“Grim.”
“Fine. Grim.”
I bite my lower lip and shift uncertainly, thinking of Grim's gleaming amber-brown eyes. “Do you think so, Pam?”
“Sure, why not?” She shrugs noncommittally, then nods. “I mean, you love cooking.” After taking in my sideways smile, she amends hastily, “Well, you don't mind it. And let's be honest: no one in the universe will ever beat Freddie's pancakes, but yours are a close second.”
“High praise. Thanks.”
“Admittedly,” she goes on then, with a faraway look in her eyes, “it's wicked weird, cooking for a family holed up in an old hotel. But who the hell cares, right? Money's money, and it'll help us keep this leaky roof over our heads.” Pam gestures to the pot in the corner that catches the water when it rains.
“But what if—”
“No, no, no.” Pam lifts her chin then, pinning me to the spot with her shrewd, sparkling gaze. “Bella,” she says, infusing her voice with a powerful calm, “you stood up for your friend today. You were awesome today. And now you're going to put on your big girl panties—I know you have some; I've done your laundry—and you're going to overcome this current challenge so damn well that it will be the best revenge you could ever inflict on Andrew.”
I wrinkle my brow. “How would that qualify as revenge?”
“Living well is the best revenge, dahling,” Pam says in a fake posh accent, deepening her smile.
I smile back as I consider this. As much as I appreciate Pam's efforts to lift my spirits, I'm still so full of doubts—about the new job, and about myself, in general. “Well, Grim hired me out of pity. I'm not sure that meets the definition of living well.”
“Huh-uh. You're phrasing it wrong, honey.” She leans forward and grips my hands. “You got a new job out of the blue right after you lost the old one, a job that you couldn't possibly have predicted. That's...magic.”
A chill courses over my skin when she speaks the word magic. It's the sort of chill I used to get when I was a little kid, searching for unicorns in the woods around Paris. I never found one, obviously, but the possibility that I might caused this delicious sensation to zing through my head and my heart, as if something extraordinary was waiting for me, just behind the next tree...
“The Beast may not be my favorite person,” Pam goes on, “but I have to admit: it was kind of her to make you this offer. Even if it was based on pity—and I'm not convinced that it was—at least you won't have to worry about money now, Bella.”
She's right.
I know she's right.
Pam has never allowed me to feel sorry for myself, even in instances when I had every right to do so. After my mother died, Pam was there for me, and she let me mourn, sure, let me sob my heart out on her shoulder every time I needed to, but when the grief became a little less crushing, she encouraged me to pick myself back up, did everything within her power to show me that life really was still worth living.
And, again, after my dad was diagnosed with cancer, Pam held me, soothed me, and then dedicated herself to helping me cope with all of the daily aspects of my father's illness, both physical and emotional.
She stares at me now with narrowed eyes, waiting for me to agree with her. Damn it—sometimes I wish she'd just let me mope.
But moping solves nothing.
“Thank you for being so patient with me, Pam,” I finally say, slumping back on the couch cushions with a ragged sigh. “I know I should be grateful that I have a new job. I am. I just feel...kind of ashamed. Like I've let my whole family down.”
“You haven't let anyone down. I guarantee you that your father will agree with what you did for Betty today.” Her expression softens. “You would've let yourself down if you hadn't spoken up.”
“But when Andrew fired me, he shut me out of my family legacy.” My face falls with misery. “He's...won.”
I want to curl up, admit defeat, go to sleep.
“He only wins if you let him break you.” There's a vehemence to Pam's words that surprises me. Her eyes are narrowed at first, and then they go wide with conviction. She tilts my chin up with her hand, auburn curls framing her face. “You're strong, honey,” she says. “And you'll come out of this even stronger—you'll see.”
I don't know if that's true..
But at least things can't get any worse...right?
Chapter 4: The Cold Meal
I get off of the bus and stare up at the old building—what used to be called the Ambassador—and I swear to God, I actually gulp, swallowing down so much air that I start to hiccup nervously.
