by Olga Bicos
Samuel hadn’t looked at his son’s face. He hadn’t dared.
Grabbing the glass from the waiter, he pushed past, leaving Vanessa in Daniel’s very capable hands. He stumbled on the carpet where it wasn’t taped down. The place was falling apart. God, he hated coming here.
Sometimes he’d have these dreams. The phantoms of the past would find him and chase him around the labyrinth halls of Cutty House. He’d wake up covered in sweat, scared that somehow he’d died and now must pay for his crimes in the next world.
Maybe he’d died already. Maybe he was just a ghost.
“Nina,” he whispered to those same moldering walls.
He needed air, before he passed out. He headed for the courtyard. Dammit, he couldn’t breathe.
Outside, the cold mist seemed too thick. He told himself nobody this drunk could have a heart attack. He grabbed his cell phone, managed on the second try to get the number right.
She didn’t pick up.
“Where the hell are you?” He knew he sounded pathetic. She probably wouldn’t call back. “I gave you the damn phone and you never answer.”
She did it on purpose. To torture him. She hadn’t wanted him here tonight and this was payback.
But he’d find her. He always did. All part of the game.
He drank down the Vox and clawed at the bow tie choking him. He wondered what might come of Daniel bringing that woman here. Nothing good.
But suddenly he smiled, shoving the bow tie in his pocket, mulling it over. Then again…
For the last twelve years they’d all been clocking time, waiting impatiently for this moment. Finally, finally, the waiting was over.
“Tick tock,” he said. “Time’s up.”
2
“Anybody here?”
She’d entered a cave of a room, barrel-vaulted, receding into darkness—the ballroom, then—feeling half foolish as she listened to her words bounce off the walls. She could have sworn the man’s voice had come from somewhere inside.
“Olly olly oxen free.” But she only whispered, trying to rid the shadows of their Scream III peek-through-your-fingers vibes.
She remembered the room from the plans. This was the center of Cutty House, its heart. Here, there was nothing ripped or torn out, no signs of the blundered renovation at all. Just the ravages of age and the faint smell of mold.
City lights filtered through windows, bleeding in to merge with the fingers of light from the hall behind her. Pillars and Versailles-like mirrors surrounded a dance floor the size and shape of a small roller rink. Straight boards of light and dark wood ran the length of the floor, while elegant moldings decorated the walls and ceiling like a wedding cake. She imagined gas lights glittering from chandeliers, could almost hear the illegal gambling and drinking of Prohibition.
“I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.”
Into another place and time.
There was a presence here, the spirit of Cutty House. The warehouse renovation had been merely a functional space for which she’d planned a new purpose. Progress. But this room had a life of its own.
From the outset, Daniel East had made his intentions clear. Gut the ballroom, transform the space into a dance club. Make the past disappear, Holly. Every room had to be updated. He wanted Holly to take a house in desperate need of repair and reconstruction of lost architectural elements and just hang a disco ball. That simple.
“Oh, Holly,” she asked out loud, allowing the disappointment to settle in. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
“A little late to be asking that question,” came the reply.
She managed not to scream, but she did perform a rather nice clutch of her chest accompanied by a B-movie gasp. Turning toward the voice, she watched a man emerge from the music shell, an alcove built into the wall to her left.
Ryan stepped into the weak light pooling front and center. The shadows seemed to cast him in the role of villain. She tried to convince herself the effect was so much smoke and mirrors, fears brought on by a tense night of new beginnings. Before her stood a perfectly ordinary man, really—if someone with heart-stopping good looks could be ordinary. No need to make a scene. The party crowd was just down the hall; help was within easy reach.
Don’t bolt—don’t be silly.
Then again, she remembered a book she’d read about women and their fears, and how you weren’t suppose to rationalize a dangerous situation. You were suppose to listen to that gut feeling telling you to run for your life.
“Hi,” she said instead.
He didn’t answer, but he did laugh, as if it was just too much, that tiny salute in the face of his looming presence. Visually, he was the opposite of Daniel’s manicured good looks. Tall, with dark hair cut short and combed in an absentminded manner, wearing clothes that spoke of nothing but comfort. And he needed a shave.
She could see the true color of his eyes now, dark blue made a near black by his dilated pupils.
“You were the one calling, weren’t you?” she asked. “I heard you say Nina or Tina or something?”
He circled closer. She tried not to be obvious as she inched back toward the exit.
“We weren’t exactly introduced. My name’s Holly. Holly Fairfield.” She had a nervous habit of filling in the silence. Stop it. Stop now. “I mean, maybe you have a problem with my getting this job?” she guessed, trying to slap a label on his aggressive advance.
“Were you the architect here before?” she asked, thinking of the foul-up with the remodel. “You know, maybe we could work something out—No,” she said, stopping herself. She was always trying to appease. She wasn’t going to do that now, even in this dark room, a little frightened and wondering what he wanted.
Shoulders back, she told him, “I can’t offer you a job because, quite frankly, I think what you’ve done…well, I shouldn’t be so quick to judge. I don’t know the whole situation and Daniel can be very adamant—”
“Be quiet,” he said. “I want to look at you.”
