CHAPTER TWO
For almost a minute I contemplated that the whole thing might be some sort of prank. Here I was standing on a curb waiting for a car without a clue what to look for, driven by a stranger, to an unidentified place for an unidentified purpose, all while being videoed for future TV airing and humiliation. My voluntary participation in this madness was sounding crazy even to myself.
My head turned to the left just as the Bentley turned the corner my way. It wasn’t just me. Every other head on the street turned to look at the car. It was a thing of beauty, a deeply polished bronze color with chrome trim. It pulled to a stop in front of me and the driver got out. She was a cute, perky redhead with natural carrot-colored hair partially covered by a chauffeur’s cap. The rest of her uniform consisted of a white tank top, black jacket, black leggings and black ballet slippers.
She bounced around to my side of the car with a megawatt smile. “Mr. Draiocht, I presume?”
I smiled. “Call me Will.”
“Against the rules, Mr. Draiocht,” she said as she opened the door to the back seat. “I’m Chatsworth.”
“Good name for a chauffeur.”
As Chatsworth closed the door and went around the car, my fingers ran over the mocha-colored leather. Let me just say that I’d never been able to shop in a store that sold jackets made with that quality of leather. It was buttery smooth, supple to the touch and I was thinking that I would have no trouble giving up acting and bartending for a life that included rides like that.
When she pulled away, I said, “Where are we headed?”
“Malibu.”
“Malibu! On a Friday night? I hope you have snacks and a full tank because that’s going to take hours.”
She giggled. “We’ll see. I have some waters and wine coolers on ice. Are you hungry now?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Please let me know if you change your mind. Would you like to listen to music? Eagles maybe?”
I watched her glance at me in the rearview mirror. What kind of spooky guess was that? Nobody my age listened to Eagles. But it just so happened that I did. They formed a bridge between the country my family listened to and the pop most women gravitated to.
“How did you know I like The Eagles?”
She smiled. “Hey. It’s a beautiful California evening. What could be more perfect for a drive from Hollywood out to Malibu?”
Well, she had me there. Nothing could possibly be more perfect than that. “Yes. I would love to listen to Eagles on the way. So, how long have you been driving for this, um, outfit?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Draiocht. I’m not allowed to talk about myself. I will, however, listen if you would like to talk about you.”
I laughed. “Eagles it is,” I said.
I would have expected the usual stop-and-go gridlock because we were on the road at the busiest traffic moment of the week, and you’ve seen the L.A. freeways in the movies and on TV, right? But we sped through town, hit all the lights and turned onto Pacific Coast Highway One at Santa Monica. It was nice gliding along next to the water, listening to The Eagles. It was so nice that, when we pulled through a gate onto the circular drive of a house tucked back in the Malibu Hills, I couldn’t have begun to tell you how we got there. Either I’d been lost in thought or enchanted by music.
The most miraculous thing was that it was not yet seven thirty when the car pulled up to the grand entrance of a structure that looked more like a palace than a home. It was impossible that the drive could have been made in that time. And yet it had.
“Here we are,” she said as the engine went silent.
I waited for her to come around to my door. If she wanted to play the role to the hilt, I wasn’t going to be a barrier to performance. She opened my door and, as I was getting out of the car, one of the two massive doors opened. A guy who looked way too much like Lurch from the Addams Family came out and stood on the landing, apparently waiting for me. The fact that the entrance was up six steps made him appear even taller than his sock-feet seven foot height.
I turned to the little redhead. “It was a pleasure, Chatsworth.”
“Likewise, Mr. Draiocht,” she smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be admitted to the Orientation, but I’ll wait just in case.”
I took that as reassurance that I was not about to be dinner, although the lyrics of “Hotel California” were suddenly at the forefront of my mind.
Sensing my reticence, Lurch gestured toward the entry and said, “This way Mr. Draiocht.”
I went ahead and stopped a few feet inside, awaiting instructions. The foyer was every bit as palatial as I’d suspected, given the price-per-square-inch of the property the house was sitting upon. I didn’t have time to take everything in before Lurch said, “Please wait in here.”
He’d shown me into a small comfortable-looking office behind French doors to the right. Nothing sinister-looking. I stepped in, took a seat in front of the desk, and waited, but not for long.
In less than a minute a sleek-looking, raven-haired beauty click-clacked in on thin high heels, wearing a black figure-hugging suit and a white silk blouse. She even wore her hair pulled back into a bun, the slight concession to modernity being that it was more or less messy. The outfit would have met the corporate manual for women using battering rams against the glass ceiling if not for the smoky eyes and the siren-red lipstick.
