Chapter Thirty - Chella
“Hey,” I call out when I get home from work. “You here?”
Smith peeks out from behind the wall of the kitchen. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I say, hanging up my coat in the closet and then hopping up the stars to the main living level. I walk into the kitchen and find him… cooking. “What are you doing?”
“Christmas Eve Eve dinner, Marcella. It was a tradition in my adoptive house.”
“Hmm,” I say, pulling out one of the barstools and taking a seat. “What do you cook for a Christmas Eve Eve dinner?”
“Traditional Baldwin etiquette says a whole bunch of pretentious bullshit only a chef can make, like crown roast or leg of lamb.”
“That sounds good!” I say. “I’m starving!”
“Chella,” Smith says, shooting me a sidelong look as he slips his hands into potholders. “I’m Smith. I made mac and cheese.”
I laugh. “That sounds good too.” He opens the oven and takes out a casserole dish, gingerly setting it down on a trivet to protect my countertops. “You do realize that what you’re doing right now is lady porn?”
Smith smiles but doesn’t look at me. “Cooking?” he asks.
“And vacuuming. If you really want to turn me on, you’d vacuum the whole house. And dust. Bonus points for using lemon-scented wood polish.”
“You’re funny, Marcella Walcott.”
“OK,” I say, tucking down my smile. “So what’s all this about? Since when do you cook? And hey—did you… clean up your mess on the dining room table?”
He glares at me. “Your fucking father showing up got me all paranoid that someone else will come over unexpectedly.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know. Your friends, maybe? I don’t do friends, Chella. I don’t do fathers either. But I had no choice.”
I lean over the island and grab a breadstick from a basket. “I’m sorry you had to see all that. And I’m sorry I was moody last night. You were really perfect, Smith. And I appreciate it.”
“So you’re over it?” he asks, then dips a fork in his mac and cheese and takes a bite. “It’s good,” he says, putting the fork down and going to the cupboard for plates. “I didn’t think you’d be so calm about it tonight, to be honest.”
“Is that why you’re cooking? To make me feel better?”
He walks over to the small kitchenette table next to the living room and sets the plates down. “Maybe a little. I guess. But mostly because I got it out of Quin that your family never celebrated Christmas.” He stops to shoot me a pretend glare. “I owe him something big for that secret, I hope you know that.”
“Then why didn’t you just let it go?” I ask, chewing on my breadstick. “Is this homemade?”
Smith glares at me again and I can’t stop the chuckle that escapes.
“I mean”—he continues his thought—“even I had a Christmas every year. And since Quin beat me to a tree, I figured I’d go for food.” He comes back into the kitchen and grabs the silverware and some white linen napkins, folded into the envelope design, like at the Club.
“Did you bring… fancy napkins from the Club?”
“You don’t have any,” he says, like this explains everything. “How could a woman with your breeding not have linen napkins? How can I possibly write you a Christmas Eve Eve message on a paper towel?”
Oh, shit. He’s really trying to make me happy tonight. A message on a napkin. I take a moment to think about his other messages so far. The first one had his number on it. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, it said. And the poem on the second one. The one about going into the dark without a light.
“What else do people do on Christmas Eve Eve?” I ask.
“Not much. My big plans are for tomorrow. We have a party to go to, Chella.”
“Oh, now your name is Bric.”
“Not that kind of party,” he says, shooting me a sidelong look. “The fun kind. At the Club.”
“Hmmm,” I say, thinking that over. “Saturday night at the Club sounds dangerous.”
“I’m not telling you anything else. It’s a surprise.”
“And Bric and Quin know about this?”
“They do,” he says.
“And they’re OK with me being there for a Saturday night party?”
He winks at me. “You’re a fun girl, Marcella. Why wouldn’t they be OK with it?”
“Hmm,” I say again. “Now you’ve got me curious. What kind of fun times are we talking about?”
“No clues,” he says. “It’s a surprise.” He grabs a bottle of champagne from the counter and pops the cork, then fills two glasses. He hands me one and raises his—seemingly at a loss for words.
“What should we toast to?” I ask to break the silence. He’s just staring at me with a look I can’t describe. Thoughtful? Confused? I’m not sure.
“To us,” he says. “We should toast to us.”
“You know, this relationship I have with you is coming dangerously close to dating.”
“Aren’t we dating?” he asks.
“Are we dating?” My eyebrows shoot up my forehead.
“We’re living together.”
“Are we?”
We both laugh.
“I guess it’s a little confusing, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Is it?”
“You’re full of questions tonight, Marcella.”
“You’re full of surprises, Smith.”
He takes my arm and leads me over to the table, setting both our glasses down before pulling out my chair. “The food’s getting cold.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I say, taking my seat and letting him push in my chair. “You have nice manners, Mr. Baldwin.”
“Don’t look at your napkin yet. Let me sit first. So I can enjoy it.” He goes back for the casserole dish and places it on the table, then serves me a heaping spoonful.
I really don’t know what to make of this version of Smith Baldwin.
“OK,” he says. “You can look now.”
