Chapter Twenty-Eight - Ellie
I get to his building and pull up to the front doors because the parking garage has a gate and I have no key. A valet comes to my window while the doorman appears with a smile. “I’m here to see Mr. Stonewall in the penthouse,” I tell the valet.
“Yes, Miss Hatcher,” the doorman says. “He called down and told us to expect you. If you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you up and let you in.”
“Isn’t he home?” I ask, getting out and going for my bag in the backseat.
The doorman beats me to it and says, “He stepped out a few minutes ago, Miss Hatcher. But said he’d be right back.”
Well, that’s interesting. He trusts me in his home. Alone. Tsk. Men. I hope he is not expecting me to sit demurely and not snoop through his place. That’s probably beyond my capability. I’m consumed with curiosity about this man.
I follow the doorman into the lobby, which is ridiculously luxurious. There’s a large modern fireplace as the center point of a sitting area that’s big enough to host a party. The furniture is modern too. All fancy lines and curves that tells me it’s probably hand-made and more expensive than anything I’ve ever owned, and my stuff is not cheap.
There’s a piano in the corner in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, which go up at least three stories. My flat shoes click a little across dark marble floors that are shiny enough for me to see my reflection and I’m suddenly sorry I wore jeans. I knew this place was fancy. It’s a landmark here in the Tech Center. And an architectural original. But I didn’t think about doormen and valets when I put my weekend casual outfit together. At least I didn’t wear shorts.
The elevator we take is off to the side. “Penthouse only,” the doorman says, like he’s in charge of impressing me in Mac’s absence. It makes me smile.
“I’m Ellie,” I say, sticking out my hand.
“George,” the doorman says. “I like Mac. He’s… unusual. Not like the rest of the people who live here.”
“Oh, really?” I say, leaning in with interest. “What’s he like? I just met him last week.”
“Pleasant. Generous. He’s a great tipper. Whenever he needs help, he rewards me even though it’s not expected here. And he smiles a lot. Especially when he talks about you.”
“He talks about me?”
George laughs as we get in the elevator and he uses a key to make the penthouse button light up and the doors close. “Yes. He’s come down in the middle of the night a few times talking about you this week.”
“Oh, God. I hope none of it was embarrassing.”
“Nothing too personal. But he did admit he was slightly obsessed with you, Miss Hatcher. And as a father I’d usually be concerned about a remark like that. But it came off as, you know…” He trails off.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like a man who made a mistake and regrets it. Like he thinks you’re something special.”
Well, well, well. I smile and sigh at the same time. That’s a wonderful little piece of information. I’m glad to know I wasn’t the only sleepless one this past week.
“I’ve known Stonewall Senior forever. Worked here since the building opened. But I never knew he had two sons. Not until Mac showed up.”
“Really?” That’s… weird. How could a doorman, the guy who should know everything about everyone, not know about Mac? It’s like he’s some kind of secret. Maybe he’s the bastard child?
I almost snicker at that. No, Mac doesn’t come off like the product of an out-of-wedlock tryst.
When we reach the top floor George twists the key again and the doors open straight into Mac’s penthouse apartment. “Wow,” I say. The first thing I see is a view of the city. It’s dark, so the lights are just breathtaking. We are high up and I can see all the landmark buildings downtown. The windows are framed in sheer white curtains that probably cost more than my car.
“Yes.” George nods, waving me into the massive room. “It’s really beautiful at night. Where would you like your bag, Miss Hatcher?”
“Um…” I look around, decide I have no idea, and just point to the foyer floor. “There is fine, thank you, George.”
“As I said, Mr. Stonewall should be here in a moment, so make yourself at home.” George steps back into the elevator and, just before the doors close, gives me a wink that looks a little conspiratorial.
“Thank you!” I call.
Then I turn back to Mac’s penthouse. There’s a gleaming chrome and glass staircase that leads up to a second floor and just like the Atrium over at Stonewall Entertainment, there’s a wall of water. It’s very subtle though. Just a sheet of water that falls so softly down the white tile, it sounds like a trickling brook. Very soothing. Very Zen. Very relaxing.
I walk over to the window to take in the view but then stop short when I see a silver envelope propped up on the white marble coffee table in the sitting area. I step onto a rug that would cover every square inch of my bedroom at home, and it might in fact be made of luxurious sheepskin. My feet sink down several inches.
I slip my shoes off as I walk over to the card. It says Miss Eloise Hatcher on the front. Engraved, like a fancy invitation one might get to a wedding. My heart thumps a few times and then I carefully pick it up and take a seat on the couch, pulling my legs up as I flip it over, open the flap, and remove the card.
The whole thing is engraved in fancy type, just like the front of the envelope. “Wow,” I say. “What are you up to, Mac?”
