by Edwin Hill
Ellen took one. And then another. “I get rashes if I have dairy,” she said.
“Nuts give me hives,” Sam said.
She took another cookie and smiled.
“I should let you get back to work,” Sam said, backing away.
“You can stay,” Ellen said.
After that, she took him under her wing, and when he found out how truly rich she was, he wondered why she even bothered to work. She lived in a house in Pacific Heights with four cats and views of the Golden Gate Bridge, existing in a world of solitary excess, a world where the thought of what something cost never came into play. Sam slipped right into his place in that world and came away with gifts of electronics and clothing, all for the price of a few frantic moments of slobbery grunting on Sunday mornings, cats walking over his face, and whispers at work. Sam didn’t mind the whispers, and soon he didn’t go to the office anymore anyway. And then “Jason Hodge” left town.
He sometimes wondered if he’d still be Jason if Ellen’s brother Zach hadn’t been the one who watched the family finances, but then, he reminded himself, it wasn’t worth looking back.
*
The sound of Felicia retching again rang out from the bathroom.
“I should check on her,” Wendy said.
Sam touched her hand. “Stay,” he said.
As easy as it had been to win over Felicia, he relished the challenge of taking on the privileged few, those like Wendy who didn’t need anything from anyone, those who knew instinctively not to trust. He leaned in and poured her a glass of wine. “Cheers,” he said.
She gathered that hair into a knot. Sam took a sip of his wine. It tasted like dirt.
“You were at the Wigglesworths’ party tonight, right?” he said. “How do you know them?”
“Everyone on the hill knows the Wigglesworths,” Wendy said. “They’re an ancient Boston family. They’re the type of people to know if you want to know those types.”
“Do they have kids?”
“Of course. They need to carry on the line. Brennan is almost as cute as you.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight.”
“I thought so. I think we went to college together.”
“Would he remember you?”
“We didn’t know each other that well,” Sam said. Or at all.
“He’ll be at my party next week. You can meet him there.”
“What party?”
“The Crocus Party! I throw it every year. It’s a benefit for the VA. We give scholarships to disabled veterans. Bloom early! Stand out! That’s the theme. The whole house will be filled with uniforms!”
“And crocuses? In December?”
“They’re forced, silly! It costs me a fortune. You’re coming, right?”
Sam snorted into his glass. “Sweetheart, you may not be as bad off as that one.” Sam jerked his thumb toward the bathroom as he heard Felicia dry-heaving again. “But you’re still drunk off your ass. You won’t remember one thing from tonight, including me. I’ll come, and you’ll have me thrown out.”
“Shut up,” Wendy said. “I’ll remember you. Please come.” She put a hand on his thigh and lowered her voice. “I’m not someone who usually has to beg.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me, Ms. Richards.”
“I’m not?” Wendy said.
“How do you know I go that way?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Do you?”
Sam took another sip of wine. He could suddenly see new paths opening in front of him, a bright future full of opportunity. He set his glass on a coaster. “I think I do,” he said.
A few moments later, they left Felicia snoring in her bedroom and grabbed an Uber to Louisburg Square, where Wendy lived in the guesthouse behind her parents’ mansion. Sam walked her through a courtyard lined with fountains and espaliered trees, and waited while she unlocked the door.
“Home safe,” he said, when she pushed the door open and stood on the threshold. “You must have sobered up by now.”
“Maybe.”
Wendy went inside and left the door ajar. Sam followed her into a tiny living room attached to a kitchenette. The ceilings here were low, so low Wendy nearly had to duck her head. She took champagne from the refrigerator, popped the cork, and drank right from the bottle. “Do you want to help me finish?”
Sam gulped down a mouthful of wine that had to have cost fifty dollars.
“Does this mean you’re not a regular at Club Café after all?” Wendy asked.
“Haven’t you heard that good things come to those who wait?”
“I don’t wait for anything,” Wendy said, grabbing Sam by his shirt collar.
