Chapter 3

Sierra

OKAY, I HAD everything — toothbrush, make-up, clothes, shoes (both sensible and ridiculous), a book (sensibly ridiculous)… what was I forgetting?

Shit. A hairy body brushed up against my leg and I remembered — the dog.

I knelt down to give Ginger a pet on her scrunchy little forehead. She was a black Frenchie, and though perfectly portable on flights, not welcome to board this one.

“Sorry,” I murmured as I scratched under her ears. “You’re not coming. But you’re gonna have so much fun with your Aunt Florence.”

If she’s available and doesn’t hate me for giving her zero notice, I added mentally.

I typed out a quick, pleading message to Flo, explaining that I was going out of town and could she please please watch Ginger? Flo, my best friend and informal dog sitter, was always happy to spend time with Ginger. Who wouldn’t be? Flo took her compensation in cuddles, face licks and helping to finish off any half-empty bottles of white in the fridge.

My phone buzzed.

Sure, she’d texted back.

Phew. I placed my hand over my racing heart, and took a breath. It had been a long time since I had gone away for even the night.

“Okay, Sierra,” I muttered to myself. “Now that you’re done leaving your head in a different room than your body, you all set?”

One more scan of my luggage confirmed that I was, indeed, set. Generally speaking, it wasn’t a very fun bag. I’d packed for work, not play. Sure, there’d probably be a pool, and fancy dinners, but I was going to represent the company, which meant I had to be fairly conservative in my clothing choices. Or just choices in general. “Family values,” and all that. I’d have to summer in the Hamptons with my girlfriends some other time. For now, I settled on throwing a cute set of lingerie into the bag, as a little pick-me-up treat for myself — not like anyone else would be seeing it. Sometimes, a girl’s gotta splurge on a bit of lace.

I arrived at the airport an hour later. On the cab ride over, my nerves about the trip itself had died down and my anxiety about the actual presentation had ratcheted up. It was mostly finished, but there were still a few things that wanted fixing.

As my cab pulled up to the curb, I spotted Joe and his wife Amy and gave them a friendly wave. Joe nodded back, but Amy waved her hand energetically — she’d always been the nicer of the two, the sweet to his sour. They balanced each other out well, I’ll give them that, though I did wish Joe could pick up just a smidge of his wife’s cheery disposition.

“You need help with your bag?” Joe asked as I opened the door.

I began to say “no, thank you” but he was already popping the trunk and grabbing it, and before I could say anything, Amy was grabbing me.

“Hi, sugar,” she said, her large, warm arms enveloping me. “Been a minute since we chatted.”

“I know!” I replied. “But hey, we’ve got a whole weekend to catch up.”

She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows, revealing the blue eyeshadow smudged thickly across her lids, and replied, “Sure, if Joe doesn’t steal you away the whole time.”

Laughing, I said, “How about you pass that on to your husband?”

Her eyes twinkled with mirth. “Why, funny you should say it, I already have.”

She linked her arm into mine as Joe added my bag to his luggage cart, and we strode into the airport together.

The plane ride passed smoothly. Amy and I shared some pretzels and a trashy magazine, and that was about all we had time to do before we were back on solid ground. I grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment and we made our way out of the terminal.

“Should I hail a cab?” I asked Joe and Amy, gesturing towards the line of bright yellow cars that stood in a semblance of a line.

Joe shook his head. “Actually, I think Charles sent someone over.”

Surprised, I replied, “Like, a car?”

He shrugged. “Guess so.”

He was just about to add something else when a man in a black suit standing a few yard away flagged us down with the brisk wave of a hand and a sign that read ‘Pillers.’ Ah — the mysterious driver.

“Hello,” the be-suited man said. “The limo is parked just around the corner.”

“Limo?!” I yelped.

“Is that a problem?” the man asked, concern setting into his wrinkles. “Because I can—”

“No, no,” I clarified quickly. “That’s the opposite of a problem.”

“Excellent. Follow me.”

The driver, as promised, led us around a corner to where a large, black stretch limo was idling.

I pulled Amy close to my side and whispered, “Honey, this weekend may be fun after all.”

She giggled, and we clambered in to the limo, our limbs sprawling as we tried to shift on the long leather seats. Sure, a limo’s a little flashy — I could already see my dad shaking his head — but I can appreciate luxury.

