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“Yes,” I answer Papa after the waiter leaves.
“What will your sister do?” He gestures to Lis, who is frantically chewing so she can respond. I beat her to it.
“She’ll work at the restaurant and enjoy the time alone.”
“I can give you additional money if you need it,” he tells Lis. His head swivels to me. “You too.”
Lis and I both shake our heads.
“Stop worrying. You don’t need the stress. You’re already taking pills for hypertension,” she tells him.
“You are?” I ask. I turn to my sister. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I just found out.” She puts up her hands to shield herself from my accusations.
“It’s no big deal.” He swats the air and scoops another bite of the nutritional equivalent of hypertension into his mouth. Figuring he’ll ask again, I explain the rest, carefully gliding over the details. I tell him lodging is included, though I doubt a townhouse next door to Archer will be as rustic as I made it sound. I also tell him I was able to name my price for the job, and my employer was generous. I leave out my personal relationship with Archer since I’m not sure it will continue. When I considered working with him on this project, I imagined being next door would afford us all sorts of naked endeavors, but now I’m not so sure.
Alas, the only contact I’ve had with him since last Sunday was via text message, and that was when he gave me my private flight itinerary. My work email is null and void, and in hindsight, I never should have sent emails to Archer from that address. There wasn’t anything too damning in them, but the cheeky nicknames would have raised a red flag to Ed if he’d looked. Thinking of him reading my personal correspondence turns my stomach.
Brunch ends with Papa hugging both Lis and me and reminding us (again) that he could give us money if we need it. I second Lis’s earlier argument and tell him we don’t need it. Papa’s extra money comes from him taking on additional jobs, and he already works a ridiculous amount of hours. I’m kind of shocked we were able to be together on a Sunday given his and Lis’s hectic schedules.
My sister drops me off at the hangar where the private jet is waiting. Which is a hilarious sentence. As I board alone, I marvel at how quickly my life has changed in a short period of time. I also think about how Archer was the catalyst for that change, though I did dump the first juice cup.
I land in a far less desirable climate than the one I left (seriously, it’s freaking cold in Ohio in January). Outside of the jet, there’s a car waiting to shuttle me to the townhouse. The door is opened for me. I slide in, waiting as the driver loads my luggage and wondering if I should tip him.
The driver, Robert, is friendly. He navigates a tidy neighborhood and chats while he drives. He points out some of the areas I should check out while I’m here, including his favorite restaurant, which has “the best hot wings in town.” We arrive, and Robert parks in a marked space by the curb. I stare out the window, blinking as I take in the posh surroundings.
When Archer said townhouse, I pictured an apartment with a second floor, not the deluxe homes surrounding me. Each pair of townhouses on this street is set apart by a narrow walkway between them lined with slim trees—naked branches thanks to the season, but I imagine them with thick leaves and blooms in the spring. Robert hands me a key and then retrieves my bags from the trunk. He leads the way to the largest building on the corner.
We walk beneath a wide, arched entryway where there is one doorway on the left and one on the right. Robert tells me my townhouse is to the right, so I enter the breezeway and find a zigzag staircase leading to a front door. Beyond the staircase, the breezeway expands onto a patio leading to a long, narrow yard.
As I take the stairs I note the openness of the brick-and-mortar alcove as well as the echoey sounds of my shoes scuffing with each step. I unlock the front door and step into a massive furnished living room. Beyond that is a state-of-the-art, even more massive kitchen. Every furnishing and appliance appears to have been delivered yesterday. From the shining stovetop to the pristine lighting to the couches that look like they have never been sat upon.
“Holy wow.”
I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until Robert chuckles. My luggage in his hands, he shuffles by me. “I’ll put these upstairs in the master bedroom for you, Ms. Richards.”
“Thanks, Robert.”
While he’s doing my bidding, I give myself a tour of an interior designer’s dreamhouse. The color palette is gray and blue, but an occasional pop of spring green keeps it from being drab. The contemporary style isn’t overtly feminine. I have no clue why Archer kept this townhouse when he could have sold it for hundreds of thousands of dollars. As I take in the narrow backyard with a low brick wall surrounding it, I wonder if hundreds of thousands of dollars is an understatement. Are we in the millions of dollars range?
Robert, having returned, asks if I need anything else.
“No, thanks. I’ll show myself around.” Again, I have the nagging sensation that I should tip him. I reach into my purse praying five bucks is better than nothing, but he waves me off with a stern head shake.
“No, ma’am. Mr. Owen takes good care of me.”
But of course he does. Well, I can also take care of people. I proffer the folded bill and try again. “I insist.”
He gives me another firm head shake but a smile of gratitude accompanies it this time. He reminds me to “check out those hot wings” before he exits via the front door.
Alone in the luxury townhouse, I hang my purse and puffy coat on the back of a chair and run my fingertips along the kitchen island. It’s pale gray and blue marble. I pull out my cellphone and snap a few photos of it, as well as the six-burner gas stove. Calista will faint dead away when she sees this palatial kitchen. The dining room is furnished with a table with seating for six, a heavy iron lighting fixture hanging overhead.
On this floor, a screened porch separates dining room from the backyard below. A low brick wall flanks the patch of cold, lifeless ground. I imagine in a few months the grass will turn envy green and straight-backed tulips with their pastel heads will line the wall like loyal soldiers. Now, though, nothing but bleak brown and gray. With a shiver, I step inside from the chilled air and open a door to find a furnished office, complete with an Apple desktop computer.
Again, holy wow.
I retrace Robert’s steps and take the staircase to the top floor. I hang a right and encounter two smaller bedrooms side by side with a bathroom bisecting them. At the end of the hallway is a set of open double doors leading to the master bedroom, where my luggage sits by the bed. A regal set of French doors leads to an open-air balcony (who am I, Evita?) and a fireplace. A quick peek at the walk-in closet confirms it’s roughly the size of my bedroom at home.