She kissed him aggressively. Still, she was soft. Softer than Sam was used to. Upstairs, she pushed him onto the bed, and when he woke a few hours later, it took him a moment to realize where he was. Then he saw that mass of hair on the pillow beside his and felt the soft sheets that enveloped him. Wendy rolled toward him, that hair twirling above her like a tornado of curls. He felt her hand on his thigh. “Already?” she asked.
“Is this a hookup?” Sam asked.
“Do you care?”
“Do you?”
“I’m not sure.”
He grinned and rolled on top of her. He moved a lock of hair and kissed her neck. She liked to face the wall. His hips found a rhythm. He could get used to this, like he had with Ellen. Yes, he could definitely get used to this.
In time.
CHAPTER 5
It amazed Sam what a difference a few days could make. He tripped up the stairs to the Richardses’ mansion and rang the doorbell. When Harry the butler answered, Sam strode right in as if he owned the place. Inside, a small army of decorators hung wreaths, garlands, lights, and baubles in every room in preparation for the Crocus Party, which, it turned out, was more like a gala, and was definitely a Very Big Deal.
“Wendy’s expecting me,” Sam said as Harry took his coat.
Harry nodded and disappeared, leaving Sam alone. The house smelled of pine and burning wax. A twenty-foot balsam fir rose through the foyer, from the black-and-white marble floor to the ornate ceiling. To the left, a huge ballroom with a parquet floor and chandeliers had been cleared of furniture in preparation for the party. To the right, a long mahogany table set with wreaths and candles stretched through the dining room. In a few days, pots of forced crocuses would dot the house with splashes of purple, yellow, and white. The preparation was fit for a dignitary, and Sam had already begun to feel a part of it, like this world had welcomed him with open arms, and he stood there, taking it in, as though he could pull meaning from everything in front of him, as though he could work through this puzzle till he found where his own jagged piece fit.
He stepped over to the tree and pocketed a small silver ball. He looked to where that staircase swept from the foyer to the landing above. He ran his hand over the marble’s ornate detailing and imagined the care and expense that had gone into building it. This was the type of home where he belonged.
“Oh, God. It’s you! I was just thinking about you, and now here you are.”
Sam turned to Felicia, whom he hadn’t seen since he’d left her passed out in her apartment, though she spoke to him as though they’d known each other their whole lives. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” she said. “But the party is in less than a week and there’s so much to do! I could use all the help I can get.”
“Where’s Wendy?” Sam asked.
“Are you meeting her?”
“I was supposed to.”
“She’s with Twig,” Felicia said, rolling her eyes. “Her co-chair for the benefit. The three of us went to BC together, but Twig is a real See You Next Tuesday. The only thing that comes out of their meetings is long lists of things for me to do. She’s the one who’s supposed to be recruiting veterans to come to the party, so guess what I need to add to my list? Come. I’m put
ting you to work.”
Felicia took Sam’s arm and led him through the house, first to the kitchen, where they tasted samples from the caterers, including “Wendy’s Famous Crabbies.” “Work on these,” Felicia said. “They taste like cat food. I found that recipe in an issue of Good Housekeeping from 1973. Wendy Richards has never opened a can of crab meat in her life.”
She checked a liquor delivery against the invoice and then led Sam down a steep set of stairs to her damp basement office, where she found a stack of invoices and leafed through them, and then opened up her laptop to a spreadsheet. Sam walked around the tiny office. No one would have accused Felicia of being organized. Stacks of papers and files lined walls and every surface of the room. Pots of forced crocuses, samples from florists, Sam assumed, balanced precariously on various perches. A tiny, dirty window let in a stream of winter light that danced off dusty air. “Why the Crocus Party?” he asked. “Especially during the holidays. It’s the wrong season.”
“They’ve been doing it for years,” Felicia said. “Wendy likes to be different.”