I’m sure she saw me take her in head to toe even though I made half an effort to do it surreptitiously. I would definitely do her. I was imagining pulling out that spike holding her hair in place and loosening that tight-fitted jacket. The chest she was hiding was very promising and clearly in need of being freed from restrictive clothing.
That fantasy dissolved when she said, “Mr. Draiocht?”
I jerked my gaze from her chest to her eyes and said, “Yes. That’s me.”
She smiled, sat down, took the paperclip off the stack of pages she’d brought with her and began leafing through them. She glanced at me a couple of times as she was scanning, eyes moving fast, but kept her eyes to the paper when she asked her first question.
“I see you’ve been seeking work as an actor.”
I cleared my throat and sat up a little straighter. “That’s right. Seeking being the operative word.”
“No luck?” Keeping her head down in reading position, she looked up at me from under her eyelashes.
I gave her my best smile, hoping to look like I didn’t care. “No,” I shook my head.
She nodded. “If you’re not admitted to Orientation tonight, what’s your plan?”
The guy on the phone told me I couldn’t prepare, and I wasn’t prepared for that question. So I stalled.
“I didn’t get your name?”
She gave me a smile that broadcast that I’d been caught stalling. “Ms. Blackwell.”
“I’ve been moving in one direction for ten years and only decided yesterday that I’m done. I haven’t really had time to contemplate what’s next.”
“I like honest answers. Actors have a tendency to improvise on the spot. It’s always easiest on everybody to just tell the truth.”
“Well, I’m glad you feel that way because, honestly, I don’t know why I’m here.”
She graced me with the same brilliant smile I’d been given when she entered. I’d call it the first-impression smile. “I’m sure you think that’s unusual, but it’s far more common than not. We don’t recruit, you see. We simply let the right people find us.”
I nodded as if I’d just absorbed something profound, even though I knew nothing more than I had prior to stating that I didn’t know why I was there.
“Would you like something to drink while we’re finishing up?”
“No. Thank you. I’m fine.”
“Very well. I see here that you’re from Alabama, but your speech doesn’t give any hint of that.”
I shrugged. “I’ve spent the last ten years and a truckload of money working on getting rid of any hint of that.”
“Well, it worked. If I wasn’t reading your file, I would have guessed Illinois.”
“Yeah, well, speaking of that file…”
“You’ve made it as far as the foyer office, Mr. Draiocht. Trust me, that’s a little bit of an accomplishment all in itself. It’s not a guarantee of admission to the Orientation, but only a handful of young men in the area get this far.”
My lips parted, ready to give voice to the appropriate response, whenever it came to mind. Unfortunately that response never gelled in my head. She went on.
“What do you like to do with your free time?”
That was easy and the answer wasn’t especially incriminating so I didn’t hesitate. “Read.”
“Hmmm. What do you like to read?”
“Non-fiction.”
She set the papers down and focused a laser-intensive look on my face that made me want to squirm in my chair.
“Are you being evasive?”
“Not at all. Most people are either not really interested in what I read or don’t know what it is when I tell them.”
Her smile and affable manner was gone. She was all business. “I’m not most people, Mr. Draiocht.”
Of course I’d already known that, but the way she said ‘most people’ made it sound like that was the worst thing someone could be.
“No offense intended. I read books about mythology and all kinds of metaphysical theory. Sometimes paranormal research catches my eye.”
Her assessing manner remained firm, but a small smile reappeared. “So you’re still interested in the subjects you studied in school.”
“Yes.”
“If you had no worries, unlimited resources, and lots of free time, is that what you would do with your life? Read?”
“Unlimited resources and lots of free time?”
“Yes.”
“It sounds like one of those ‘what if a genie offered you three wishes’ questions. I’ve never indulged in that kind of fantasy before.”
“You strike me as the sort who can process quickly.”
It was clear she was waiting for an answer and just as clear that, if I wanted to move on in the process, I needed to give one.
“Yes. I would like to delve into things I’ve never had time to study.”
“See. That wasn’t so hard.”
“Maybe not for someone who hasn’t read a lot about wish-givers and how much trouble the wish-maker can make for themselves by giving the wrong answer.”
She laughed out loud. “I’m not a genie and it wasn’t a trick question.”
“If you say so.”