Dear Eloise,
Welcome to me. I want you to know everything, but not all at once. So let’s play a game. Let me take you on a little tour of Mac’s life. Are you up for it? If so, say yes.
McAllister
I let off a little laugh and then look around. “Are you here?” Silence. Well, I’m up for a game of Get-To-Know-Mac, so I say, “Yes,” so loudly it echoes off the walls.
The TV comes to life off to my left and I jump to my feet, startled.
“Hi, Ellie,” Mac on the TV says.
He’s somewhere outside. It’s night and I wonder if this is live or taped from earlier. How much earlier? Not much. He definitely did all this today. He couldn’t possibly have known I’d agree to spend the weekend with him when he went into work this morning. We weren’t even on speaking terms. What kind of power must it take to get an engraved card and envelope like this in half a day’s time? I can’t even imagine.
“I’ve left you a clue in the kitchen,” TV Mac says. “Look around and find it. When you get to the last clue, you’ll find me.” He pauses, his eyes blazing that cerulean blue I have come to love. “If… you’re still interested.”
Jesus Christ. That was a loaded challenge. I shove the card into my back pocket and go looking for the kitchen, because I’m definitely up for it so far. What could he possibly be worried about? He’s practically perfect.
I step off the rug, my feet reluctant to leave the softness, and look around. There is a long hallway running past the staircase. The black marble floor has white marble squares inlaid in it. They kind of look like stepping stones in a sea of black. Like something to be followed.
I follow, passing by the wall of water that trickles down into a shallow standing pool filled with black and white pebbles. Once I get past that the wall becomes an art gallery. Nothing I recognize, all very modern and not to my taste, but I’m sure they are all originals.
Up ahead there’s a glowing rice-paper wall and when I get to the open door, I see it’s a very Japanese-style meditation room. It’s not the kitchen, so I keep walking to the end of the hall and then have to make a choice. Left or right?
To my right is a dining room, so I go that way in the hope that the kitchen is not far off.
How big is this place? I pass by a white marble table with chrome legs and count the chairs. Sixteen. It looks more like a conference room table. A place for a meeting. I bet they have retreats here. And parties.
The next room has a pool table made of blond wood and wheat-colored felt. But I scan past it and see white barstools. Maybe that’s the kitchen? I walk through the pool table room and end up at a bar.
Hmmm. I really didn’t think it would be so hard to find a kitchen. But it has to be close, so I search for a clue. There’s a swinging door, the kind you see in industrial kitchens in restaurants. One that goes both ways.
That has to be it.
I smile and walk over to it, pushing the door open just enough to slip inside.
The kitchen is huge. Like bigger than some restaurants. The cabinets are very shiny and luxuriously lacquered in white. I can see myself in them like a mirror.
“OK,” I whisper to myself. “Fridge.” It’s huge. Actually, it’s two, side by side, that open up like French doors, but are both bigger than any refrigerator I’ve ever seen.
I pull open the first one.
Empty.
Hmmm.
I pull open the second one. Also empty, with one exception. Two bottles of beer that probably have the most interesting label on them I’ve ever seen. The brand is called Zombie Dust and that makes me laugh a little. The silver envelope is propped between them, and it says, Read Me.
I pick it up, turn it over, and slide the card out. It looks just like the last card.
Dear Eloise,
I’m not a big drinker, but I like beer. This is my favorite. Bring them with you on your journey and we’ll share them at the end.
Go to the theatre room next and enjoy a smile on me.
McAllister
I smile as I pick up the card, shove it in my back pocket with the last one, and then grab the two beers by the neck. I’m not sure why Mac is going to so much trouble, or what I’m learning about him on this scavenger hunt, but it’s clever and it’s certainly got my attention.
I leave the kitchen the way I came and end up back in the bar. Surely the theatre room is not far away? Movies and drinks go together. And sure enough there’s another hallway down to the right.
The theater room is glowing a bright blue, so I see it right away when I turn the corner into that hallway. I have to stop and take it in when I get to the doorway, because it’s huge. Not as big as a regular theatre, but certainly well-equipped to host two dozen people or more.
This place cannot be a home. Who lives like this?
This room is carpeted in a soft wheat color, much like the felt on the pool table. I step down, searching for the next invitation, until I get to the front seat. It’s not too close to the giant screen on the far wall. A prime seat, in fact. The reclining chairs are all an ivory-colored leather with drink holders and the silver envelope I’m looking for is propped up on the arm rest.
I reach for it, biting my lip as my heart thumps a little. This is fun.
I take the card out and read it.
Dear Eloise,
I never saw this movie as a kid, but in college I had a very good friend who was obsessed with it. We must’ve watched it a hundred times and every time we laughed. Maybe we were drunk, but Ferris Bueller’s philosophy is that of the teenager. The guy with everything in front of him. No regrets yet. No mistakes, just potential. That’s how everyone saw us. A team of Mr. Perfects.
