Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(51)

Trying to sound cheerful as they reach Maman’s door, she tells Renny, “This is it!”

Yet her voice sounds hollow even to her own ears, echoing through the deserted corridors, and Renny all but cowers at her side.

The sprawling apartment lies in a far-flung corner of a high floor, creating as private a residence as possible in an immense urban apartment building. Like many other residents, Maman bought and combined several apartments as their tenants vacated after the building went condo. The original entrance doors remain intact along the hallway, but only one is in use. The others, their knobs removed, have become nothing more than recessed decorative panels.

It takes Elsa a few tries to get the key into the lock, all the while fighting the urge to grab Renny and flee.

Her malaise doesn’t make sense, really. This is supposed to be a safe haven.

But what if…?

There you go again, being ridiculous. There’s no way anyone could be lying in wait for you here. Absolutely no way.

Though she’s careful not to slam the door, the noise seems to echo loudly through the rooms. She half expects a French-accented voice to reprimand her, but of course, no one does. The place is deserted and has been for months, other than the cleaning service that comes in once a week.

She sets down their luggage and flips a light switch to illuminate the overhead crystal chandelier. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” Renny takes in the circular foyer with its seventeenth-century paintings, wall-sized gilt-framed mirror, and French Classical Baroque chairs that always seemed to Elsa as though they might as well have a velvet rope across the seats. “How come this room is round?”

“It’s special. A lot of rooms in this building are round,” she tells Renny, who seems more suspicious than intrigued as they make their way across the room.

“It was so loud outside, and it’s so quiet in here,” Renny whispers as their footsteps tap on the herringbone hardwoods. The only other sound is the hum of the refrigerator.

“That’s because the walls in this building are three feet thick,” Elsa tells her, repeating a bit of Ansonia lore she frequently heard as a child.

Maybe the measurement was exaggerated a bit, but the apartment is undeniably soundproof.

Evidence: Temperamental Maman’s equally temperamental across-the-hall neighbor Lucia—a soprano at the Met ten blocks down Broadway—liked to practice her arias at the same hour Maman needed her afternoon beauty sleep. The dueling divas had their share of confrontations over the years, but never about noise.

“Can I have my snack now?”

“Sure. Come on. And you don’t have to whisper.”

“Okay,” Renny whispers, then, with a faint smile, “I mean, okay. Why can’t I see out that window?” She points to a large opaque pane in the wall of the hallway just beyond the foyer.

“Oh, that’s actually an airshaft.” Remembering how her mother explained it to her when she was little, Elsa tells Renny, “It’s like a vertical alley that comes all the way up through the middle of the building from the ground to the sky. On hot days, back before there was air conditioning, people would open these panels and let the fresh air in.”

“Can I see?”

“Sure…if it still works.” It’s been years since Elsa opened the airshaft. Maman hasn’t used it in decades, squeamishly convinced roaches would crawl in from other apartments.

Surprisingly, it takes little more than a tug to raise the window.

“It’s like a tunnel,” Renny comments, standing on her tiptoes to peer into the shadowy column.

“Exactly. When I was your age, there weren’t many kids in the building. I always wished I had a friend living in one of the other apartments on the airshaft, so we could sneak back and forth along the ledges.”

“That would be dangerous! What if you fell all the way down?”

“Ouch!” Elsa says lightly, and closes the airshaft.

As they move on down the hall, Renny asks, “What’s behind all those doors?”

“A bathroom and a bunch of closets.” This place has more storage than the Cavalons have had in any house they’ve ever lived in. Maman needs it, too, for storing half a century’s couture and modeling portfolios.

Leading Renny to the kitchen, Elsa can’t help but note the utter absence of oohs and aahs and ooh-la-las Maman would have expected if she herself were escorting a first-time guest into her home. Lacking any frame of reference, Renny can’t possibly grasp the fabulousness of Maman’s quarters in comparison to the traditional cookie-cutter Manhattan apartment.

At two thousand square feet, it feels more like a house, really, with its unique oval living room, ornate moldings, antique hardware, and turn-of-the-century cabinetry. Twelve-foot ceilings and tall French windows make it feel extra-spacious—very important for a small, claustrophobic houseguest. Beyond many of the windows are narrow Juliet balconies with lacy ironwork railings.

The kitchen is outfitted with professional-quality appliances, including a custom-designed Gaggenau fridge and a built-to-order La Cornue range. A collection of shiny Mauviel copper cookware hangs from an overhead rack, and the granite countertop holds a block of Michel Bras chef’s knives—none of which, Elsa suspects, has ever been used.

What a waste of a great kitchen.