She nodded and sat back, studying me as if she could penetrate my mind and read my thoughts if she concentrated hard enough.
“Very well, Mr. Draiocht. I’m going to pass you on to Orientation. There will be a brief video presentation during dinner.” When she stood, I stood. She walked around the desk and extended her hand. I took it. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’re in. And best of luck.”
“Thank you.”
With no idea what I was thanking her for, I decided that video and dinner sounded okay so, at that point, there was no reason to not see the thing through.
Following my inquisitor out the door I was again intercepted by Lurch. “This way, Mr. Draiocht.”
At that point I’d been addressed formally so many times that I was beginning to think I might get used to being called Mr. Draiocht.
He led me down the grand hallway, which was twelve feet wide and lined with art that looked both medieval and expensive. Lots of depictions of banquets and bacchanalia. The collector was clearly fond of food and wine. Possibly sex as well.
Stopping before another set of French doors, Lurch turned to me and gestured toward a room with no windows, but lots of ambiance including gas-lit wall sconces. “This way, Mr. Draiocht. Sit anywhere you like. Anywhere that’s available, that is.”
Nodding toward him, I took in the room. The ceiling was coffered. The walls were lined with polished blocked rosewood. The wood floor was wide distressed planks mostly hidden by a luxuriously thick and intricately designed carpet in tones of sage and red, more Venetian than Oriental. The art featured curling branches with delicate leaves and would have been worth a longer look if not for the fact that I was taking in the rest of the setup.
The table was arranged in a u-shape and set for five people with the most elegant linen, table, and glassware I’d ever seen. My mother would have gone nuts. No doubt about it. I was tempted to take out my phone, grab a photo and send it to her, but concluded that behavior might disqualify me for whatever I was competing for. If that statement sounds ridiculous to you, it’s not just you. I think it’s ridiculous, too. It’s also the real reason why I didn’t do it; because she would ask me where I was and what I was doing. Then what would I say?
I might also have to explain the four other guys standing around holding crystal brandy or whiskey tumblers, looking sexy and elegant enough for a Ralph Lauren ad. A little roughing up and anyone of them would be hired by Guess or Abercrombie in a heartbeat.
Yes. I noticed they had cover-model looks. When guys say they don’t evaluate the way other guys look, they’re lying pure and simple. Knowing somebody is pretty doesn’t mean you want to fuck ‘em.
So my eyes scanned the guys who seemed to be chatting amiably in a loose huddle. Their posture was a study in relaxed posing, the old one-hand-in-pocket sort of thing. They returned the favor and gave me a thorough look-over. I wouldn’t say I read forthright hostility on their faces, but they didn’t seem eager to welcome the new kid in town.
Movement caught my eye and I turned in time to see the back wall open where I hadn’t noticed there was a door before. Someone dressed like a waiter came toward me with a smile. “Would you care for an aperitif, Mr. Draiocht?”
“Sure,” I said. “What ya’ got?”
He smiled at my deliberately casual answer. “Let’s just say it would be hard for you to name something we don’t have.”
I laughed at that. I wasn’t a bartender for nothing. “A Commonwealth?”
The waiter raised an eyebrow but smiled in a self-satisfied way. “No problem.”
“No problem?” I asked with a good dose of incredulity. “How about a Rum Martinez?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Your choice,” he said, “although I would recommend the Commonwealth before dinner and the Rum Martinez after.”
“Hmm. What’s your name?”
The man looked like no one had ever asked and for a moment I thought he’d been struck dumb. He looked as if he was debating whether or not to give it. “Bartolo, sir.”
“Bartolo?” I laughed. “A perfect name for a master of the bar.” He grinned. “Well, Bartolo, your advice is well-received. I will try your Commonwealth before dinner and look forward to a Rum Martinez after.”
“Very good, Mr. Draiocht.” With a small nod, he disappeared behind a chunk of blocked paneling that, apparently, swung in and out seamlessly. Nice.
I walked over to the four other diners, who had stopped talking to each other. “So do you think the room has audio or video surveillance or both?” I asked the group at large.
The four of them immediately began looking around nervously, searching for signs of technology, as if it hadn’t occurred to them that they were being observed. And maybe it hadn’t.
“Just kidding,” I said. “Name’s Will.”
