“I know you aren’t proposing to make me yourmistress.”
“No—of course not?—”
“Then why did you send me $106,473?”
“They won’t let me take out more at once,” I said anxiously. “Baby girl, if this is about money?—”
“It isn’t,” she said, in a tone so icy I felt my balls draw up in my body.
“No—just an advance on your salary,” I protested, feeling the bottom drop out of me. “Because you’ve helped me so much?—”
But once again she was gone and I had failed.
Shit. Now where had she gone and where was she planning to meet Matt?
My gut heaved as I clutched at the back of the couch.
What was going to work?
It was now obvious I had supremely fucked up and I did not know how to fix it.
I wanted to fix it, but the panic made my brain sluggish, slow.
How to get Rosalie back?
The next thing I knew, I was getting a panicked call from Cornelius.
“You better get down here, Kingsley! Look what your little delinquent friend is doing for your PR chances!”
CHAPTER 10
Rosalie
Boy, when Dolly decided to let loose, she didn’t go by half-measures.
I was happy to let her try on some of my clothes, and the dark green Victorian dress was a little big on her, but she still looked startlingly gothic.
Looking critically at herself in the mirror, Dolly tied back her hair and left two long dramatic pieces in front.
“I feel alive!” she cried. “Let’s go find a haunted hotel and hunt for ghosts.”
“Baby steps,” I said, “let’s walk to the 45thstreet city graveyard instead.”
She told me practically her whole life story as we walked over, passing by the Chicago Riverwalk and grabbing some chestnut and lemon doughnuts from a street vendor.
It was pretty sad, really. She’d been raised by two domineering parents, who’d put her in harp lessons early and controlled every aspect of her performance style.
“To hell with them,” I said, opening the old lattice-work gate to the graveyard. “Tell them to fuck off and email me if they have a problem with it. You’re a grown, successful adult now. You can do as you please.”
“I will,” she said. “I even,” and her voice dropped as her cheeks turned pink, “had a little bit of Kingsley’salcoholbefore we came over.”
And it seemed she was so inspired by her first shot of whiskey that at the sight of Hiram Ebenezer’s gravestone (b 1829- d 1943) she took bold action.
“Devoted father, loving husband, and horse racing enthusiast!” she cried angrily, pointing at the little emblem of a whip. “Mistreat those poor horses? How dare you!”
She began to wrestle off the decorative top of the gravestone.
“I agree with your sentiment, but the security guard might not,” I warned her.