I get a little nervous as I open up the napkin flap. In black marker it says, What will it take?
I look at him. Back down at his message. Then at him again. “What will what take?” I ask.
“To make your dream come true.”
I sigh. “I already told Bric. I don’t know what my dream is.”
“How could you not know what you want out of life? You’re thirty years old. Surely you’ve felt disappointment and wanted more.”
“Of course,” I say, tasting his food. “Mmmm. This is good, Smith. You should have dinner waiting for me every night when I get home from work.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about. Is that what you want?”
“It was a sexist joke.” I laugh. “Role reversal and all that good shit?”
“But is it something you want?”
“A house husband? No. I can honestly say I’ve never wished for a house husband. The cleaning only turns me on if you never do it, then decide to do it to make me happy.” I wink at him, but he’s got a very serious look on his face. “What?”
“Do you see yourself with… a family?”
I just stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t think my question was cryptic.”
“Who would I want a family with?” I ask. He’s about to answer but I put up my hand. “No, wait. You asked, so I guess you’re really interested. I’ll answer you. The person I’m having a family with is the only thing that matters.”
“So you’d like to fall in love?”
“Of course,” I say, laughing. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He takes a sip of his champagne and then sets his glass down before answering. “I think most people would. At least when they’re young. I can imagine you get to an age where you don’t care anymore. But I don’t think thirty is that age.” He looks at me for a second. “I don’t think thirty-six is that age either.”
“You’re thirty-six,” I say.
“I know. I still want to find love.”
“I can’t picture you in love.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “This is a pretty intense conversation for Christmas Eve Eve, isn’t it?”
“You wouldn’t know, would you? You’ve never had a Christmas Eve Eve dinner before. Maybe this is what everyone does?”
“Or maybe you’re just being weird. Are we dating?”
“Are we?”
“Smith, stop it. If you’ve got something to say—”
“I do have something to say.”
“Then say it.” I’m kind of annoyed right now and I’m actually feeling bad for being annoyed, because he planned a night of lady porn for me while I was at work.
“Why are you here, Chella?”
“I live here. Why are you here, Smith?”
“I like you.”
I just blink at him.
“What will it take, Chella? What will it take to make you forget about Quin and Bric and just take me a for a spin?”
“So you do want to date me? For real? And I should walk away from Quin and Bric? And the whole thing? The entire arrangement? Are you… jealous?”
“No,” he says. “And that’s the honest truth. Quin doesn’t want you.”
“Hey—”
“I don’t mean it that way. He likes you, but he wants Rochelle. You’re just a stand-in. And Bric… well, you’re definitely not Bric’s type.”
“What is Bric’s type?”
“Dirty whores, mostly.”
I laugh. Like kinda loud. “I think I fit that description, actually.”
“You do not. Bric likes desperate girls. Ones who need that dream he’s offering. You’re not her. You don’t need anything from us, and yet… here you are. Just tell me why you’re here.”
“I… don’t know what to say.”
“Try the truth.”
We stare at each other in silence.
“Why is it so hard for you?”
I take in a deep breath and let it out. “It’s a very personal thing. I like you a lot. I would date you. And you’re right about Bric and Quin, we’re not soul mates or anything. But I like them. And I’m with all three of you right now.”
“So you want it to stay that way?”
“Not forever. Not even for much longer, probably. But for now. I want this to stay the same for right now.”
“Why? Why did you go up to Rochelle’s room that night? Why did you allow Quin to sleep with you?”
I have nothing to say to that. So I stay silent.
“Rochelle came for money and a place to live. Quin thinks she was homeless before she met us. She needed her dream fulfilled. But you don’t.”
“How do you know I don’t? Maybe this is my dream? Did you ever ask yourself that?”
“Is it your dream?”
“Obviously I’m interested in what you guys are offering. I think we can agree on that just by looking at all the things I’ve agreed to in the recent weeks. But no, it’s not my dream.”
“Then what will it take?”
I put my fork down and sigh. “Can you ask me this again next week?”
“You do know that they’re both at the club right now picking out the girl they’ll fuck tonight, right?”
“Why are you telling me this? To make me jealous? I’m not jealous. I don’t care what they do when they’re not with me. On Sunday night at midnight Quin will show up in my apartment and we’ll have fun. Tuesday night at midnight Bric will call me and say nice things.”
“And what will I do Thursday night at midnight?”
“Nothing,” I say. “You don’t bother with me at midnight.”
“Because I can’t touch you without Bric.”
“I’m not the one who gave you that rule.”
“But you’re OK with it?”
“I don’t think this is what people do on Christmas Eve Eve.”
“You’d be wrong. The holidays are the perfect time for family fights.”
“Family—” I laugh. “Come on, Smith. I’ve known you what, a month? If that?”
“What will it take,” Smith says, his voice rising, “to change your mind and make you want to just be with me?”
“To change my mind about the arrangement? Nothing, Smith. Nothing you can say or do will change my mind about this arrangement.”
“So you want all four of us to be together.”