Sam pushed some files off a wooden stool and sat.
“Why were you meeting Wendy?” Felicia asked. “Have you seen her since we went out on Saturday?”
Sam had seen Wendy nearly every night in the last week, and it surprised him that Felicia didn’t know already. The two of them had seemed so close, more than employer and employee. “A couple of times,” he said.
“Are you friends now?”
Sam swore he heard a catch in her voice, enough so that he answered carefully. “Maybe friends. Definitely friendly.”
Felicia smiled. She chewed on her lower lip. “I shouldn’t have had so much to drink that night,” she said. “But forget about it. Do you want anything to eat? Are you hungry? Harry can bring us something.”
Sam shook his head, but Felicia picked up the wall phone anyway and told Harry to bring them sandwiches. “And no mayonnaise,” she added as she hung up. “He always forgets, and I have to send them back, and it really ruins my afternoon. Is roast beef okay?” she asked without waiting for an answer. “I’m glad you popped by. I was wondering if I’d ever see you again. I wanted to chat you up, but I couldn’t find you online. You don’t have a Facebook page or Instagram. Nothing. It’s like you don’t exist. I mean, how many Aaron Gewirtzmans could there be? It’s Gewirtzman, right? I’m really good with names. You have to be when you have a job like this one. Rich people like to be remembered.”
“I’m old-fashioned,” Sam said. He kept a low profile, in every possible way, including online. “You can always text me. I’ll leave my number.”
“Apparently you’ve been around all along, though no one bothered to tell me.”
“I’m telling you now.”
Felicia returned to the spreadsheet. “You should watch yourself,” she said a moment later. She said it quietly, almost as though she didn’t want Sam to hear. She tabbed through cells and typed in some information. “Don’t let Wendy fool you. She knows when people are using her. She sees through things like that. I mean you met her four days ago, so don’t think you’re best friends all of a sudden.”
“Why would you think I’m using Wendy?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Really? It sounded like you did.”
“I’m looking out for you,” Felicia said, flashing him that practiced smile. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Sam clucked his tongue. Felicia was worth keeping an eye on. “How do you find anything in here?” he asked, changing the subject. “It’s a mess.”
“I can find pretty much anything.”
“See, I hardly know either of you,” Sam said. “We only met a few days ago. Is Wendy dating anyone?”
“Are you interested?”
“Didn’t we all go to a gay bar on Saturday?”
Felicia scrolled through the spreadsheet again. “Is there something about the ice sculptures over there?” she asked. “Maybe under that pot of crocuses?”
Sam lifted up the pot and found a Post-It. He read off the delivery information.
“She’s not dating anyone,” Felicia said. “She says she wants to, but every guy she meets doesn’t have it. She dated this guy named Hero for about three months earlier this year. He was a filmmaker and must have had a trust fund, because God knows his movies didn’t bring in any cash. We had to sit through this boring documentary he made called Cleaning in Nonantum about this lecherous guy who ran a Laundromat in Newton. I mean, it was bad, I’ll admit that. And Hero was kind of moody and vain. He wore the tightest tshirts. But he could not have been cuter. I’d have done anything he asked, but Wendy dumped him right after we saw the documentary. She said it showed his limitations.”
“What about you?” Sam asked. “You must date.”
“Oh, shut up,” Felicia said, waving a hand at him dismissively. She seemed to have warmed to him again. “I spend my life riding in the sidecar, and I’m happy there. No one even notices me. Besides, I thought we went over this the other night. I’m dating an old guy. One who flies me to France, right?”
“That’s right,” Sam said. “And I have a rich daddy who pays for my Back Bay apartment. I guess we can both dream.”
“I don’t think you’d have any trouble finding a sugar daddy.”
“Maybe I should apply myself,” Sam said.
