“I should get this little lady to a bed.” He makes his suggestion sound raunchy and his friends do not miss a beat.
There are jeers and quippy remarks about getting me in a bed and not letting me get out because I’m a keeper and he usually dates throwbacks. I'm assuming it's some kind of fishing reference but again I'm too tired and hazy-minded to keep up with their billionaire banter. We say our goodbyes and Marcel calls a car. The limo that took us from the airport to the pub picks us up and I snuggle against Marcel at his beckoning, cuddling into his arm and resting my head on his chest. I feel warm and secure in his embrace.
“Go ahead and close your eyes.” He gives me permission to sleep, so I do and within seconds, we’re at a mansion and, when I say mansion, I mean sprawling estate. The car pulls around a circular driveway in the front of a massive set of stairs that lead to enormous double doors.
“Where are we?” I ask, opening my eyes and acclimating to our location.
“I live here,” he says softly.
“In all of it?” I cannot believe that one person resides in this freaking massive house that should accommodate millions of people, or at least twenty or more.
“Well, I must admit I don’t really live in all of it. I have a wing and I keep to it usually, but the whole house is mine. I throw pretty large lavish parties in the summer and I’m happy for the extra space then. Otherwise, it’s just me and a half a dozen staff members.”
“A half a dozen?” I’m shocked.
“Well, I have a butler who is like a household assistant; he manages all of the maintenance and staff schedules. There aretwo housekeepers who do the laundry and cleaning. I also have a chef, and he has an assistant so there is someone always on call. Finally, I have a personal assistant who keeps track of my business and personal appointments and what not. There’s also a gardener and pool person and various others who come and go. The six I employ full time live on the grounds and work every day in some capacity.” He tells me this as if he’s reading off a grocery shopping list.
“How come your assistant didn’t come to Rhode Island?” I’m curious why I haven’t met anyone he knows but the odd driver here and there.
“Clive manages my life from my home base. We usually talk by text. There’s no need for a conversation. He puts things in my calendar, texts me or emails if it's more detailed and I approve or disapprove. If we need longer conversations I have them with him in private because he manages my business and home life. When I move to Rhode Island for the project, he’ll likely come, but he does have a wife and baby so ...” His face crumbles a little.
“You’re a good man for a Grinch,” I say, since he really is proving to be that.
“I’m still a dick, don’t let my sporadic kindness overshadow how shitty I am.” I’m not sure if he’s joking.
A man a few years older than Marcel opens the door.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur,” he says in a thick French accent. The rest he speaks in English. “Will you be needing Mr. Cosgrove this evening?”
“No Jacques, we’ve eaten. Unless …” Marcel looks at me. “Are you still hungry?” He asks, looking worried.
“No, I’m very full,” I laugh and it sounds weirdly giddy because I’m not entirely comfortable.
The butler eyes me suspiciously. “I’ve had a room prepared for the Mademoiselle. There are toiletries and amenities already laid out.” Yikes, does he have women over so often that they’ve got women’s amenities at the ready?
Well, I guess now is the time when I’ll see Marcel’s true colors.
“Thank you, Jacques. She’ll be staying in my wing,” Marcel says as he pushes past the man and offers me his hand as I step over the threshold.
“I can stay in the guest room, if you want.” I nearly trip into him.
“I don’t want.” He gives me a tired smile.
Soaring ceilings highlight the grand staircase, the glinting chandeliers, and everything is as if it stepped right out of a French magazine. It’s a mix of modern and antique, elegant, and masculine. I can’t quite describe Marcel’s decorating tastes. It’s like a hunting lodge and a garden party slammed into one another and made each a little less garish. I’m in complete awe, I’m not going to lie, though the opulence does kind of build a wall between us. Last night we were crammed into an attic bedroom, and tonight we’re in the Smithsonian Museum. There are worlds between us. No wonder the only place we had in common was an airplane, in no other place on earth would our lives ever cross.
“I'll show you to the room that Jaques set up for you just so you can take a shower and change into your nightwear. I’ll answer some emails and tie up a few loose ends before we go to bed.”
I believe I'm being dismissed so I nod my head and put on a fake smile.
“Of course. Show me the way,” I say and follow him as we go up a flight of stairs.
On the ceiling above the staircase is a mosaic made of clear pieces of glass in geometric patterns. You can see the night sky and stars twinkling through the moonlight which is refracted onto the staircase making it look ethereal.
“That window is incredible.” I marvel at it, being an architecture student and one who studies ancient buildings. I know for a fact this was lifted from a church or some other building and must have cost millions of dollars.
“Leave it to you, Juliet to notice my prized possession. This is a stained glass mosaic mosque window from the Ottoman empire. It is priceless and it makes this house a home.”
I agree that the glass is beautiful, but I don’t think it makes his opulent, sprawling, dwelling very homey.