“Yes,” I say, tired of talking about this. “Yes, I do. I want it. And I’m going to ask for it when Quin comes over Sunday night.”
He just stares at me. The seconds tick off and then… “OK. Then what? Once you get that, then what? You’ll stay?”
“I might. I don’t know yet.”
“You’re lying, Chella.”
I huff out a breath of air, then grab my napkin off my lap and toss it on the table. “I’m done,” I say, getting up from my chair.
Smith stands as well. “Just tell me what you’re doing and I’ll back off. But I don’t like being manipulated.”
I throw up my hands. “How am I manipulating you?”
“I don’t know, but you are. Quin and Bric are happy to forget how we found you. They don’t care about you, Chella. That’s why they’re OK with letting it go. But I actually like you. And I know you’re lying to me about something. So what is it?”
I want to tell him, I really do. Because I like him back. A lot. But I can’t tell him now. Not yet. Not when I’m so close to what I came for. “I got you a Christmas present,” I blurt, desperate to change the subject. I know it won’t work, but I try it anyway.
His frown eases a little and then he smiles. “What did you get me?”
I sigh out a long breath of relief. Thankful. “It’s pretty special, but I can’t give it to you yet. I have to save it a little longer. It’s a present for later, Smith. Something more meaningful than I want to share with you now.”
“Because you’re not done with Bric and Quin?” His words are angry at first. “And you have to finish that before you can start something new?” But they are soft by the time he’s done.
I nod. “Yes. That’s exactly it. I have to finish what I started and then I have a gift for you. So I hope you can wait a little longer.”
He walks around the table and stands in front of me. I can tell he wants to touch me. Maybe very badly. But he stuffs his hands in his pockets, like he usually does when he needs to control his urges around me. The rules, it seems, are meaningful to him. “I can wait.”
“Good. I’m glad. I really am.”
“Did you get Bric and Quin a gift?”
“Yes,” I say. “But it’s not the same.”
His eyes go sad for a moment. “How are they different?”
“They just are. Can we please talk about this next week?”
He thinks about my request for a few moments. Trying to read between the lines, I bet. And he must kind of get it, even though I know he has no clue what’s really happening. Because he says, “Sure. I can wait. And besides, I got you a present too. And I don’t want to wait, so I’m gonna give it to you now.”
He walks away, goes up the stairs to the second floor, and disappears inside his bedroom.
I grab both our glasses of champagne and refill them to give myself something to do.
When he comes back he’s all smiles and he’s got his hands behind his back. He motions to me with his head. “Over here. In front of the fireplace.”
The fireplace is double-sided and separates the living and dining rooms. He walks over to the polished marble hearth seat on the living room side and motions with his head again. “Sit here.”
I have no idea what to expect right now. But I walk over and sit, placing our glasses of champagne on the seat next to me. He sits too, and then brings out a turquoise blue box with a white ribbon tied around it.
I smile. “Tiffany’s?”
“Women go crazy for Tiffany boxes, right?”
“We do.” I laugh. “Even girls like me.”
“Well, don't jump to conclusions,” he says. “It’s more than it seems.” He hands it to me and I take it. It’s not a ring box, it’s bigger than that. About eight inches square. And it’s very light. “Open it,” he says.
I pull on the white satin ribbon and let it fall into my lap, then lift the lid off the box.
It’s empty.
I furrow my brows and look at him expectantly.
“It’s not empty,” he says.
I look again. But yes, it is.
“It’s filled with everything, Chella. Every possibility. You can put whatever you want in that box. It doesn’t even need to fit inside, it will still count. Whatever you want.”
I look at him and… have a small revelation. Just like I did last night.
“I’ll get it for you. I asked you what it would take to make you forget Bric and Quin. And I mean it. Whatever it takes. I can put it in there for you. To some people life is about survival. I’ve been there. Not by birth, I had to find that part of living by myself. And I’m betting you’ve been there too. I don’t know how, or when, or why—since your family is obviously wealthy. But I have a feeling you’ve been in survival mode before. But life isn’t really about survival. It’s about living. It’s about meeting people, and going places, and feeling things you don’t normally get a chance to meet, or see, or feel. It’s about being aware of what you’re doing, and why. It’s about opportunities and possibilities. It’s about experiences, Chella. So my gift to you is whatever you want. Put whatever you want in that box, and it’s yours. Courtesy of me.”
“The dream?” I ask.
But he shakes his head. “No, it’s not about the dream. It’s about the want. The longing, Chella. You remember the longing?”
“The book?” I ask, still slightly confused.
“The message inside the book. Longing. A yearning desire. A burning ache in the heart. Something you hunger for. Thirst for. Something you want so bad, it’s killing you slowly not to have it. That’s what goes in the box. And I realize the box is small and these things feel big, but they have no boundaries. They are ethereal. Like a mist or a spray. Or that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know you lost something and can’t get it back. I will give you that, Chella. I will fill in the deep, dark hole you’re so desperate to cover up with whatever it is you’re doing here with us, and I will make your longing go away. That’s my present.”