He’d had sugar daddies—and mamas—in other lives. Plenty of them. He’d learned from those experiences. He’d learned how far a pretty face could get him when he needed it to, with men and women, straight and gay. He didn’t discriminate. He’d learned to read the situation and to take opportunities when they presented themselves, and that boredom could lead to greed, and that greed nearly always led to exposure. Would he still be in San Francisco right now, swatting Ellen’s cats from his pillow, if he hadn’t told her to make a move on the company? Surely he’d known from the start that Zach wouldn’t give in without a fight?
Felicia’s phone rang. She answered and then listened for a minute. “I don’t see how that’s my problem,” she said. There was another pause, and then she said, “You did this. You made the mistake. You fix it!”
She hung up and let her head fall to her desk. “That was the photographer,” she moaned. “She double booked. I need to find someone else. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, what am I going to do? My to-do list is as long as my arm.” Felicia’s phone rang again. “What?” she said, and then she listened for a moment and hung up. “Jesus, that was the delivery truck with the tables and chairs,” she said. “They’ll be here in five minutes, which is two days early. Go upstairs. Don’t sign for them till they’re set up and they haven’t scratched the floors.”
“I think I can handle it,” Sam said. “And call the photographer. Tell her to send an assistant and to comp you or you’ll write a bad Yelp! review. It works every time. And let’s go out tonight. Just the two of us.” Being on Felicia’s good side would pay off. He had to remember that. “I’ll text you.”
He reached over and checked off “Tables and Chairs” from Felicia’s to-do list and then headed up the narrow stairs, taking a deep breath of fresh air when he stepped from the musty basement and into the foyer, where the activity had risen to a frenzied state. He met the delivery guys and watched as they unloaded and set up the furniture. After they left, Sam glanced up the marble staircase and imagined skulking from room to room, sliding his hand into drawers, lying down on beds, sitting in windows, and being part of this life. In the ballroom, he tapped his heel on the parquet floor and ran his hand along the wainscoting. He touched the gold-and-ivory wallpaper. He dimmed the crystal chandeliers. He danced a few steps from a waltz with an imaginary partner, and then closed his eyes and pictured the room filled with people dressed to the nines. A string quartet played Mozart. He swept across the room, holding his partner at her waist, bending her toward the floor as the music swelled. He knew everyone in the room watched him. He knew they either wanted to be him or be with hi
m and that all he needed now was to keep this act going.
“There you are.”
Sam stopped his dance. Wendy Richards stood in the doorway. Sun from the French doors streamed across the floor and lit up her dark eyes and delicate features. She really was a beautiful woman; even he could appreciate that. She clapped so that the sound reverberated through the empty room. Sam blushed, and for once it wasn’t practiced. “How mortifying,” he said.
“Don’t be embarrassed. We don’t use this room often enough. Maybe you’ll put it to good use.”
“Only if I have a partner,” Sam said.
“Grace has never been my strength.”
“I don’t believe that. May I?” he asked and then placed a hand at her waist. He looked into her eyes and smiled. “Follow my lead.”
“You’ll regret this,” Wendy said. “Or at least your feet will.”
He led her around the room, talking her through each of the moves.
“You’re tall,” Wendy said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Almost as tall as you,” Sam said.
“Not many men can say that.”
“I’m not like most men.”
“No,” Wendy said. “You’re not. And this time, I think it’s you who’s flirting with me.”
“Maybe,” Sam said. “But you didn’t tell Felicia about us?”
“There’s not much of an ‘us’ yet,” Wendy said. “All we’ve done is sleep together. I don’t even know where you live.” She paused. “Where do you live anyway?”
“Somerville,” he said.
“Slumerville,” Wendy said. “Very hip!”
Sam thought about the ground-floor apartment that he shared with Gabe, where the air smelled of boiled hot dogs and mold and the pot smoke that wafted from under Gabe’s bedroom door. “Yeah, very hip,” he said.
Wendy stepped on Sam’s foot and winced, a look that said Told you so. “So,” she said, “Felicia gave you the third degree?”