“Right.” I push to standing. “I’ll show you where everything is.”
She follows me through the open doorway, past the waiting room, to the stairs down the hall.
“Should I put this away somewhere?”
I turn around.
Vivien holds out her empty coffee mug.
“It’s fine. Leave it down here. I’ll stick it in the washer later.”
She sets it on the side table, and then we head up the stairs.
I’m a little surprised she bothered about her dirty cup. It’s . . . considerate. Not that I think she’s a spoiled celebrity or anything, but, actually, yes, I would have thought she would be a bit of a spoiled celebrity.
Also, she came here alone. No “people” to do her bidding, like I would have expected. Rich people don’t normally worry about things like dirty mugs or their cars breaking down or people being mean to them and being falsely arrested.
Vivien had all of that in one night.
She’s not how I thought she would be. Of course, Beverly wouldn’t have left the theater to someone snotty or high-maintenance, but she also hadn’t seen Vivien since she was just a kid.
When we reach the bottom of the staircase, I point down the hall. “My rooms are that way. So if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Your rooms?”
“It’s another attached apartment, larger than the one upstairs. This was a boarding house in the 1800s, before it was converted into an office.”
We head upstairs, the steps creaking and groaning under our feet.
Vivien probably lives in some upscale, modern place in the city that gets redecorated quarterly by a professional designer. I live in a museum from the past century, all old heavy wood, antiques, and wood paneling.
Things around here might be a little shabby and in need of repair or replacement. I never bothered changing anything after my parents passed. I’ve been too busy.
“This banister is gorgeous,” she says, trailing fingers over the wood filigree.
“My dad had it custom built, back in the ’80s.”
“I love it.”
Okay, maybe she’s not thinking about how out-of-date everything is.
Once upstairs, I lead her down the hall to the door into the apartment suite. It’s where I lived when my parents were still alive.
I flip the light switch, revealing the small entry, a kitchenette to the left, and a door to a small bathroom on the right. Directly in front of us is a sitting area and dining nook.
Walking into the living room, I reach under a lamp to click on another light, casting a glow over the floral armchair.
She’s standing by the front door, staring into the room like a lost, sad kitten.
Shit. I’m an idiot. She doesn’t have any clothes or anything.
“There should be some extra clothes in the dresser. I have some old T-shirts and sweats in there. They’ll be too big, and I think they are mostly holiday themed, but they’ve been washed. It’s small in here, but everything’s pretty easy to find. The sheets on the bed are clean. This is a queen couch bed,” I tap a finger on the back of the sofa, “but the full-size mattress in the room is newer and more comfortable.”
She nods. “I can make it work.”
My mind rifles through what else she may need. “There are extra toothbrushes under the sink in the bathroom, and I’m not sure if there’s soap or anything, but I’ll run downstairs and grab you some so you can shower. Oh, and food.” I stalk over to the fridge. There’s an expired container of orange juice and half a stick of butter. “I’ll bring up some water and snacks too, just in case you get hungry.”
“Thank you.”
