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I mute my phone and toss it into my purse. The car pulls up to a high-rise apartment building with immaculate landscaping and one of those swanky lobbies that have a full-time doorman looking bored under a crystal chandelier. As if on cue, the bellman breaks his mannequin stance beneath the chandelier and exits through the lobby door.
“Good evening, Miss Anderson,” he says as he opens the car door. “How was your ride?” He offers his hand to help me out.
“Fine, thank you.”
He leads me up the stairs and shows me to an elevator, reaching inside to press the button for me before stepping out again.
“Enjoy your evening, Miss Anderson.” He evensoundsposh as the doors close between us.
It’s a long ride up to the penthouse. I check my reflection in the mirrored walls, smoothing my hair and picking a ball of lint from my sweater dress. When the elevator doors open, the aroma of herbs and other delicious but unfamiliar smells strikes me. As I look around, I let out an audible gasp.
Tyson’s penthouse is palatial. There is no other word for it. The walls are covered by floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing the spectacular skyline lit up like a Christmas parade. The furnishings are a combination of earth tone colors perfectly chosen to complement each other, with a thick woven carpet of oranges in the entryway. In the center of the carpet stands a curvy art nouveau statue in a stark red. Other than the statue, the space is subdued and minimalist with clean, straight lines and a sense of efficiency.
Tyson appears from around the corner wearing a kitchen apron. I smile as I recall an image of him standing in my kitchen squeezed into my apron like a sausage trying to escape from its casing. His face lights up when he sees me.
“Here, I’ll take that.” He gently reaches for my coat as I pull it off, and he hangs it on the shiny brass coat rack strategically placed next to the elevator. “Tour first?”
I nod, still too awestruck to speak. My entire apartment could fit inside hisliving room. “It smells delicious. What are you making?”
“Not telling. It’s a surprise,” he chides.
“Carbs, I hope.”
“I think you’ll be satisfied.”
He takes my hand, and leads me first into the kitchen, which is adorned with brand new shiny stainless steel appliances and granite countertops everywhere. Off the far right corner is a small breakfast room, if you can call itsmall, with a spiral staircase leading off the back. He hurries me past the massive commercial stove, eager to keep his surprise a secret, and into a hallway to the left of the kitchen.
Each of the three bedroom suites is furnished in a different theme, all with muted tones and luxurious but tasteful curtains and bedding. Each one, of course, with its own private bathroom adorned with impeccable shiny brass fixtures and marble tops. His office is floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, Mahogany wainscoting cover the remaining walls, and classy hand sculpted sconces are strategically located around the perimeter. The space is so clean and pristinely organized it looks like nobody has ever entered. But somehow I know Tyson has worked many late nights in here.
I follow Tyson as he steps out into the hallway. “So. What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s beautiful. Which one is yours?” I ask.
“Which what?”
“Which bedroom? It’s hard to tell which one is the master. They’re all so huge.”
“Oh. No,” he chuckles. “This is thepublicspace. I entertain clients, business associates. You know. Down here.Myprivate space is upstairs. Let me show you,“ he continues, turning to the large Mahogany panel on the wall behind him.
He presses gently on what appears to be a knot in the wood grain, and a muffled whirring sound comes from beneath our feet as the panel slides downward, disappearing into the floor. Two ornate brass doors slide open in front of us, exposing the interior of a small but cozy elevator washed in warm subdued pink light.
“After you, madame.” he gestures to the interior.
“Well certainly, Mr. Reynolds.” He follows me as I step inside and he presses one of only two buttons on the brass panel next to the door.
When the elevator doors open again, I’m staring into a grand open space, more luxurious than the downstairs, with furnishings equally classic and tasteful. Gentle red lighting fills the room, with no apparent source. As if it is emanating from the Mahogany walls and sixteen foot coffered ceilings.
We step out of the elevator into the cavernous yet cozy space.
“This ismyspace,“ he says.
“Wow. It’s beautiful,” I whisper to myself, too stunned to speak.
In front of us sits a large round marble cocktail table surrounded on two sides by a deep dark brown leather sectional, easily large enough for eight people. Beyond the cocktail table, against the far wall is an enormous Mahogany cabinet that must be twelve feet wide. To my right is a beautiful Mahogany credenza with stacks of electronics, and what appears to be several hundred… are those record albums? Does anybody actually use those?
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“Who wouldn’t, silly?” I find my voice and laugh, poking him gently in the ribs with my left finger, then his belly with my right. “But there’s no bed.”