The guy nearest me stuck out his hand and I shook it. “I’m Harper,” he said. “You really think they’ve been recording everything we’ve said?” He had the look of a blue blood descendant who’d been raised on a Malibu surfboard without a care in the world. He was tan, with blond highlights that didn’t look salon-generated, and hair that was unapologetically over-the-collar. He was wearing a soft mauve crew neck tee over slacks with a lightweight sports coat. If he showed up at my bar looking like that, he’d have fifty women wanting to pay good money for a night.
I smiled and shrugged before letting my eyes move on. Robert looked like he’d spent the day on the top floor of a Fortune 500 company. Expensive suit, raw silk tie, definitely no hair touching his collar. His hair barely dared to touch his head.
Charlie was handsome, but he was also a mean-looking son-of-a-gun, whose persona was completely out of step with his fashion sense. He wore pleated khaki pants with crisp ironed seams, a pink button-down with a maroon tie, and flip flops.
Last was Ivan. Ivan was tall, lean, tan, and had a smile kissed by bleach. He wore newish-looking jeans under a coat and tie. On impulse I asked, “What do you do for a living, Ivan?”
“Tennis pro. Bellaire.”
“Sweet,” I said.
I couldn’t imagine how this guy thought life was going to treat him better than that, but I supposed he had his reasons for being there just like the rest of us.
“How about you?” he asked.
“Bartender.”
“Oh.” He smiled. “So that’s what that was about with the drinks.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thought I might as well have some fun with this. Although I don’t really know what this is.” I chuckled, but as I did I saw the others exchange glances. “Oh. So I’m the only one? You all know what you’re doing here.”
Harper opened his mouth to say something, but I’ll never know what it was going to be because Bartolo whisked in.
“Please take your seats, gentlemen. Dinner is about to be served.”
Robert and Charlie headed straight for the chairs on the end. Harper and Ivan took seats next to them. That left me in the middle, at the top of the horseshoe curve, furthest from the screen. But it’s not like I cared. I mean it wasn’t like musical chairs where the last person doesn’t get a seat at the table.
As soon as I, the last to sit down, had taken my chair, the room came alive with wait staff. One person was pouring wine while another set an assorted basket of freshly baked breads while another set out individual saucers of butter pads stamped with the crest that was on the gates, the front doors, and in the grand foyer.
I turned to Ivan and said, “Top drawer. Bet they can’t beat this in Bellaire.”
He smirked like it was just any other day, but said, “Yeah. A guy could get used to this.”
The waiters delivering food drew my attention. It appeared that each of the five of us had his own personal waiter. It also seemed that each of us was getting a different first course.
Robert got Caesar salad. Harper got oysters on the half shell. Charlie got onion soup. Ivan got what appeared to be caramelized mushrooms on watercress. I got coconut shrimp. My favorite.
I turned to Harper. “Is that your favorite?”
“It is. Kind of scary how much they know about us, but in a way it’s relaxing. They already know the good, the bad, and the ugly. And we’re still here.”
“I can see how that could take the pressure off.” I was getting the distinct impression that I was the only one who didn’t know the entire story on why we were here. So I decided to enjoy dinner, watch the presentation and see if I could piece the puzzle together later. I would have felt like a fraud except that I was an actor by profession, which meant that I flitted from one dishonest vignette to another.
The lights dimmed simultaneously as strains of acoustic guitar flowed from what was arguably the best sound system I’d ever heard. I would have sworn they were hiding the actual guitarist behind the wall. Two large squares of block paneling slid to the side with a low whirring noise that was barely noticeable, to expose a giant black glass screen.
The room was just dark enough to make video look good and just light enough to be able to see and appreciate the beauty of dinner. I hadn’t had food like that since I was being courted by my agent.
I popped a jumbo coconut shrimp in my mouth and grabbed the dark roll sitting atop my personal bread basket. As a believer in ‘signs’, I figured the dark roll wanted to be consumed first.
The acoustic guitar faded out and was replaced by sounds of nature as the first image appeared. It was a giant of a man who looked like a fantasy movie Viking, long blonde hair partly braided around his face, with beard scruff that was more red than blonde. He was wearing faded jeans, a black Henley that showed off part of his prominent clavicle, sleeves pushed up to show off muscular forearms, and black biker boots.
He was different from the guys in the room with me, but no less attractive in his own way. Just depends on whether or not giant guys with blonde hair, blue eyes, square jaws, and hard-looking-stomachs do it for you. He was standing in front of an emerald green river with limestone ledges in the background and cypress trees with exposed roots in the foreground.
“Hey,” he said, “I’m Raider.”