The last time that I passed by the Ambassador was...years ago. I don't have any reason to walk down Stoic Street, where the building is located. It's in the old, rundown section of Paris, where many of the buildings are crumbling, closed, condemned. Few people live in this area, though it's overrun with feral cats.
The Ambassador has never really fit in here. We're an old farming town, built up by farmers, full of farmers; it’ll likely still be full of farmers when the Apocalypse comes and roasts the earth. This is totally fine (that Paris is full of farmers—not the Apocalypse thing), but it means that a fancy high-rise like the Ambassador seems really out of place, like a diamond ring in a gumball machine.
Nevertheless, some guy from New York financed construction for the Ambassador in the twenties, and it was the tallest building in Paris at the time. (If it weren't for St. Martin’s Church, it would still be the tallest building, but the steeple is exactly one inch higher.) The story goes that this guy wanted to create a beautiful hotel building so that some of his big city friends would be lured to live here part-time, using the rural countryside as a relaxing getaway.
But reality didn't quite work out that way. His friends were bored here, preferred passing their vacation hours at Martha's Vineyard or overseas. So even though the builder poured a ton of his own money into the building—a gorgeous art deco structure with goddesses carved along the top edge; sumptuous, well-appointed rooms; light fixtures that look as if they are made of pure gold...or so I’ve heard—he abandoned it less than a year after its construction was complete.
When the Great Depression happened, a lot of Paris' poor began to live in the empty building. And over the years, the building drifted more and more into decay: it became a squatters' paradise.
By the early eighties, nobody wanted to go near it.
And the place remained vacant, as far as I know, until Grim came along and bought it recently. Why she wanted to take on such a colossal renovation project is beyond me. I’d assume that bulldozing the old building and constructing a brand-new building from scratch would be cheaper than restoring the shabby Ambassador.
But, granted, there are no signs of renovation from where I'm standing. The dilapidated building looming before me looks exactly like I remember it from when I was a kid: dingy, sad, and broken. The only “update” seems to be that someone changed the sign on the facade. And by changed, I mean they nailed a new sign over the old Ambassador sign. At an angle. This handmade sign reads “Grim Tower,” and it does look pretty grim. The font is reminiscent of Halloween, each letter drippy and kind of gross, as if someone lacked the patience to wait for the paint to dry.
Hmm.
If you were passing by this building on foot, you'd likely cross the street to avoid walking in front of it.
I know I would.
I clutch my purse strap as I stand on the sidewalk, trepidation flooding through me.
Okay, yeah, the place is less than inviting—no question. I’ve been nervous about the job all morning, asking myself whether or not I'm up to the challenge. My brain is spinning, trying to come up with better options, but I know the best option is the most obvious one, the one directly in front of me.
The option that involves this crumbly, creepy, probably haunted building.
I mean, come on. It's got to be haunted as hell.
I draw in a deep breath and clear my throat. I can do this. I've certainly fa
ced down worse demons in my life. Take Andrew, for example.
I follow the broken sidewalk to the front door of Grim Tower.
The door is a little askew on its hinges; a stiff wind could likely blow it wide open. But it's surprisingly locked when I try the handle. The thing doesn’t budge. So I straighten my shoulders and knock as loud as I can on the metal surface.
For a long moment, nothing happens, and I stand there worriedly, wondering if I should knock again, wondering if there's another entrance, wondering if this is a sign from the Universe to leave while I still can—but then the door creaks ominously (and I do mean ominously—some sound effects guy should record this for a horror movie), and it opens inward.
I crane my neck to look at my greeter, and...
There's no one on the other side of the door.
That makes no sense. The door was locked, but now it's opened of its own accord, swinging into a hallway that's as black as night.
I’m nearly late. The truth is, I don’t have time to ponder the creepiness of this situation. I make a mental note to ponder it later, and then I gulp down some more air and brace myself as I step into the darkness.
“Hello?” I call.
