One Way or Another(57)

“Oh, God, oh God,” she moaned, staring at her useless phone, what good was a phone without a number for Phillip Kurtiz the Third, or “Junior” as his family called him in America. Shit, she could never go out with a “Junior,” she’d rather die. Which she was afraid anyhow she might do, of a broken heart, of course.

And anyhow, what was she doing, all alone here in this big creepy house in the middle of nowhere? Where was that woman, Mehitabel? Where was Ahmet, who was supposed to give her a lift back to town again? She had all the notes, safe on her iPad, and the samples stuffed into the worn green canvas messenger bag she wore slung across her body, the way they used to in World War I. She had seen that in old movies, terrifically sad, of course, but the uniforms with those Sam Browne wide polished belts and the bags like this were a terrific design. And now she was involved in the design business, she had become more aware of small details like that. Besides, it was handy for keeping all her stuff.

Water gurgled in the uncovered pipes over her head still awaiting their plaster casing. It sounded like a bathtub running out. She wondered who on earth could be taking a bath in this empty house. And then she heard footsteps.

Terrified, she was on her feet, bag in one hand, other hand clasped to her throat, when the door was flung open and Mehitabel strode in on spiky red heels that Lucy knew must have cost a fortune, though how she had time to evaluate that when she was half scared out of her wits she did not know.

“Shit,” she said. “You frightened me.”

Mehitabel looked her up and down as though she was taking in every scruffy detail, even though Lucy had on her favorite ripped jeans, her best gray sweatshirt with “ApplePie” written on it in red, and her new sneakers that were now covered in mud and had lost their “new sneaker” look.

Mehitabel did not apologize for startling her, merely lifted a shoulder and walked across to the sink where she proceeded to wash her hands.

Lucy watched silently. Mehitabel made her nervous. “So, when do you expect Ahmet back?” she finally said, sinking back into the chair and clasping the messenger bag protectively over her chest, as if she thought the woman might come at her with a knife or something.

Mehitabel still said nothing. Her back to Lucy, she ripped off two sheets of paper towel from the rack and dried her hands carefully. Next, she ran her hands through her hair, lifting her curls from her neck as though she were too warm, shaking her head so they fell into what Lucy thought was a perfect place. She envied that hair. Her own long blond locks were now damp and stringy with strands clinging persistently to her face. She wondered if there was a comb somewhere in the vast cavern of that messenger bag, where contents might be lost for weeks on end, which is why, she guessed, women carried small dainty little purses containing only a lipstick, a credit card, and a comb.

Mehitabel swung round. Leaning back against the sink, one ankle crossed over the other elegantly strapped ankle, she said, “So tell me, Lucy, since you are now a decorator, what do you think of Marshmallows?”

As always, honesty brought the truth from Lucy’s mouth, without so much as an instant to think first.

“When we first came it was bad. I mean, it was pretty messed up, all gloomy and dark. Kinda creepy, in fact,” she added with a giggle that filtered the reality of what she said. “Of course, Martha and I have still not seen upstairs yet, for all I know it may be filled with sweetness and light. Or bodies.”

Mehitabel’s mouth curved into what Lucy could have sworn was a smile and she smiled back, delighted to get some response.

“Filled with sweetness and light,” Mehitabel said. “Sort of like yourself, Lucy. Isn’t that what people say about you?”

“Certainly not, they don’t! I’ll bet nobody’s ever said anything like that about me. More likely ‘get a move on, Lucy, why don’t you.’” She grinned, laughing at herself because she knew it was true: she wasn’t lazy, exactly, she just liked to take her own time with things.

Mehitabel pushed herself off the sink. Looking at Lucy, she sauntered toward her on those spiky red heels, hands on her hips. Eyes narrowed, she seemed to take Lucy in, to delve into her brain, hypnotizing her into scared immobility.

Then, behind her, a door slammed and a voice said, “Well, well, there you are, my little Lucy. Thought I’d never get back in time. Marco’s promised to be here too.”

It was Ahmet. He checked his watch. “In ten minutes. We’re going to pick out a location for my portrait.” He stopped and took in Lucy, frozen into immobility at the table, at Mehitabel, halted mid-stride on her way from the sink. Knowing in an instant what must have happened, he took control immediately.

He said, “Mehitabel, please see that the drawing room is arranged, that drinks are available, whatever. Go do your job.”

Without a word Mehitabel turned and left the room, though not before Lucy caught the hot red flush that rose to her cheeks, the flash of anger in her usually blank eyes.

“Oh, thank God it’s you, Ahmet,” Lucy said, her voice trembling just a little. “It was getting so late and kind of dark and no one else is here and I thought I heard noises and … well, well … I’m glad you are here.”

“And I am glad too. No need to be afraid at Marshmallows, Lucy, my little one. This is my home, or at least it will be when you and your sister make it that way. Now, you look to me like a girl in need of a glass of champagne. Am I correct?” He turned as he heard the door open and Mehitabel came back in carrying a tray with a bottle in an ice bucket and two very tall, very slender, very fragile glasses. She put the tray on a side table and left immediately.