Okay. That was different.
“That’s why they brought you here, isn’t it?” he continued, speaking in an angry hush that still managed to fill the room. “For me to look? Then, let me. Just be very quiet. You ruin the effect when you talk.”
It was the most extraordinary thing anyone had ever said to her…and garnered the desired effect. She couldn’t find the breath to speak.
Maybe that’s what happened to those poor people on the six-o’clock news, she thought. Maybe it wasn’t like in the movies, where you could scream.
He stopped inches from her, so close they could have shared a dance. She told herself she was being stubborn, holding her ground, even when she thought he might just reach out and touch her…which would have made her jump right out of her skin. But he didn’t, retreating instead with a strange sort of smile.
“Very nice,” he said, now studying her from the dark. “Very well done.”
Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck midnight.
Holly spun toward the sound, wound too tight by the events of the night. When she turned back, the man named Ryan was gone.
Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she whispered the only word that seemed to express it all.
“Wow.”
Emma stared at the checkerboard of hors d’oeuvres, each a work of art, made with precious ingredients like Tobiko caviar and white truffle oil. Daniel had insisted on classical French. Empty Cristal bottles lined the counter like good soldiers.
It should all feel better than this.
She looked around at the new defunct kitchen, watching the staff of five she and Beth had hired pack up. Nothing in the cavernous kitchen functioned since the remodel, but ice chests and sterno had done the job.
She knew Daniel would be pleased. And Ryan showing up like that had been the crowning touch.
So why did she feel so empty?
“Tada!” Beth came up behind her, her hands resting on Emma’s shoulders as she whispered, “As always, the dream team of
culinary magic comes through with the impossible.”
“We did good.” Emma managed a smile as she gave her partner a high five.
Beth had dressed for the occasion, adding Day-Glo pink evening gloves in vinyl and combat boots to her 1950s waitress outfit. She’d tied her improbable orange hair in pigtails, and with her pierced eyebrow and black lipstick, she looked like the punk version of Pippi Longstocking. But of the two, Emma knew it was she who felt silly in her gown and heels.
“I think that does it for me.” Beth gave Emma a quick hug. “Catch you at home?”
“Yeah. And thanks,” she told her catering partner. “You were awesome.”
Beth wrinkled her nose. “I should have sabotaged the whole deal. Then he wouldn’t have given you the job and I’d still have you.”
“You don’t need me. And if you do, I’m here.”
Beth managed a look of forgiveness. “Yeah, I know. It’s cool. I want this for you, Emma. It’s a great gig. Hey, if I thought Daniel would give me a shot, I might just elbow you aside….”
“Liar.”
“You never know.”
They shared a moment, each knowing what the other was thinking, both filled with regret. Beth blew a kiss, and Emma watched her ex-partner and roommate shepherd out the troops. She and Beth had met at culinary school during the time in her life Emma liked to call “The Great Escape.” In those days, everything had seemed possible—leaving Cutty House, starting her own business.
She sighed, wondering why tonight felt like a death rather than a beginning.
She heard the pop of a champagne bottle, turned in time to see Daniel step inside the now abandoned kitchen. Her heart started to beat faster.
He poured the Cristal, extravagant as he allowed the expensive champagne to bubble over, spilling everywhere. Daniel needed extreme. He liked a good show.
He forced a sip of the Cristal to her lips. “You embody perfection in that dress, my love.”
She turned her face away from the glass, not liking the alcohol. “I feel like an idiot.”
He took a drink and laughed. “Now see? I said you were a bad judge.”
“I’ve been permanently crippled by these heels.” She tried to catch her breath as he lifted her onto the old countertop. He settled between her opened legs, inching the hem of the gown to her knees.
“I hope you’re pleased by my great sacrifice,” she told him.
“Always.” He bent down and stroked her bare calf, making her shiver. “Heels make a woman’s legs look beautiful.”
He slipped the silly shoes off her feet, letting them drop to the floor. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him to her.
He pushed the dress slowly up her thighs to her hips. “But there was one thing I would have liked even better,” he whispered into her ear.
“Okay,” she said, bracing herself. With Daniel, there was always a catch.
He bit down on her earlobe. “You have to learn to be nice.”
“I don’t want to be nice. I don’t like her.”
“You’ll learn to like her.” And then more seriously, “For me.”
She wanted to protest. Hadn’t she done enough? Things she wasn’t proud of? And now, she was even leaving Beth in a lurch. She almost asked him then and there why it was never enough?
But she knew it was just the dumb party and not Daniel that had her so wound up. Too many weird memories. Her anger surprised her. It seemed a betrayal of everything they’d been through.
“I’m just scared,” she told him, whispering the truth.
That she’d lose him. And she could, now that the other woman was here.
He cupped her face in his hands, almost hurting her, his eyes watching her reaction.
“What could you be scared of, hmm?”
“I’m scared of her. For us—”
He covered her mouth with his, kissing her as he pulled the gown off her shoulders. She helped him undress her, shimmying out of her underwear, unzipping his pants even as she listened to the party-goers just outside the doors. Sometimes she wondered why she always rushed.
