know,” I say sadly.
“Oh, you have to go to the party now,” she declares.
“Are you sure?” I whine.
“Try the shoes,” she suggests, holding them out.
I know the shoes are going to fit perfectly. I sit down to slip them on, and I’m not disappointed. Not only are they attractive, but Francisco managed to find a pair of heels that are actually comfortable. Who knew such a thing actually existed?
“Yeah?” Rebecca asks.
“They’re perfect,” I say unhappily.
“What’s this?” she asks, zeroing in on the smaller box.
“I don’t know,” I admit hesitantly. “I haven’t opened it.”
She does the honors and finds a diamond necklace with matching earrings. I’m sure that for the same price, I could buy a luxury car or perhaps a small house. My lip quivers. This is too much.
“Well,” Rebecca says on an exhale. “This guy is really serious.”
“It’s not Frankie,” I whisper.
“Then who is it?” she wonders.
“It’s his father,” I say, feeling ashamed.
“Is he hot?” she asks with a smirk, not seeing the problem.
“Yes,” I respond. It’s the truth. Francisco is hot, among other things. That’s not the problem at all.
“So, are you going to the party?” she asks.
“What choice do I have?” I groan.
“None,” she agrees.
I check the time on my phone. “I’ve got a few hours. Will you have a drink with me? I think I need it.”
She laughs. “Sure. But be careful about drinking too much in that outfit.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Well, it’s obvious he wants the dress to come off at some point,” she suggests.
I give her a shove, disgusted and turned on at the same time. “Francisco doesn’t think about me that way.”
Rebecca raises her eyebrows, not believing a word. “Go get changed,” she says.
I do as I’m told, and we drive to one of those chain restaurants that also has a bar. We sit and drink, mapping out my game plan. We decide that I’m just going to stay for two hours. That’s the optimal amount of time, according to Rebecca. Less than that, and it would be rude.
I want to have two glasses of wine, but Rebecca cuts me off. Bless her heart, she’s really looking out for me. We drive back to my place, where she helps me get dressed. I give her a hug when I’m finally ready to go.
“It’ll be fine,” she insists. “Enjoy yourself.”
I give her the side-eye, as if there’s no way in hell that’s going to happen.
She laughs and walks me to my car. I do my normal thing where I turn the ignition on with the door open.
Luckily, she’s already pulling out of the parking lot, and she doesn’t notice.
I suspect that if Francisco saw me doing that, he would know exactly what it meant.
With a sigh, I pull out onto the street. The whole way to Frankie’s home, I’m arguing with myself.
“It’ll be fine,” I say out loud. Then, a moment later, I contradict myself. “I don’t want to do this.”
If anyone heard me talking to myself, they probably think I’m crazy.
I do my best to shake my nerves out before pulling up to the iron gates.
This time, they’re wide open. But it’s not as if there’s no security.
Two of Francisco’s bodyguards are out front, saying hello to all the guests as they come in.
It feels more like a club where the bouncers aren’t concerned about whether people are of drinking age, but whether they’re cops.
I pull up and smile. I know these guys, and they know me. They wave me through, and I have to hand over my keys to a valet. I’m feeling extremely exposed, wearing nothing more than the dress Francisco has given me. I clutch a matching purse to my stomach, doing my best to be inconspicuous.
The moment I step into the house, I’m blown away.
If I thought it was lavish before, this takes things to the extreme.
Much larger bouquets have replaced the flowers that I noticed on my first day.
Someone cleaned every surface until it was brilliantly shiny.
The mirrors sparkle, and the marble floor glistens.
There are tasteful white lights strung along the ceiling and up the banister of the grand staircase. People in fancy wear are mingling, sipping champagne and having a good time. I can see the mayor in the doorway of the kitchen, talking to someone who I’m pretty sure isn’t his wife.
Frankie comes up to me and puts a hand on my elbow. “I’m so glad you came,” he says.
“Of course,” I reply, as if there had never been any question. “This is our party, right?”
“Right,” he agrees. “Although Dad’s never done this before.”
Maybe he had an ulterior motive, I think, but I don’t share those thoughts. I don’t want to intrude on Frankie’s celebration. If he thinks this is a party for his benefit, I’m not going to disabuse him of that idea.
“Let me get you a drink,” he says.
I watch as he disappears into the kitchen. Looking around, I’m afraid I don’t see anyone else I know. This is going to be a long two hours without anyone to talk to. I can’t very well monopolize Frankie’s time. He’s probably got tons of friends waiting to talk to him.
I glance over at the parlor and see it’s filled with dark-suited men.
They’re seated on the couches and leaning against the walls, beautiful women sprinkled among them.
Actually, this might not be that bad. I feel like I fit in with my amazing dress and diamond earrings.
I might actually have a good time if I let myself.
Frankie returns with my drink, and I sip it, giving him a smile.
“We’re playing pool in the billiard room,” he suggests, offering me his arm.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the invitation.