Chapter 30 Jules
JULES
The car Linc sent to pick me up from the building on Wacker Drive goes all of two blocks before dropping me off in front of a gleaming storefront. I could have just walked. I do not want to contribute to the traffic congestion in this city, people!
Delicate orchids are etched into the glass windows. White marble, with gold accents, frame the entryway of Eau de Calme Spa & Wellness. I’ve walked by numerous times but never looked twice. It’s the kind of place where you have to tip the person you leave your tip with at the front desk.
Taking a deep breath, I push through the heavy glass doors into a world of soft music, breezy lavender scents, and people who seem to glide across the shiny floor rather than plod after a long lifetime of carrying heavy burdens like bills, doctors’ appointments, and real-life challenges.
The receptionist greets me like I’m royalty instead of someone wearing department store khakis and a blazer I found at a consignment shop.
“Ms. Lindley? Right this way. Mr. Sullivan has arranged our full rejuvenation package for you.”
She doesn’t wear a nametag, but tells me her name is Vivant, should I find myself needing anything. Just a pinch on my arm because there are day spas and then there is this place.
I follow her down a hallway lined with flickering candles, feeling like I’ve stepped into another dimension.
In the changing room, I catch sight of myself in the mirror—blonde hair escaping from its half-up, half-down style, stress lines around my eyes from my recent late nights investigating art fraud, and you know, just falling asleep on the couch with my boss.
No big deal or anything.
I have the general appearance of someone who’s been running on coffee, chocolate, determination, and now a dash of disbelief for the past month.
After changing into a silk gown, I snap a quick selfie and text it to Oly before I find the nearest exit.
It’s not that I don’t want to have this experience, but will I owe Linc something?
Or did he send me here because he felt bad about us dozing off last night?
Was he horrified that I had a little drool line coming from the corner of my mouth?
I didn’t think he noticed, but still. Am I so hideous?
I tell myself to get my head out of the gutters of the Chicago city streets and enjoy the moment. I may never have another experience like this.
Oly and I routinely send each other no-context photos and this is no exception. The fun is in the laughter and the preposterous guesses. Wearing the robe, I take a selfie.
Oly: Spa day or cult initiation?
Me: The first one. This is the before picture. About to get the full Cinderella treatment. Send help.
Oly: Do they have bougie snacks?
Me: Status pending.
Oly: I knew if you ever won the lottery, there’d be signs.
Me: Work thing. Long story.
Oly: Work thing = hot boss?
She sends the peeping eyes emoji.
Vivant leads me into a room where a woman in delicate pink scrubs waits, surrounded by glossy skincare products and shiny instruments. “You’re in great hands with Mirabelle.”
I want to keep hold of my phone as a lifeline, but Mirabelle gestures with an elegant sweep of her hand that I leave it in a mirrored tray by the door.
“We’ll start with the Rivière de Diamantes exfoliating treatment,” she says cheerfully, like she’s offering me a cup of coffee instead of a procedure I can’t pronounce.
For the next three hours, I’m buffed, polished, massaged, and transformed. Between treatments, I sneak peeks at my phone. Like the best friend she is, Oly doesn’t abandon me in my luxe time of need.
Oly: Still waiting for details. And the after picture.
Me: I’m currently covered in what the technician called a jade maske—no, that’s not a typo. Everything here seems to have the letter E at the end, and not because it’s old-tyme like that village we visited on our road trip a few years ago. At present, I’m cuisine.
Oly: Do I need to send the authorities?
Me: Autocorrect. It should say cuisiner.
Oly: If my three years of French serve, that means cooking. I’m not sure that’s much better. Don’t tell me Linc sent you into a Lion’s den of cannibals.
Me: No, that would be tonight.
Oly: You have me worried. NOT joking. I will be down there with a SWAT team in five minutes if necessary.
Me: Sorry, it’s possible that I’m high on lavender essential oil. I’ve never been so relaxed.
Oly: Last I checked, that’s not a controlled substance. But your mileage may vary.
Another technician interrupts my texting to have me rinse this mud off before cycling me through a moisturizing process.
I send a few more no-context photos so Oly doesn’t bust into the building accompanied by men in black and body armor, but otherwise my phone stays in yet another mirrored tray until I get to the manicure and pedicure room.
Me: What I mean is we’re going to a fancy party tonight.
Oly: That escalated quickly.
Me: It’s not like that. We’re investigating something together.
Oly: Investigating or “investigating?” With air quotes and a wink, wink.
Me: The actual kind. Art fraud. Maybe. Keep it on the hush.
Oly: Juliana Grace Lindley!!! Art fraud is serious business. Do you trust this guy?
I pause, my fingers hovering over the keyboard while a technician works magic on my feet. Do I trust Linc? This morning, I woke up on his couch, feeling safer and more content than … I ever have. But trust is a luxury that I haven’t always been able to easily afford.
Me: I’m being careful.
Oly: That’s not what I asked.