He looked deep into her eyes, keeping them connected. “Are you still worried?”
She couldn’t close her eyes, just stared into his. “I love you, Daniel.”
He dug his fingers into her thighs hard enough to leave marks. “I asked if you’re still worried?”
She could see she’d made him angry. He wanted her to be nice to Holly Fairfield.
Do it, she told herself, as angry as Daniel now. It’s just a stupid game.
Only, it wasn’t. It was her life. A life she’d already screwed up.
Sometimes she couldn’t say what scared her most. That Daniel would leave her…or that he wouldn’t.
But Daniel had always been stronger than her, his need somehow more necessary.
“Whatever you want, Daniel.”
Always.
3
Holly didn’t consider herself prone to high drama. She tended to be too sensible, a pragmatist at heart. That’s why she loved architecture’s marriage of form and function.
Even her divorce had gone smoothly enough, basically because she’d rolled over and played dead for Drew…except for that one night with the margaritas when she’d asked Harris about the possible expense of a hit man.
But that searing anger couldn’t last. Within a week, it had burned itself out. After watching her father die, walking in on Drew with another woman just didn’t seem worth the emotion.
But tonight was different. Walking home alone, suddenly she felt as if she were living one of those women-in-peril movies.
Directly behind her she heard a sound. Was someone following her?
When she’d skipped out of the party, she’d jumped feet first into righteous San Francisco fog, the only thing on her mind leaving Cutty House and its mystery men far behind. It was less than five blocks to the apartment where she and Harris were staying, and, having already lived in Seattle, another vertically challenged city, she preferred hiking in heels to a heart-in-her-throat taxi ride any day. Nob Hill loomed 338 feet above sea level. The drivers here must hand out complimentary parachutes with each ride. It was probably part of a local traffic ordinance, like wearing seat belts.
Only, now she was clutching the collar of her trench coat as the echo of footsteps sounded behind her. She wasn’t quite talking out loud, but her lips moved to the words, telling herself she was crossing the heart of Nob Hill, the castle keep to Chinatown and the financial district below. Here was prime real estate that still bore the names of the railroad barons and Comstock millionaires. Crocker, Stanford, Hopkins and Flood. Safe as houses, right?
As if she hadn’t read about muggings on the streets of San Francisco. Hadn’t there even been a television series set here, the streets were so famous for crime?
Just an hour ago, sending Harris ahead hadn’t seemed like a risky proposition. The cold air would clear her head; the walk up the streets would get the blood flowing.
Instead, the mist conjured images of humanlike shadows, following, following. Ominous footsteps sounded too close.
Cue the foghorn. There. Baleful and haunting.
She didn’t look back. She refused to give in to that prickling at the back of her neck. An active imagination was her only problem.
Not much farther…
Then came that terrible moment when she gave in to her fears and started to speed up…only to have the footsteps behind her keep pace. Town houses and apartments in a mishmash of architectural styles bullied the sidewalks for space, standing shoulder to shoulder. Like trees in a too-dense forest, each had its own hidey-hole of light and dark.
She broke into a run, no longer worried about how foolish she might look or the pinch of the Jimmy Choos.
The footsteps behind kept pace.
Oops. Not paranoia after all.
An arm reached out, hooking around her stomach. She felt herself propelled, her momentum carrying her around the corner. She reali
zed he hadn’t pushed her up against the wall; she’d backed up all on her own against the misshapen clinker bricks.
“I have exactly twenty-three dollars, a really neat Revlon lipstick called Silken Magenta and a half-empty tin of Altoids.”
She didn’t mention the shoes, for which she’d paid a small fortune.
“You missed your block.”
She blinked her eyes open, realizing she’d screwed them shut. The light of a passing car spotlighted Ryan.
Ryans, Ryans, everywhere.
“I what?”
“You’re lost,” he told her.
“No,” she said, waking up. “The apartment is right over…”
But even as she said it, she realized she didn’t recognize the street.
He turned her around, pointed. “Turn left at the corner. Straight ahead. First building on your left after you cross Washington.”
And when she looked at him like a child who’d just seen a man pull a gold coin out of her ear, he added, “Daniel’s old place.”
“Oh.”
He knew the family. He knew Daniel. He wasn’t plotting pillage and plunder.
“The fog,” he said. “It confuses things.”
She felt suddenly very silly.
“I thought you were chasing me,” she said, as if she’d known all along where she was headed, wondering if the excuse didn’t make her sound even more foolish. “I thought you were a mugger or something,” she added for good measure.
He stepped back, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers, looking like an entirely different man than the one who’d cornered her in the ballroom. She wondered how he could do that, go from menacing to mild. Wondered which was the better act.
“You should get going,” he told her.
“Right.” She turned, took two steps…a few more…then pivoted back. “Right.”
He’d implied he wasn’t following her. He was merely being a gentleman, making sure she was safe. Just pointing the way down the yellow brick road, Dorothy.
Right.
Wasn’t it just like a man to make a woman feel stupid when it was obviously his fault that she was acting the fool?
“Back there, at Cutty House…” she insisted. “All that talk about wanting to look at me and telling me to be quiet. What was that about?”