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“I was getting to that. But the story doesn’t start here, Ella. It ends here. Or it ends in prison, one or the other,” I say.
“Let me sit down and grab a back pillow. Do I need to get a glass of water too? Should I go to the bathroom first before you start?”
I ignore her. “You will never believe what happened to me. In fact, I don’t even believe it. I think I’m in some deep trouble, Ella, and I need you to tell me how to get out of it.”
I go over the entire ordeal and when I’m done, I wait anxiously for advice on what to do next. But I’m met with radio silence, Ella’s head propped against her hand, eyes closed.
“Are you asleep?” I screech. “Ella! Wake up!”
“I’m awake, I’m awake. I heard it all, ev-er-y last detail. Jesus, Jessica, one day we are really gonna have to deal with your oversharing. And though it’s fascinating that the first-class seats in the newer planes don’t have TV screens, that the car you were in had carpeted floor mats, and that this incredible house you’re crashing at has a banister made of wrought iron you think might be imported from France, let’s get to the actual problem. What are you gonna do?”
“Well, I was kinda hopingyou’dhave an idea,” I whine.
“It’s not like you have a lot of options at this time of night. I guess call your dad?”
I just stare at her.
“Okay, you’re right. Bad idea. Remember when you were driving us home from church and that guy rear-ended us?”
“Yup, it wasn’t even my fault, and yet he took away my driving privileges for six weeks. Mom tried to explain that he was so worried I’d been hurt and that was his way of releasing all his concerned energy. But I’m not in a place right now to handle his ‘concerned energy.’” I use air quotes with my free hand to make my point.
“Honestly, I think you should just stay there and figure it out in the morning. If no one finds out, no harm, no foul. If someonedoesfind out, bat your lashes and play innocent. No one can stay mad at those Bambi eyes of yours,” Ella reasons.
Can it really be as easy as Ella makes it sound? I mean, it would only be for tonight. I wish she was here with me. This house feels so massive, like all my fears and concerns are bouncing off the vaulted ceilings.
“Anyways, you’re there now. And this may be the only chance either of us gets to see the inside of a McMansion like the one you’re in. So, can you at least give me a tour? Let’s put those years of HGTV marathons and your gift of oversharing to good use. Do not leave out even one tiny detail.”
Ella shares my interest in homes we cannot afford. And she’s the master at deflecting so my thoughts don’t spiral to The Bad Place.
But my lack of matched enthusiasm must get my point across. Ella’s eyes fill with compassion...or maybe just pity. I can’t even be distracted with the one thing that makes me happiest: pretty homes. “Do you want me to ask my grandma to call your mom?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t want to bother my parents just yet. I’ll figure it out. I think you’re right. I’ll just sleep here tonight and leave the place cleaner than I found it, if that’s even possible. I’ll sneak away in the morning and deal with it when I get to the office tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll be fine. So what if they hate me, think I’m a total imposter, and this whole thing has thrown my entire future out the window? At least I won’t be sleeping on the street, right?”
“Call me in the morning?” Ella asks.
“I’m three hours ahead. It’ll be 5:00 a.m. your time,” I remind her.
“Call me in the afternoon?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Deal.”
I hang up and immediately feel completely alone. I realize I haven’t even stepped foot out of the foyer...which has such incredibly detailed tile work, I toe off my shoes for fear of dirtying the floors. I notice some leather house slippers lined up by the door, but they all look new and frankly, very expensive.
For the first time, I allow myself to look around the house. I’ve never been in a home this luxe before. It’s not huge, though. It’s narrower than the mansions I see on television in Beverly Hills and Malibu. But I know Manhattan is only thirty-three square miles, and a good chunk of that is Central Park, so land is scarce in New York, wealth is shown by where your home is and how you’ve decorated it, not by the square footage. At least that’s what I heard them say onMillion Dollar Listing New York.
The entire entryway and foyer is lined with the gorgeous tile I noticed earlier. The cherrywood built-ins and wrought iron banister give the house an old money feel. I wonder who owns this. Years of poring overArchitectural Digestand watching shows on HGTV have made me a self-proclaimed design savant.
I walk farther into the house, lightly brushing my fingers over the carved inlays of the arched entryways into each room. I stop in my tracks when I see the fireplace in the formal living room. It’s bordered by a floor-to-ceiling stone mantel so grand, my jaw is on the ground.
Speaking of the ground, the wide-planked dark wood floors are perfectly stained while still showing the character of generations-old original knots and crevices. The oriental rugs covering parts of the floor look like restored antiques. The room has high ceilings exposing large expanses of wall covered with likely genuine pieces of fine art.
It feels more like a museum than a home.
I turn to my left and spot the kitchen. It’s not an open concept home like you’ll see in newer builds. The kitchen was clearly built to be separate for hired help to prepare meals and serve them in the formal dining room. And yet its floors are all marble, as are the countertops and the massive island in the center.
I walk through the door and freeze. “Whoa,” I say, expecting a cavernous echo to respond to me. The kitchen is enormous, so large, it’s likely bigger than the entire first floor of my home in Cerritos. On the island is a basket full of fresh fruit and the glass doors of the commercial grade refrigerator show a fully stocked selection of drinks and other necessities.
My stomach growls. My hand reaches out, the temptation to take a banana from the fruit basket almost too strong.
