Dating Games(79)

Attached is a list of times and locations for four interviews I’ve set up between you and a few of my former clients. I hope speaking with these four women in particular will give you a greater insight into why I do what I do, more so than I’ve been able to provide you.

I look forward to reading a revised draft of your story upon completion of the interviews.





All the best,

A





A renewed hope builds inside me as I click on the attached document. When it pops up, I scan the contents. It’s a simple one-page file, but in that one page is everything I’ve been searching for. I get to work, alerting Viv to this new development so she can have the proper legal documentation drawn up. Before I know it, it’s past two and I’m rushing out of the office to get to my first interview.

When the cab slows to a stop in front of a five-story brownstone in the Upper West Side a few minutes before three, I crane my head, my mind reeling. I have no idea who I’m about to meet, considering the document August sent only contained places and times, no names. Based on this house, whoever I’m here to see has money…and a lot of it.

After I pay the driver, I step out of the cab, double checking the address on the bronze plate beside the door with the one August provided. It matches.

Taking a deep breath, I ascend the steps, doing my best to settle my nerves at the idea of walking into a situation I doubt anyone can properly prepare for. I press the buzzer, then smooth the lines of my dress as I listen for footsteps. After a few seconds, the door opens, revealing an older woman I estimate to be in her sixties. Her hair is short and graying, her face devoid of any heavy makeup.

“Hi, I’m Evie—”

“Yes. Yes. I’m Margaret, the housekeeper. Come in. Come in.” She ushers me inside, quickly closing the door behind me and leading me through the foyer. I barely have a chance to take in the ostentatious surroundings of the late nineteenth-century home as I’m led into a small cage elevator. I can just imagine the parties the walls of this house have probably seen during its time.

“I’ve never seen one of these,” I comment, running my finger along the intricate latticework of the screen door. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s the original elevator. The motor and cables have been replaced over the years, but the owner insisted the house retain its original charm. Too many people buy these homes, gut them, then design them in a style in complete contradiction to the history within. If you want sleek lines and modern furnishings, buy an apartment in Central Park West. Don’t buy one of these historic homes and destroy it.”

I love the passion with which she speaks. I surmise this isn’t the first house she’s been in charge of. Hell, just a few months ago, I wouldn’t have known how to act in the presence of a housekeeper or head of household staff. Now I do. I’ve had the pleasure of being waited on hand and foot all summer, thanks to Julian. Although those days are numbered.

“And who exactly is the owner of this home?”

“You’ll see.”

“So much secrecy.”

“It’s for good reason.” Margaret narrows her gaze on me. It’s a look of warning, telling me whatever I’m about to learn will make me rethink everything, open my eyes to what’s truly going on.

The elevator slows to a gradual stop on the top floor and we exit into the hallway, which is bathed in natural light. I follow Margaret toward a sunroom, then step onto a rooftop terrace.

If it weren’t for the woman sitting at an outdoor patio set, I would have taken a moment to soak in the stunning views of New York City, the Hudson to the west and Central Park to the east. But as I slowly walk toward the poised woman sipping her tea, I’m speechless.

I rewind to the information Sadie shared with me at the Red, White, and Blue Gala, thinking her story about Sonia Moreno was just sensationalized gossip. Now I know it’s not.

Not when I’m staring at Sonia herself.





Chapter Twenty-Nine





“So you’re Guinevere Fitzgerald.” It’s a statement, her tone showing her knowledge of me isn’t tied to the article I’m writing about August Laurent, but because of my connection to the world in which she normally resides during the summer months.

“Sonia…,” I breathe, momentarily dumbstruck. Her dark hair falls to her mid-back, barely a strand out of place. She wears a fitted, thigh-length black shift dress, her skin olive-toned and tanned. From what I know of her, she’s around my age, but has a sophistication that makes her seem older, even if she doesn’t look it. “I mean, Ms. Moreno.” I reach my hand toward her and she takes it, her hold delicate. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“You, as well.” A hint of her Spanish accent comes through. “Please…” She gestures to the chair across from her, indicating for me to sit down.

“Is there anything else you need, Ms. Moreno?” Margaret asks.

“We’re okay for now.”

“Very well. Call if anything comes up.”

“Certainly.” Sonia offers the woman a smile as she turns from us, then focuses her attention back on me. “Tea?” She raises the teapot.

“That would be lovely.”

Lovely? I don’t even sound like myself. I’ve never called something lovely, apart from a brief period during high school when I became obsessed with all things related to British literature. I refused to speak in anything but a British accent, which I’m sure sounded horrendous when coupled with my subtle Midwestern tone.