Don’t believe everything you see.
McAllister
“Bueller?” the surround sound says from every possible corner of the room.
“Oh, my God, Mac,” I say to the room. “You are too much.” So I take a seat as the highlight reel for Ferris Bueller’s Day Off comes on screen. I laugh at each scene, remembering back to the first time I ever saw it. Ferris is the teenage version of a con man. Everyone wanted to be clever like Ferris after they watched this movie. He was the seventeen-year-old version of Mr. Perfect.
When the clips are over there’s a message on screen that says: Go find the music room.
Music room. I passed a piano out in the main living area, but I don’t think that’s it. So I stick the card in my pocket, pick up my beers, and exit the theater. I turn right and keep going further down the hallway. There’s a lot of modern art in these walls too—another gallery, I guess. And at the end of the hall is a sliding barn door on a track high above. I open it, unsure what I’ll find, and happily enter the music room. There is one blue chair sitting on yet another expansive sheepskin rug, facing the most elaborate sound system I’ve ever seen.
There’s a silver envelope attached to the front of the system, so I walk over, enjoying the feel of the rug beneath my bare feet, and lift it off.
Behind it is a small white sticky note with the words Press Here printed in neat blue ink. I press and listen as the song plays.
Not music, just a stomp, stomp, clap. Repeating until We Will Rock You comes on so loud, I feel like Queen could be performing this song in front of me.
I set my two beers on the small table and take a seat in the chair as I open the card.
Dear Eloise,
It sounds like an anthem. Almost a call to arms with the heavy stomping and acapella lyrics. But it’s not. It’s a story about ambition, and life, and reality. A boy starts out with dreams, grows to manhood with expectations, and ends up an old man with regrets.
I don’t want to be an old man with regrets. And that’s why I’m cautious.
Please go to the library next.
McAllister
I get up, grab my beers and leave through the barn doors, turning right once again, because that’s the only way that doesn’t have me backtracking. The library is at the end of this hallway, I can see it from here—glowing with soft amber light that reflects off the dark polished wood. I enter to find a single book placed in the center of a large round table. I set the beers down, hoping they don’t leave a ring of water on this beautiful wood, and reach for the book.
It’s called The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene. I’ve read it. It was required in college business classes. There’s a card tucked into the very back and when the book falls open it lands on Law 46—Never Appear Too Perfect.
I open the card and read.
Dear Eloise,
Greene says people who appear too perfect create silent enemies through jealousy. A man with no faults is not a man. I relate to this law the most, even though all the laws are solid, practical, good advice for anyone, at any stage in life. But I relate to Law 46 the most because it is the first lesson I learned on my own.
Please find the closet in the red room.
McAllister
Well. He’s got something to say, he’s just not sure how to say it, I guess. And this scavenger hunt is helping him. Whatever it is, it must weigh heavily on his mind. I sigh as I stick the card in my pocket, pick up the beers, wipe the water ring away with the bottom of my shirt, and go off to find the red room.
This takes me a while. Longer than seems possible. But this place, this penthouse—it’s huge. I pass by many rooms and finally stumble onto the red one.
It’s just another pretty room. If you like this style. I’m appropriately impressed with the luxury of it. The minimalist opulence. If I knew the total price of the things this apartment contains it would probably be more than I’d ever make in a lifetime.
So I pass right by the furnishings and open one of two doors to find an equally impressive bathroom. I move on to the next door and find the closet.
It’s empty. Like the refrigerator. Does he even live here?
Well, it’s not quite empty because there’s a pair of men’s shoes placed for maximum effect in the center of a shelf made just to hold shoes. This closet would bring most women to orgasm. Hell, I’d die for a closet like this. Before I started my little hunt, that is. Because there’s something about all this that is making me very, very nervous.
The silver envelope is placed between the right and left shoe. I pick it up and slide the card out.
Dear Eloise,
Put them on. Yes, I know they’re too big. It’s a lot harder to walk in another man’s shoes than you thought, huh?
The next bedroom is two doors down.
McAllister
I put them on and my feet swim inside the soft, Italian leather. I have to scuff my way out of the red room and down the hallway to the next stop on my tour. I enter the bedroom expecting Mac to be in here. Waiting for me. To have sex, maybe.
But it, like everything else, is empty save for a silver envelope placed neatly on top of a fluffy white pillow. I walk over and notice that one side of the bed is made up perfectly, while the other is pulled down. Like someone has been sleeping on this side.
The envelope is placed on the pillow presumably being used.
I open it up and read the card.
Dear Eloise,
That bed is sad, right? Lonely. Missing something. I’m missing something too. I think you’re my missing piece. But before you come upstairs to the terrace I just want you to know I never said I was perfect. I never claimed to be perfect.
McAllister