The hair stylist calls me over before I have a chance to answer, which is probably for the best since I’m not sure what to say. I have no context for how I feel. The photo of me would be a big blank question mark. Maybe with heart eyes.
Two hours later, I stare at my reflection in disbelief. The woman looking back at me has perfectly styled blonde waves that catch the light like spun gold, skin that seems to glow from within, and somehow, they’ve made my gray eyes look twice their normal size.
Before I leave, a slender woman in a sheath dress leads me to a room with a large poof in the middle and surrounded by geometric mirrors and numerous garment bags.
This woman introduces herself as Jane, a personal shopper. “Mr. Sullivan wanted you to go shopping, but time is of the essence, so he sent me.”
She works efficiently, even though this feels very much like a paper doll game show as I change in and out of an assortment of dresses that border on gowns. Offering nothing more than a prim nod, Jane settles on a midnight blue frock.
With a spin of her finger, she instructs me to turn around and take a look in the mirror. The dress skims my curves in all the right places. I hardly recognize myself.
I take another selfie and send it to Oly.
Oly: You look like a movie star!
Me: I was hoping it was more inconspicuous.
Oly: I need details. Times, places, all of it! And take pictures of you two together.
Another text interrupts. This one from Linc. He’s waiting. Nerves fire and instead of gliding like the rest of the women here, I suddenly feel like I’m a slug, inching along the gleaming tile. I quickly reply to Oly and hope I don’t leave a slime trail.
Me: Sure will, but it’s call time. Gotta go. Wish me luck.
When I step out of the spa, Linc leans casually against a sleek black car with his arms lightly crossed.
He traded his usual business attire for a perfectly tailored black suit—I didn’t get a peek into his bedroom last night, but I bet he has dozens of them lined up in his closet like little soldiers prepared for corporate battle.
When he catches sight of me, his jaw slackens and a smile spreads across his face as if he just spotted a shooting star. Remembering that his mouth doesn’t have the night off, he manages to say, “Wow.”
Or maybe now, as in I’d better hurry up.
Yet, he never takes his eyes off me as I approach. This very much feels like a soft lighting, slow-motion, dreamy romantic sequence moment.
“Jules,” he breathes.
I’m already wearing rouge with thanks to the makeover, but my cheeks feel hot to the touch. Could it be a dermal allergy from all those beauty products? I glance down at my garb. “Too much?”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his minty fresh scent mixed with his cologne. “You look …”
I wrinkle my nose. “Like I don’t belong in my own skin?”
“Like you belong anywhere you want to be.”
Opening the car’s door with one hand, he plants his other on my low back, guiding me into the vehicle.
The drive through traffic passes in a blur of me thanking him profusely for the outrageous once-in-a-lifetime spa day.
“Once in a lifetime?” he asks.
“You’ve been to my apartment. I buy nail polish when it’s on sale and only get my hair cut once a year.”
As we talk, I keep catching Linc glancing at me, and each time our eyes meet, invisible electric sparks pass between us despite my playing down how pampered and fancy I feel.
I know this because I feel it on my skin, my belly, everywhere.
However, I know all too well that if I let myself like something too much, I’ll be disappointed when I can no longer have it.
Except chocolate. I’ll go to battle for the stuff.
After going through a security gate, the car stops at what looks like a big black expanse with some blinking lights in the distance, lining what could be a giant outdoor bowling alley.
But a private jet taxis toward us.
Clutching my phone, I’m suddenly worried and would very much like Oly to call for backup.
Linc jiggles his wrist as he checks his watch. “Right on time.”
“Um, where are we going?”
“Did I forget to mention? The Whitmore Estate is just outside Manhattan.”
I think he did say that, but it didn’t register. “And we’re—?” I point to the plane.
“We’ll make good time. Be in the air an hour and a half max.”
As we board, my brain has to reboot. This is so surreal, I’m certain someone won the lottery—made wise investments or is scamming their insurance company—but it wasn’t me.
The jet’s interior consists of cream leather seats, polished wood accents, and a flight attendant who offers me champagne before we’ve even taken off. I accept it because refusing would require admitting that this level of luxury makes me feel like an impostor.
Truth is, I’ve never tried bubbly and now is not the time to start. I need to remain alert. Anything could happen. Also, let it be known for the record that there is an original Michelangelo painting on the side wall panel of the airplane!
Catching me staring at it, Linc says, “My father once told me that the price of wealth is luxury.”
I take that to mean that you have to pay to play. If Frank Andresen showed up at a business meeting in my rust bucket that hardly qualifies as a car, they’d laugh him off the golf course.
“Is this your life?” I ask as we settle into seats that are more comfortable than my bed.
“Part of it.” Linc loosens his tie slightly.
“Careful. I might start wanting more of this,” I joke with a laugh.
He studies my face. “Would you?”
The airplane’s movement distracts me from answering as we take off and the ground falls away below us. I just hope I don’t do any falling of my own. Last I checked, I don’t have a parachute in my purse.