We poured ourselves glasses of cool water from the built-in bar and settled back for a short ride.

Suburban developments flew by past the window, large swaths of land devoted to nothing but the stale American dream. I was surprised to feel a sudden pang of yearning in my chest for the backwoods of the South, the Spanish moss that dominated everything in sight, the fireflies that would gladly rest in the lip of your mason jar. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home. This, Jacksonville? Felt like it belonged on The Bachelor — it was all manufactured within an inch of its life.

I was too busy disdainfully considering the surroundings to realize that we’d pulled to a stop.

“Sierra,” Amy gasped. “Look.”

She rolled down the tinted window and pointed a manicured finger at the house.

Or rather, the mansion.

This thing wasn’t a house. It was a behemoth that looked to be about the size of a football field, maybe larger, and stretched beyond what I could see with just my two blue peepers. The place — I don’t think even ‘mansion’ suits it, so I’ll settle with ‘palace’ — appeared to be done up in the style of Versailles — heavily washed cream bricks, a long, winding, gravel driveway, a heap of windows to let the light in. It had been incongruously plucked out of the French countryside and dropped on the coast of Florida.

“What the hell?” I breathed, at a loss for words.

Joe gave it a quick glance and tried his best to look unimpressed. Bless his heart. It must be hard, being a man and pretending like you don’t give a rat’s ass about anything. Amy, meanwhile, was over the moon, clapping her hands together and jumping around in her set, causing it to squeak.

“Can you believe it?” she cried. “Isn’t it just the height of romance?”

I nodded. It would be romantic — if I wasn’t here on a business trip with my entire company, on which the fate of my employment hung in the balance. Under these circumstances, it was hard to find the joie de vivre in anything, even a fabulous home that was almost submerged in a maze of rose gardens.

“All right, all right,” Joe interrupted, perhaps feeling inadequate in the shadow of such wealth. “Enough cooing, let’s get a move on.”

He threw open the door and we unfolded from the car, stretching our legs in the humid air.

The driver managed to heft all three of our bags and instruct us to follow his lead.

We were guided through the aforementioned rose bushes, which would put Sleeping Beauty’s castle to shame, and around a small lake with lily pads and a marble fountain, which spurted water from the mouths of tiny stone fish. After a good five-minute walk, we at last arrived at the front door, a massive number that looked like it wanted a drawbridge. The doors, some fifteen feet high each with massive brass handles, swung open at the touch of the driver’s key.

We entered, Joe with feigned comfort and Amy and I with obvious trepidation.

“Can you believe this?” she whispered.

I shook my head. “I’d think it was a dream but my dreams don’t usually include Joe.”

She giggled and replied, “Good.” She lowered her voice, and added conspiratorially, “By the by, your ‘partner’ will be here shortly. I’m not sure who it is, but Joe said to remind you to play it cool. You’re supposed to have been with this guy for a couple of years.”

Nodding, I replied, “Got it. I know how to put on a show.”

Amy grinned and opened her mouth to reply when she was interrupted by a bellow.

“Oh, excellent,” a voice called out from the foyer. “Come in.”

I turned my neck to follow the sound and saw at the top of the grand stairs a tall, thickly built man, maybe in his mid-seventies, with white hair, a white beard and white suit accented in bursts of yellow — a yellow watch, yellow loafers and yellow belt. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a refined, extravagant Colonel Sanders. I knew from my sleuthing that this must be Charles Forsyth III.

“Greetings,” he thundered, his voice resonating in the cavernous space. He stood next to a painting of a young woman in eighteenth-century clothing on a swing, mid-flight, her shoe sailing through the air as she gazed at a man below her. I had no doubt it was authentic.

“Hey,” Joe replied, business-like but not obsequious. “We’re here from Pillers.”

“I know who you are,” he grinned. “I’m Charles — pleasure to meet you at last.”

Joe nodded. “Pleasure is ours.”

“Would you like to get settled in?” he asked, his fingers coming to rest on an iron balustrade.

“Yes, please,” I interjected. Joe shot me a look but Charles smiled breezily.

“Excellent.”

He strode down the stairs, his loafers moving soundlessly across their marble tops, and arrived in front of us at the bottom. Now that he was on our level, I could see that my original impression of him being tall was accurate — he must’ve been at least six-seven, perhaps taller. What an unusual man, I thought. Or, as my mother would say, ‘a character.’