Raider? I didn’t find that at all difficult to believe.
“Right now you’re probably thinking this looks too magical to be real,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “but this isn’t even the river’s best day. I’ve seen the water change from emerald green to turquoise on a sunny day and go black as night in a thunder storm. It’s not magic though. It’s Wimberley.”
He began walking slowly along the grassy bank of the river as he talked. “The first Wimberley came here before Texas was even a republic and the family’s been here ever since. Some of us are married to the descendants. Some of us are married to newcomers.” He laughed. “Of course, newcomer might refer to somebody who’s been here for a hundred years.
“So you’re thinking about whether or not you want to enter the competition,” he said, looking directly into the camera. “You’ve probably guessed by now that I’m a past winner. Correction. That was a silly thing to say. Because if you win this competition, you’ve won for life.
“I’ve been where you are.” He grinned. “I got buffalo wildwings with six dipping sauces and two racks of ribs for supper. No matter what you’re feelin’ right now, you couldn’t possibly be feelin’ more out of place than I did.
“So you get the idea. We’re not all the same. Far from it. I’m guessing some of you are having dishes I couldn’t spell or even pronounce. In the end, it’s not so much about who you are as whether or not you’re right for the debutantes. There are two this year.”
As he continued to walk slowly the background scenery changed slightly and every new view seemed to be more enchanting than the last.
“You probably wouldn’t think I’d be a candidate for something like this. I was an outlaw biker who got sucked into that life on a promise of fun, anarchy, and pussy.
“After eight years what I had to show for it was this.” He grabbed the neckline of the knit shirt and tugged it down to reveal an angry-looking red slash across his chest. “Let me tell you, it’s not fun to get shot at or knifed. It’s not anarchy when you have to follow somebody else’s orders twenty-four-seven, right or not, like it or not. And the pussy? Christ. Looking back I can’t believe the nasty cunts I stuck my dick into.
“I wanted out, but there was no walking away. Except for this. Thank the gods for this. It saved my life.
“Now I fish for catfish.” He looked over his shoulder at the river behind him. “They’re some monsters in there. I take ‘em home, somebody else cleans ‘em up, covers ‘em in corn meal like they ought to be, and fries ‘em up.
“I ride my Harley through the hills when I get restless. The Hill Country is the best ride anywhere. Guaranteed to clear your head and make you glad you’re alive. Sometimes I go climbing over at Canyon Lake Gorge. I kayak on the Comal River when we get a flood. If the rapids don’t get your heart goin’ then you’re not alive. My wife doesn’t like it when I do that stuff, but…” he shrugged and grinned, “you know.
“The last part is the best. My wife. I’m not going into that. All I’ll say about it is this. Get your own.
“That’s what you have a chance to do.”
Wait. What?!?
There’re no guarantees. Two weeks from now about fifty guys will show up here in Wimberley with big dreams, but only two will ring the bell and snuff out the candle.”
Ring the bell and snuff out the candle?
“The other forty-eight will go home not remembering what they saw and heard, wondering why the fuck they went to Wimberley of all places.” He chuckled. “It’s better for everybody that way.
“So enjoy your dinner. If you decide to go on to the next step and you pass the test, I’ll see you here. Otherwise, hasta la vista, baby.”
As the image faded, the lights came up slightly and the acoustic guitar music resumed. The wait staff hurried to remove the remains of our first course, replace it with the entrée we all wanted, but didn’t choose, and refill the wine.
Charlie got prime rib. Robert got sea bass. Ivan got lamb lollypops with mint sauce. Harper got lobster. After seeing these expensive delicacies delivered to my peers, I laughed out loud when I was presented with tomato-sauce covered meatloaf. I don’t know how they got my mother’s recipe, but by damn, that was what I wanted more than anything else at that moment in time. I just hadn’t known it until they put it in front of me.
The other guys looked at me and my plate when I laughed out loud. The waiter looked worried. “Is everything alright, Mr. Draiocht?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “It’s beyond perfect.”
As soon as everyone was served, the wait staff withdrew, the guitar music faded, and the screen lit again. This time the camera was focused on a guy returning tennis balls as fast as the ball machine launched them his way. He wore new-style bright tennis clothes and had a red bandana tied on his head. When the ball machine stopped, he jogged over to a mark in front of the camera.
The tennis court was set high on a hill with a two-hundred-seventy-degree view.
“I’m Stefan,” he said with an accent that suggested Eastern European.
