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Maire watched as Camille greeted and chatted effortlessly with Ned Bennett. Maire had hoped she would find an ally in another female participant. But no. She had heard the subtle condescension in Camille’s voice when she asked Maire about her jewelry line. Camille was sly, but Maire had known women like this her entire life. She could handle her. Maire was getting impatient. She really didn’t care about getting to know her competitors. She just wanted to play the game. She wanted to win.
Ned turned his attention to Samuel. “You’re that lawyer who just about got attacked in the courtroom in Atlanta. They’re playing that clip over and over online. ‘Fuck you, fuck you,’” Ned said in mock fierceness, mimicking the convicted man’s younger brother. “Wild,” Ned said, with a little laugh. “Man, that would have played great on Cold, Hard Truth.
“And you,” Ned said, pointing at Fern, “you look familiar to me. Have we met?”
Fern looked startled for a moment and then quickly recovered. “I’m afraid not,” Fern said brusquely. “Now come along this way,” Fern said, looking at her watch, “it’s getting late. Follow me. I really want you all to see this.”
Maire fell in line behind the others as Fern led them down a long, dim corridor lined with antiquated oil paintings of dour-faced men and buxom women.
Fern flicked on a light and it was with relief that Maire stepped into a brightly lit state-of-the-art kitchen with a commercial refrigerator, a multiunit range, and a dizzying array of appliances. The modern kitchen clashed with the old-world Tuscan vibe of the rest of the house.
Fern moved to the far end of the room, pressed her hands against a wall, and a panel popped open.
“This way,” Fern said, stepping aside and revealing a dark passage.
“You want us to go down there?” Camille frowned. “Where does it lead?”
“What Italian villa wouldn’t be complete without a wine cellar?” Fern asked with forced cheerfulness. She reached into the chasm and a dull light appeared. “Please, this way.”
Hesitantly, Maire stepped forward. “Just down that way,” Fern directed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.”
Maire stepped through the passageway and immediately the temperature dropped. With one hand, she pulled her cardigan close, and with the other she pressed her fingers against the rough and damp wall. She peered down, but whatever was at the bottom of the steps was lost in the dark. She heard the echo of water dripping. A lonely, hollow sound.
“Watch your step,” Fern warned.
Maire felt the air collapse in her lungs. There was no banister to hold on to and the steps were steeply pitched and so narrow that she had to turn nearly sideways to navigate them. She slowly picked her way down and at the halfway point she stumbled. From behind, she felt a steadying hand and without turning around knew it was Samuel.
Maire hated that he still had that effect on her. Back in college he hadn’t even been her boyfriend, could never have been her boyfriend, but that didn’t stop her from melting from his touch.
Samuel had been her roommate’s boyfriend. They were inseparable, practically engaged, but try as she might, Maire couldn’t stop herself from fantasizing about what it would be like to have his hands wrapped around her waist, his lips pressed against her neck. Maire shook away the memories and stepped away from him.
Once safely at the bottom of the steps, Maire turned and shot Samuel a dirty look. He wasn’t going to screw this up for her. What happened occurred a lifetime ago. Maire was a different person now. And most importantly, she was a mother and everything she did, every move she made, was for her children.
Fern took her place at the front of the group and took them through a narrow stone passageway dimly lit by a series of bronze sconces. “All the lighting was imported from Italy and actually once held real candles. They have been restored and retrofitted,” Fern explained.
Something skittered across Maire’s foot, and she bit back a cry. She refused to get spooked by a rodent and let the others see any fear.
“One more door,” Fern said, yanking on the round pull handle of an arched wooden door. “Please, go in, I’ll get the light,” she said.
Maire hesitated, then stepped over the threshold into a wall of darkness, her arms stretched out in front of her blindly. A light appeared and Maire found that they were in another corridor with one iron door.
“I want to show you where the most expensive wines are kept, follow me,” Fern invited, and, making a wide berth around Ned Bennett, she punched a series of numbers into her phone. A green light appeared on the keypad affixed to the door and it popped open with a pneumatic hiss. “The special collection includes a 1787 Chateau Lafite and a 1907 Heidsieck that survived a World War I torpedo attack by a German submarine.”
“Is this The Vault?” Maire asked.
“Well, this is where we keep the most expensive wines locked away,” Fern said as she pulled open the door. “But it’s not what we are going to use as The Vault for the show. I’ll show you that in just a moment.”
Everyone gathered into a tight knot to peer inside. The light behind them was barely bright enough to puncture the dark, windowless space.
“Come in, come in,” Fern invited and the others stepped inside one by one. With the poor lighting, it was impossible to tell just how big the room was, but the dark seemed endless. Maire could hear the sound of a fan whirring. She looked up. An air vent with an elaborately scrolled iron cover puffed cool air across her skin. The stone walls were pitted and the floor slanted. Maire pulled her cardigan more tightly around her, imagining what might be crouched against the dusty corners. Fern used her cell phone to scan the rest of the space. It was larger than Maire first thought. There were shelves of wine, pallets of water, and jumbo-sized containers of snack mixes against one wall, and behind a metal cage were more shelves of wine. In a far corner sat a box filled with a jumble of odds and ends.
“The room is obviously part of the original home and the conditions are perfect for wine storage,” Fern said. “But we won’t be using this room during the show. We’re set up through here. Let me show you.”
Fern ushered them from the wine cellar, and, leaving it open, led the group down the hallway and through another door.
Maire heard Camille gasp. In the center of the domed ceiling was a twenty-four-arm Venetian chandelier with handblown chocolate-colored glass. Its light cast snake-like shadows across the floor.
“That’s a sixty-thousand-dollar chandelier,” Maire heard Camille whisper.
