Chapter Eleven
“Maybe we should have taken the elevator,” Sky says as we meander down the second-floor hallway. We had thought to get off and snoop a little, but now we’re totally lost.
At the end of the corridor, we come upon a half-sized door—like seriously, it’s only as high as my belly button. The sign hanging on the wall outside says Depot. “What do you suppose is in there?” I ask.
“I have no idea, but I don’t think we should go in.”
“Why not?” I drop to my knees and open the door without waiting for Sky’s answer.
As I’m crawling through, she says, “Because it’s trespassing!”
As soon as I stand up, the light miraculously turns on. I’m totally stunned by what I see. “Get in here, Sky.”
“No,” comes her muted reply. “I don’t want to get kicked out before we’ve officially moved in.”
Whatever. My clothes are in the closet, I live here now. “Your loss,” I tell her.
In the center of the room is a giant table hosting the most intricate electric train set up I’ve ever seen. Jonathan has a whole town happening here. Stores, houses—neighborhoods really, and parks with pavilions and ice-skating rinks. The terrain varies from flat, to hilly, to mountainous. Bridges cross fake rivers that have boats on them. As though a powerful magnet is pulling my hand toward it; I flip a switch next to the control panel. The whole shebang lights up and it’s mesmerizing.
Sky calls out, “Emily? What’s in there?”
“You have to come in and see for yourself,” I tell her before turning a dial that causes the horn on a train to sound. A sixteen-car train starts to chug around the track slowly before picking up speed as I crank the dial. I never played with trains as a little girl, but I’m immediately hooked.
I almost ignore my phone when it starts to ring, but the good little realtor in me is too well trained. I stop the train so it doesn’t make any noise and answer, “This is Emily.”
“Where are you?” Jonathan demands grumpily.
I suddenly feel the need to lie. “In my room at your house.”
“No, you’re not. I’m in your room and you’re not here.”
“Sky and I were just there but we’re on our way to the terrace for the drinks Martin promised us.” I sound like a little girl looking for candy.
“Then I repeat”—he sounds mad—“where are you?”
“The second floor? We climbed down so many stairs we thought we were on the first floor, but I don’t think we went down far enough.” I sound like an idiot.
“I don’t want you on the second floor. That’s my floor.”
“Okaaaaaay, but you aren’t going to be living here.”
“It’s my floor,” he maintains like a spoiled child getting ready to throw a tantrum. “I’ll meet you there. Don’t move.”
Yikes! I do more than move, I haul butt. I turn the dials off on the train and rush to the door to let myself out. The nanosecond I close it and stand up, I see Jonathan turn the corner as he strides purposefully down the hall toward us.
I do the only logical thing that comes to mind. I practically shout, “What do you think is in this room, Sky?”
She looks totally confused as I just came out of that room and know full well what’s in there. Before she can blow my cover, Jonathan yells, “Stay out of that room!”
Because her back had been facing his direction, Sky didn’t see Jonathan coming, and she practically jumps out of her skin. I hurry to assure him, “Of course, we’re going to stay out of that room. What do you think I am, a snoop?” Before he has a chance to answer, I add, “Jonathan, this is my friend, Sky.”
He barely glances at her, which in my book proves his gayness. Straight men, including happily married ones, can’t help but do a triple take when they get a close-up gander at my friend. Sky is no Monet like a lot of gals in Beverly Hills—you know, better looking the farther away you get. Up close they look like wax figures, sculpted into a shiny semblance of perfection without quite hitting the mark.
Sky has never had plastic surgery on her face. She hasn’t even had Botox. Up close, she looks like the beautiful girl next door who’s playing dress up in her sexy older sister’s clothes.
Totally unaffected, Jonathan nods his head a fraction of an inch and says, “I’m Jonathan.”
“You have a beautiful house, Jonathan,” Sky says after getting over her own initial shock of our host’s movie star looks.
“Yes, I do,” he tells her.
“I think the standard reply is, thank you,” I chastise him.
He rolls his eyes at me before telling Sky, “Thank you.” He ruins the moment of moderate politeness by adding, “I don’t want you and Emily on the second floor.” He turns to Sky and adds, “Like I told her, it’s my floor.”
A slight pinkish tinge washes over my friend’s face, making it clear she’s embarrassed.
I smack Jonathan’s arm and say, “Don’t be such a baby. I promise we won’t spend any time on your precious second floor. Now, show us how to get to the terrace for drinks.”
He looks somewhat surprised at being spoken to without reverence, but I maintain that even though I get to stay in his paradise of a home, I’m the one doing him the favor. There’s no way he’d meet my hunky neighbor without me.
Jonathan looks between me and Sky before saying, “If you’ll follow me.” He leads us down another hall that eventually dead ends into a back staircase. Playing tour guide, he declares, “When the house was built in nineteen twenty, these were the servants’ stairs.”
“I’m guessing they still are,” I mumble.
“I don’t have servants,” he answers haughtily. “I have staff. There is a difference.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Servant implies a lesser social standing. This isn’t the nineteenth century. Anyone in my employ can always leave to do and become anything they desire.” In response to my eye roll, he adds, “I pay them exceedingly well.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” I say. “I can’t imagine being a single person and needing a staff of four. That’s just ludicrous.”
“Don’t scold me, Emily. I’m a self-made man who didn’t come from much. I don’t appreciate your treating me like a pampered nobleman.”
I think about his train room and realize he’s probably telling the truth. That room reeks of a young boy who grew up doing without and decided to make up for it when his ship came in. In response to the smile I can’t seem to suppress, he demands, “How is that funny?”
Ignoring his question, I say, “I grew up in a middle-class household myself. I understand being proud of your accomplishments.” When he arches his eyebrow, I add, “And while my townhouse is a pittance compared to what you have, I bought it all by myself and I’m proud of that.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Jonathan leads the way into a kitchen the likes of which I’ve never seen. And as I’ve previously stated, I’m a realtor, I’ve seen extravagant things. The marble-topped island with the waterfall sides is so big you could put two king-sized beds on it side-by-side and still have room to spare. Not that Jonathan doesn’t have enough bedrooms to house a small army, but in case the apocalypse requires half of Beverly Hills to take shelter here, he could sleep at least eight people on that island. There are three huge pendant lights hanging over it, giving the room that much more of an over-the-top feel.
The refrigerator is hidden behind the white cabinetry somewhere, making it clear that it cost as much as my car. I count three sinks and two Wolf ranges, each with six burners and a griddle. “How many dishwashers?”
“Four, I think,” he replies.
“You think? You don’t know?”
“I don’t spend time in here.” He calls out, “Gerard, are you around?”
A tiny little man in chef’s whites walks out of the pantry. He’s probably around fifty and I’m pretty sure I outweigh him by at least forty pounds. “Right here, sir,” he says.
“Gerard, this is Emily and Skylar. They’ll be my guests for the foreseeable future.”
Gerard offers a curt nod of his head. “I’ll make sure they have everything they need.”
“Oh, you don’t have to cook for us,” Sky says.
“Speak for yourself,” I tell her before addressing Gerard, “I’d be delighted if you cooked for me.”
“It will be my pleasure.” A slight smile crosses his face. And while his lips only moderately turn up, his eyes twinkle merrily, leading me to believe that I’m going to like this man a lot.
“We’ll be out on the veranda, Gerard. Please bring out the appetizers when they’re ready.”
“Yes, sir. I should be serving them in twenty minutes. Would you like supper at the usual time?”
“Please. We’ll eat outside as well, as long as the heat lamps are on.” With that final proclamation, Jonathan leads the way to the much-ballyhooed veranda.