The guy looked to be taller than average, but he had a tennis build, strong and wiry. His tan looked like he spent a lot of time on the court and his dark hair and eyes reminded me a little of Rafael Nadal.
“I was a winner seven years ago.” He looked over his shoulder. “I like playing, but I didn’t like the stress or politics of the pro circuit. Now I play for fun and teach kids. You’d have to be a lunatic to ask if I have regrets.”
The camera moved backward as Stefan walked forward. “Is it Camelot here? I guess that depends on what Camelot is to you.” He climbed a set of wide stone steps to another level opening onto an infinity pool with an even more spectacular view. “Everybody has their own idea of what that means.”
As Stefan turned, the camera turned with him so that he was backed by a view of a breathtaking white columned Grecian-style villa, three stories high with flagstone patios, bronze statues of deer, and filmy gauze drapes on the veranda. It was probably the most romantic thing I’d ever seen. What I mean is, I would probably think so if I was a woman.
Stefan’s arm swept behind him to encompass the building. He smiled like the cat who got the canary and said, “But this is pretty good.”
I had to agree with Stefan. The promise of life like that is what turns people to crime.
As Stefan’s smile faded from view, the image was replaced with a set of wide iron gates bearing the same WW crest I’d seen all around the building in which I was presently having dinner.
A female narrator with a velvety, seductive voice said, “This is the entrance to our little colony. Of course access is invitation-only.” As the camera panned up, we saw that there were quite a few white palaces dotting hilltops and hillsides. “Residents are encouraged to pursue whatever interest is at the center of their heart’s desire. While you’re finishing dinner, we’ll give you a taste of local life in Wimberley. It’s not just for us, you know. It’s also an artists’ colony.”
Strains of acoustic guitar returned to create audio backing for a video of galleries. Each showed people viewing paintings or sculptures, conversing with the artists, or negotiating terms for purchase.
It would have been really interesting, an artists’ colony in an area as remote as Wimberley, but the video suggested they draw enough visitors from San Antonio and Austin, or elsewhere, to keep them thriving.
If I was fitting the puzzle pieces together correctly, this was some kind of contest of would-be suitors. The winners would, apparently, spend the rest of their days kept in the lap of luxury by sugar mamas. In exchange for what? Being sex slaves to somebody who had to go to these lengths to find a man? I would say I was about to hit rock bottom, but that would be hard to sell from a hilltop Grecian palace with all the time I wanted to do whatever.
The video faded to black, the lights and music came up a little and the wait staff rushed out to make sure we were treated like kings, removing dinner plates to make room for dessert.
“What else can we get you, Mr. Draiocht? Coffee? Bananas Foster?”
I smiled. At that point it didn’t surprise me that they knew I had a place in my stomach in permanent reserve for the next offer of Bananas Foster. “Now how could I refuse an offer like that?”
My waiter’s brown eyes gleamed. “It will be right out, sir.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
I heard the other ‘contestants’ agreeing to similar offers. All except for Robert who declined while making a rather loud statement about love handles and the evils of sugar. If you’d have asked me which of the four would be that asshole, I would have pointed at him an hour ago and said, “Yep. That’s the one. No question.” He was just wearing that holier-than-thou smarminess like a gooey aura.
While we waited for a selection of the world’s best desserts, three of us were poured coffee from individual silver carafes that were left sitting at our place just in case we wanted self-serve seconds.
The waiter lifted the little pitcher of cream, “Shall I pour, Mr. Draiocht?”
“No. I prefer doctoring my own coffee. Thank you for the brown sugar. Nice touch.”
My waiter looked a little shocked that he was being thanked for condiments. “You’re welcome, sir. Would you care for more?”
I looked from him to the Sterling sugar bowl holding enough brown sugar for six months. “This will do.” I leaned forward, lowered my voice in conspiracy. “And I wouldn’t want to offend the sugar police.”
My waiter, who had apparently heard Robert’s rant, snorted.
After stirring with a dainty demitasse spoon… I know what it is because my mother collects them and hangs them on the wall, I lifted the cup to my lips and took a sip. I barely managed to suppress the kind of moan that comes from getting really, really good head. The coffee was so good I thought I’d been transported to nirvana.
“Oh, man,” I said, turning to Harper. “This coffee is good.”
“Nothing but the best for the witches,” he confirmed.
“You know, I get the feeling that everybody here knows more than I do. I more or less did this on a whim. A guy gave me a mysterious card. Anyway, this is about mail-order husbands or something like that?”