The door slams shut behind me, the thud echoing sharply—as if I'm in a gothic castle instead of a metal-and-concrete building. Oh, for the love of biscuits... Am I being set up? This is starting to resemble the beginning of a slasher flick, when the first woman you see onscreen gets offed in some spectacularly gruesome way before the title pops up.
I whirl around, but my eyes meet only shadows. “Hello?” I call out again, and for some magical, mystical reason that I can't comprehend, my voice doesn't shake—but no one replies. No one sighs or laughs or whispers.
I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior. And I realize, after that long, scary moment, that the hallway isn't quite as dark as hell—just close to it. There are flickering lights along the walls, old art deco-style electric torches. The light bulbs inside of them seem to purposefully flicker, casting about as much illumination as a candle’s flame.
I blink, taking in my surroundings in the soft, strobing light, and I realize something unexpected. The outside of the building may be shabby, but the hallway?
It’s actually gorgeous in here.
There's a thick carpet beneath my shoes, woven with blood-red flowers and golden fringe. The rug—which is probably an antique—is rolled out on top of a wide-planked, shiny hardwood floor that appears to be original. Black-and-white-striped wallpaper runs vertically over the walls, and the brass fixtures of the torch lamps are well-polished, glimmering.
I feel as if I just stepped into a vintage New York City hotel. As if I time-traveled. The vision around me certainly doesn’t match the outside face of the building. I turn back to examine the metal door that opened and closed for me without apparent human assistance, and I stare at it with pursed lips. I guess it could operate electronically? That'd probably be expensive, but—
“Hello!”
I jump in surprise but manage to stay on my feet, which is something I'm pretty proud of, because the voice just came out of nowhere—as if disembodied—near my right elbow.
And there, in front of me...
...is a little kid.
Kids are not inherently creepy, but when they appear in a darkened hallway, in a building that's already giving me the spooks, what with its self-opening door and all...
Yeah, I'm more than a little freaked out.
I'm assuming the boy is around seven or eight, though I'm not usually able to guess ages accurately, so take that with a grain of salt. He's got adorably wispy brown hair and big eyes with long lashes. He has a nose that reminds me a little of Grim’s... And, his eyes are, in fact, the same odd amber color as hers. He's wearing a grubby white t-shirt (there's a fresh-looking hand print of mud on his shoulder), and his jeans are torn at the knees, on the thighs, along the calves... It looks as if he walked through a knife factory and barely made it out alive. But he's grinning at me cheerfully, despite his disheveled appearance, and I notice now that he's got something in his also-dirty hands.
It's...a mouse. A little field mouse, sitting in the palm of the kid's hand as if the mouse is a tiny ship captain, the hand a ship that he's steering forward. The mouse stands at attention, staring at me with enormous black eyes, his whiskers quivering.
O-o-o-kay.
“Are you the new cook? Ants said there'd be a new cook today. So I opened the door for you. Can you make me a ham sandwich? I'm really hungry,” the little boy says, his words tumbling over each other. He lifts up the mouse under my nose, and the rodent regards me solemnly. “This is Mr. Cheese!” the boy continues in an excited tone. “I found him in the basement. Do you think that's a good name for a mouse? He probably likes cheese, right? Do you have some cheese I can give him?”
“Um...do you live here?” I ask, glancing along the poorly lit hallway.
The boy nods enthusiastically and spins in place on one of his heels, kind of like an ice skater.
“Yes, yes, yes, I live here with my mom and my aunt and my uncle, and—” Suddenly, he wrinkles his nose. “Wait-a-second! You are the cook, right? Because Ants doesn't like me talking to strangers, and I promised her I’d try to stop doing that.”
“Ants?” I ask weakly.
He screws his mouth shut and stares at me suspiciously, covering Mr. Cheese with his other hand, as if to shield the mouse from me.
“I am the new cook,” I promise him, and his face relaxes immediately.
“Good! That's fine, then.” He sniffs proudly, and then he beams, his expression brightening the dark space. “Ants is my aunt, but I call her Ants because it's funny.” He continues to beam. “I'm Rex. My friends call me Rex!” And then he laughs so hard, he almost falls over. He's obviously told this joke often, and he enjoys it immensely.