“Mordecai,” he said, turning to the driver, “show these kind people to their rooms.”

“At once, sir,” Mordecai replied with a sharp, military click of his shiny heels. To us:

“Follow me, please.”

No sooner had we met Charles than we were being whisked away into the belly of the house by the driver — Mordecai, apparently. The halls were lined with flowing velvet curtains, vast mirrors and intricately carved tiles that looked to be pilfered from ancient Italian churches. The majesty of it all made my head swim.

“Every one of your party has their own room,” Mordecai explained as we whirled around one corner after another.

“Oh that’s not necessary,” Amy began, “my husband and I—”

“The master prefers if each person stays in their own room,” he continued. “He believes it makes people more… efficient.”

I wrinkled my forehead at this, but didn’t question it further. Nobody got that wealthy without some crazy ideas about productivity and Charles struck me as the type of man who was old-fashioned in some ways. All the better for you, my inner voice prodded. That means you won’t have to share a room with whatever lollygagger Joe’s arranged for you.

My brain had made a good point, so I kept my objects about Charles’ preferences to myself.

Mordecai deposited Joe and Amy at their rooms before at last taking me to mine.

“Here you are, miss,” he said, stiffly opening my door. “Please ring the tasseled bell beside the fireplace if you should require any assistance.”

With that, he offered me a stiff bow, laid my bag at my feet and disappeared down the hallway.

The room, in keeping with the rest of the house, was the height of glamour. The king bed was covered in a four-poster canopy, and the carpet was so thick my heels sunk into it. There was a gorgeous writing desk on spindly wooden legs, and a black lacquer tray covered in an array of waters and sweets. It was, without a doubt, the most fabulous place I’d ever set foot in. The fireplace was marble and longer than my laminated kitchen counter. I certainly wasn’t in Fort Myers anymore.

But there was no time to fantasize about the artwork that covered the walls — there was just enough time to unpack and get changed before hors d’oeuvres, which Mordecai had informed us would be served at five o’clock sharp. I guess that, despite his hardiness, Charles was still technically an old person on an old person’s schedule. I carefully hung my clothes and laid out my toiletries, arranging everything just so before selecting a simple red sheath dress. As I zipped it onto myself, I admired how it clung to my every curve perfectly. It had a modest neckline and hem, but the way it hugged me was positively sinful.

I threw on some hoop earrings, ran a brush through my hair, and swiped on a fresh coat of mascara before slipping into a pair of black stilettos.

My phone buzz. It was a text from Amy, saying, Come downstairs. Your date’s here. He’s HOT. I’ll point him to you when you get down here.

I laughed aloud. Maybe Jacksonville wouldn’t be half bad. I gave myself a final once-over in the enormous mirror trimmed in wooden rosebuds.

“Not too half bad yourself,” I said to my reflection.

With that, I grabbed my evening purse and phone and left the room, shutting the large oak door behind me and hoping that I’d be able to find my way back through the labyrinth of corridors later that night with a couple of drinks under my belt.

I followed the sound of clinking glasses and tinkling laughter down a flight of stairs and past several rooms before arriving in a grand ballroom. Candles illuminated the space and cast my colleagues in a flattering pallor. I realized that Pillers had pulled out all the stops — half the company, well over a dozen other people, and their significant others, most of whom I am sure Tom and Joe did not have to “set up,” had made the trip to Jacksonville just for this pitch. Most I didn’t recognize — I assumed they were from Tampa — but everyone waved at me in welcome.

Maybe this would be a good chance to network with everyone, get to know one another — like a company retreat but with a really hard, high stakes team-building challenge at the end.

From across the room I spotted a mirrored end table boasting a pyramid of Champagne glasses. Perfect.

I made my way to the pyramid, the clacking of my shoes drowned out by strings of Beethoven being piped in from unseen speakers. The chandeliers overhead sparkled dizzyingly and I breathed deeply to remind myself that my nerves were going to be a-okay.

Stopping in front of the pyramid, I reached for the topmost glass, my fingers encircling the stem. That was when I felt a large, masculine hand fall on my shoulder. It must be my date, I thought with a twinge of interest.

Turning slowly, glass in tow, I began to say, “Hi there, I’m—”

And then I saw the eyes.

That’s when I almost threw my Champagne right in his stupid face.