He grinned and shook his head. “It’s more like winning the lottery. You get picked by one of the witches. You’re set for life.”
“Okay. Now when you say witches, what do you…?”
Desserts were being served, mine with some extra flamboyance , heavy on the first syllable since they actually lit it on fire. They did a beautiful job of it, just enough brandy to cause a show without singeing eyebrows off or making torches of tablecloths.
Again the lights went down and the music came up.
We were looking at a guy sitting in a high tech music recording studio that would have put the MIT band, Boston, to shame. He was holding a guitar that even I recognized as a vintage Gibson, fifties Les Paul. I almost whistled because I knew that it would cost more than ten thousand dollars if you could find one for sale. They normally only came up as auction items at charity events for the super-rich.
Anyway the guy was sitting on a stool, in front of a mic. He was what you’d call average-looking. His hair was curling over his ears. He was wearing a bright floral Hawaiian shirt and Buddy Holly glasses.
“I’m Simon,” he said, reaching up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I think they picked me to be in this promo video thing just to show that winners are no particular type. You don’t know what they’re looking for until they pick.
“That should be comforting. Means you can relax.” He looked down at his guitar and strummed a riff almost like it was a nervous habit or like he was used to having the guitar talk for him.
“I’m a songwriter and an introvert, in that order. I’m not interested in going on tour or playing in front of people. I just like writing songs for other people who want that.
“That’s who I’ve been all my life. So what’s the difference between now and before? Now my songs find their way into the hands of stars. They get copyrighted and recorded and appreciated by millions of people.”
He looked down, played a riff, then pushed his glasses up, looked at the camera and said, “So that’s cool. Right?”
Well, yeah, I had to agree with Simon’s assessment. It was cool. What he got was a lot better than a lottery win. He got the world on Simon’s terms.
“If you pass the preliminary test, all you’ve got to lose is a four-day-weekend. You know? So maybe I’ll see you around here.” He played another riff then smiled at the camera shyly. “That’s all I got.”
The lights came up to pre-dinner candlepower, the cabinetry that hid the screen whirred closed, and Ms. Blackwell entered as if on cue.
“As you’ve seen, gentlemen, there’s not a particular type of person who’s more likely to be selected than another. Your destiny is up to, well, destiny. If you choose to move forward, we’ll schedule some testing to be conducted here over the next few days. Those who pass will be invited to Wimberley for a long weekend that could change your life dramatically.
“Which of you would like to move forward?”
The other four raised their hands immediately. I raised my hand reluctantly, but said, “I have a question.”
Blackwell smiled. “Mr. Draiocht. I might have guessed.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I forged ahead. “Is there something binding in an agreement to ‘move forward’?”
She grinned. “Binding? An interesting choice of words. No. Winners are presented offers in contract form. Those who accept the contract obligate themselves to a year. The option to terminate can be exercised by either suitor or prize before midnight on the last day of the first year together. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes,” I said, although my mind was a maelstrom of questions.
“Are you in or out?” she asked me point blank.
“In,” I said, feeling a little like I’d been called out by my homeroom teacher.
The testing was partly physical and mostly psychic, especially of interest to me since that was my interest. On Friday I was told that I was eligible to make arrangements to be in Wimberley, that I needed to arrive on Wednesday and leave on Sunday.
Before I could voice the question, Blackwell said, “Yes, Mr. Draiocht, you will be given a travel allowance that should cover reasonable expenses.”
I smiled big. “Sweet.”
My travel allowance came in the form of a credit card in my name. Seeing the look on my face, she said, “Reasonable expenses, Mr. Draiocht. If you have visions of being a big spender then you need to not only go, but win.”
“I’ll do my best, Ms. Blackwell. If it doesn’t work out then maybe you’d be interested in a burger by the beach?”
She laughed. “You are unique, Mr. Draiocht. Just the sort who might actually stand a chance.” She shook her head. “The answer is no. I don’t date contestants. Ever. So don’t take it personally.”
I shrugged and gave her a half grin. “Okay. But your loss.”
“No doubt. Besides, Mr. Draiocht, you may meet your true love. Don’t be sure it’s not going to work out before you’re even on the plane to Austin.”
“Austin?”
“Closest airport.”
“Oh.”
“And don’t forget to make a hotel reservation. They hold enough rooms for contestants, but some of them are outside town.”
Nodding, I said, “Thanks for the tip.”
“Good luck.”