“You said you opened the door?”
“Yeah, I saw you on the camera and pressed the button! I'm not supposed to do that, but I'm starved.” He stares up at me with those amber eyes, and he holds Mr. Cheese under my nose again. The mouse stares at me, long-suffering. “Mr. Cheese is very hungry, too, and he needs some cheese right now, so can I have some? And a ham sandwich?”
“Well...where is the kitchen? I thought I was supposed to meet Grim—I mean, Mel Grim? She's the one who gave me this job,” I explain, but he's shaking his head and grabbing my wrist, tugging me down the hallway.
“No time! Mr. Cheese needs cheese, stat!” he bellows, ER-style, over his shoulder.
I'm dragged past what looks to be the old front desk, and then we walk down several corridors lined with closed doors, always closed doors. The hallway meanders, and finally we open a door and descend a short flight of stairs.
Wait.
I think...we're in the basement.
Yeah, it's definitely a basement—and a crappy one: my eyes pick out peeling paint along one wall. But someone has recently outfitted the space to work as a kitchen. Rex turns on the overhead lights by standing on an upside-down bucket and reaching for the light switches.
“Ants made the light switch high because I always come downstairs in the middle of the night and eat things,” Rex tells me companionably, offering me a toothy grin. Actually, he's missing one of his front teeth—which is extra-adorable. He places Mr. Cheese on the metal table in the center of the room. “Her plan doesn't work, though! Because I found a bucket!”
“I see that.” I give the kid a little smile and set my purse down next to Mr. Cheese, who turns to regard it dolefully. Then he settles on all fours and begins to pick up crumbs, tossing one after the other over his shoulder until he finds one he really likes, which he nibbles at with a faraway expression.
“Hey...Rex, do you think Mr. Cheese should be on the table I'm going to prepare food on?” I ask gently, but he's busy yanking open the industrial-grade refrigerators and toeing the bucket over to them so that he can reach the higher shelves.
“Well, he need
s to eat, too,” Rex shoots back over his shoulder. “We're all animals, after all. He has the same animal germs as us.”
I blink, staring down at the mouse, who stares up at me with—I swear—a tiny rodent frown, practically daring me to pick him up. I err on the side of caution and take a step backward.
“Yeah, that's true... We are all animals. But humans are very different from mice.” I reach over Rex's shoulder and grab the wrapped cheese from the highest shelf and hand it down to him. He must be learning about evolution in school—all that stuff about common ancestry with primates, Darwin...
But Rex doesn't respond to my comment, instead hopping gleefully off of the bucket and throwing the cheese down onto the table, unwrapping it as if he's half-wild, tearing into the plastic as if he has claws instead of fingernails.
“Whoa, whoa, little guy,” I chuckle, and then I realize that I'm treating him with the familiarity I have with Betty's kids...
The thought of Betty sends a pang to my heart.
I pick up the package of cheese and take the kitchen shears from the counter, opening the plastic neatly. Rex breaks off a huge chunk—practically as big as Mr. Cheese himself—and sets it down next to the mouse, whose eyes grow shiny in his little head.
“Thanks, Pretty!” says Rex happily, and he, too, stares up at me with shining eyes.
“What's pretty?” I smile at him, sliding my purse from the counter.
“You!” Rex bounces up and down. “Ants said you were, and she's right!”
I pause. Stare.
“Your...aunt called me pretty?” I ask haltingly, and my mouth turns up at the corners in spite of myself.
Rex nods exaggeratedly, and then he breaks off another big piece of cheese for himself and stuffs the entire thing into his mouth.
“So,” he says, around the hunk of cheese, “I thought I'd call you Pretty! I'm the one in the house who gives out the nicknames,” he informs me importantly, puffing his chest out, as his cheeks puff out from the cheese. “Unless you don't like it.” His chest deflates, then, and he looks crestfallen; he swallows the piece of cheese he just bit off whole.
Beauty and the Wolf Page 5