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“Hello,” the woman said in her low, husky voice. “Welcome to Bella Luce. Ms. Hennessy, correct?”
“Yes,” Maire said, trying to peer behind the woman and into an atrium. Inside was a fountain with a life-size statue of a beautiful woman holding a mask of a man with wild eyes and a twisted grimace. From the open cavern of the mask’s mouth, water gushed. Maire was overcome with a current of dread and she had to force herself to look away from the statue.
“I’m Fern Espa, we spoke on the phone. Welcome.” The woman offered a hand and Maire took it. Fern’s grip was strong but slick with sweat. She was nervous, Maire thought, glad she wasn’t the only one. “I’m the host of the show and that is Melpomene,” Fern said, nodding at the fountain just beyond the window. “One of the nine muses. We call her Mel. Please come in.”
“I’m sorry,” Maire said, shaking her head. “I’m just a little confused. I was expecting to be taken to the resort. I’m not sure where I am or why.”
“Our cocktail party is an extra treat for the contestants,” Fern said, fiddling with an earpiece tucked in her ear. “We thought it would be nice for you to meet your fellow players before the competition begins. Now, please come in.”
Hesitantly, Maire stepped through the front door onto terra-cotta set in a fishbone pattern. Her mind was still spinning. Wasn’t Fern the production assistant whom she had been corresponding with? And now she was introducing herself as the host of the show?
“Imported from Italy,” Fern said, mistaking Maire’s quizzical expression as interest in the flooring. “Please excuse some of the mess. The owner is doing some restoration. The estate was built in the late 1800s and much of the home’s bones come from the Lombardo region.”
Maire nodded. The entryway was dimly lit from above by a crystal-and-iron chandelier hanging from a domed ceiling. On the right hung a full-length mirror in a gilded frame, where Maire caught her reflection. With her unruly red hair, oversize cardigan, wrinkled cargo pants, and shearling-lined moccasins, Maire looked as rumpled as she felt. Her shoulders sagged. She wasn’t prepared for this.
Next to the mirror was a side table that held a crystal vase filled with a graceful mix of blush-pink roses, hydrangeas, and lisianthuses. On the opposite side was a round marble base with a sculpture of a woman holding a lyre.
“Calliope, another muse,” Fern explained. “Now, I’m afraid this is the awkward moment when I have to ask you for your cell phone,” Fern said, biting her lip.
Maire narrowed her eyes. “My phone? Why?”
“It’s for security reasons,” Fern said, pointing to a lockbox sitting atop a waist-high pillar.
“Security?” Maire repeated.
“For the show,” Fern explained. “You cannot begin to know how many people would like to get a sneak peek into what’s going on here. There could be spies anywhere. Part of the intrigue of the game is all the secrecy we have around it. Everyone on set has to relinquish their phones for the duration. It’s in the contract.”
Maire remembered seeing something about phones and confidentiality in the contract but figured that just meant that the players couldn’t share pictures or videos. “But what if I need to contact my children?” Maire asked, panic threatening to take over. She hadn’t gone a day without talking to her kids. “My daughter has a chronic health condition,” Maire said. “I need to be able to check in with her and be reached if there’s an emergency.”
“I’m sorry,” Fern said frowning, “but it’s in the rules. I’m sure you understand that if key details are revealed, it would be devastating for the show. We can’t risk that, but I promise if we get an emergency call, I’ll let you know.”
What if Dani’s cough got worse? What if she was suffocating in her own mucus right now? Regret surged through Maire. Why was she doing this? What was worth being away from her children for two weeks? Ten million dollars, she reminded herself.
Her phone was the only remaining thread that connected her to Keely and Dani, but she reluctantly handed it to Fern, who dropped it through the box’s narrow slot. Maire tried to push the girls from her thoughts. She needed to focus, put all her energy into winning the money.
Fern briskly led Maire through a great hall with more stone flooring and another curved ceiling. Against one wall was towering scaffolding. Maire craned her neck to get a better look at the burgundy leaves, baroque curls, and vines that adorned the dome.
“How big is this place?” Maire asked, her voice echoing against the walls as they passed through the church-like space, with its stiff, ornate furniture and the exotic scent of orchids.
Fern didn’t miss a stride as she ticked off the list on her fingers. “Seven bedrooms, a music room, eat-in kitchen, atrium, small chapel, dining room, formal living room (we call it the white room), a sunroom that serves as a more casual gathering area, theater room, indoor pool, outdoor infinity pool, and, of course, a wine cellar.”
“And someone lives here?” Maire asked, marveling at the scope of it all.
Fern paused in front of a door inlaid with intricate carvings of flora and fauna. “Yes,” she said, “though the owner wishes to remain anonymous at this point. And here is the library.”
Fern twisted the knob of a door and pushed it open to reveal floor-to-ceiling shelves made with foreboding, dark walnut and filled with leather-bound books. The coffered ceiling matched the wooden shelves. Half the books could only be reached by a tall library ladder on wheels. And there were more flowers. In this room, the vases were filled with hundreds of ruffled, wine-colored buttercups, so dark they almost looked black in the dim room.
Maire’s eyes landed on a stranger who stared back at her. He stood next to the ladder, wineglass in hand. He looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps in his seventies, he wore khaki pants and a red golf shirt, with a full head of sandy hair and a ruddy, lined face that once must have been handsome or boy-next-door cute. Maybe a former football player gone to seed. He lifted his glass toward her and smiled broadly.
“Would you like something to drink?” Fern asked.
Maire pulled her eyes from the man. “Whatever’s open is fine with me,” Maire said.
“How about a pinot? The grapes are grown right here,” Fern explained.
Maire nodded. Fern moved to a table lined with wine bottles, selecting one and pouring a glass while Maire regarded a second table filled with platters of food. Though she was starving, the man hadn’t filled his plate. She covertly studied his face. Where did she know him from?
“Will the others be arriving soon?” Maire asked. “How many of us will there be?”
