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“Jenny, this is Lincoln, Lincoln, Jenny Ericsson. Not,” I added, “Jen.”
“She managed a small smile at that. “Lincoln, thank you for coming,” she said in what I could only call her hostess-voice. Phony, practiced, the cadence of it proper, upper crust.
“Jenny,” he greeted her with one of his genuine megawatt smiles, the kind that made women fall for him almost instantly. “Don’t mind spending a few hours in your place, honey.”
“I’ll just be a few hours,” I told Jenny, having to fight the urge to reach out and touch her arm, elbow, anywhere that might be reassuring. But I couldn’t do that. She was the client.
“Should I give you a key? The code?” she asked, brow furrowing.
“We can work that out later. Lincoln will let me back in when I get back.”
“Okay,” she said, looking like she wanted to say something else, like she needed to hear something else.
“Just a few hours,” I added. “Do you want me to bring back proper junk food for you?” I asked, watching her eyes light up, knowing I had said the right thing.
“Potato chips,” she told me, sounding like she was dying for them. “Plain or sour cream and onion. Not vinegar.”
“Not vinegar. Got it. Anything else?”
“I would… die for a soda,” she admitted, shaking her head at herself like it was a ridiculous indulgence instead of a common drink. “I haven’t had one in over a decade.”
“That’s just… unacceptable. Any preference?”
“Surprise me.”
And this, this was a much better note to leave on. She didn’t seem too anxious to see me leave. And I felt better leaving.
“Stay by your phone,” I demanded of Lincoln.
“Yes, boss,” he said, meaning it.
For a short period of time, I was the boss.
And being the boss meant I had a shitload of paperwork to get to.
So I had to get going if I wanted to get back as quickly as possible.
I didn’t stop to question why it was so important of me to get back to a client.
Because, well, I knew if I sat with that, if I dug, if I got bare-bones honest about it, I knew what I would come up with.
And those were thoughts a boss couldn’t afford to think.
FOUR
Jenny
Lincoln was the kind of guy every girl in my high school tripped over themselves – and each other – to get a smile from. The obnoxiously good-looking guy who had a slight bad boy vibe, but also somehow managed to have a heart of gold as well. They were the unicorns of the hot guy world. And I had one in my living room, his back to me, carefully inspecting the giant Christmas tree that was sure to be taken down in a few more days.
There were rules about Christmas trees in this household.
They had to be enormous, lit with only solid white lights, and topped with silver and gold ornaments. The boxes beautifully wrapped beneath were as fake as the spirit we pretended to have – empty inside.
It always made me miss the garish tree of my childhood – full of solid and blinking colored lights, kooky ornaments that in no way matched, tinsel tossed on the ends to make the tree dance. At least that was the phrase my mother used.
Teddy likely didn’t even know what tinsel was. And Bertram would likely have a conniption at hearing me say I wanted to use some.
I didn’t spend much time in the living room. It felt cold to me. Living rooms were supposed to be soft, welcoming, a place to rest, put your feet up. Except the only acceptable place to put your feet up in this house was in bed.
The architecture was great – ultra high vaulted ceilings with intricate white inlays. Floor-to-ceiling windows flanked the stone fireplace and took up the entire rightmost wall. The center of the room had two long tufted sofas facing each other with a low coffee table between them.
White.
The couches were white.
I was paranoid even to sit on one.
I should have shown him to the great room. The furniture was a bit more cozy. And there was a television there that came out of a cabinet with the click of a button.
But years of hosting taught me to bring guests into the library or the formal living room. The great room was for family. Or overflow if a party was very large.
“While it takes away the fun of trimming the tree, these pre-lit ones really do make sure there isn’t a single bald spot, huh?” he asked, turning back to me, wincing a bit, making me painfully aware of my face, my clothes, my general not-put-togetherness. “How’s your throat feeling? Been a while since I’ve been choked out, but I remember that broken-glass feeling.”
Drinking my tea had been painful. I hadn’t even attempted the cookies that I knew to be rough and crumbly. “So long as I’m not eating, it’s not so bad.”
