• • •
I have no idea where Porter’s taking me that is off camera.
First he digs up a weird old-fashioned key out of a desk drawer in the security room. ?en we gather up our stuff and head to the lost and found, where we score a baby blanket. Sure, it’s gross to think about using some stranger’s blanket, but whatever. It smells ne. ?en he takes me all the way down to the end of Vivian’s wing. ?ere’s a door here that’s been painted the same dark green color as the wall, and because of the lighting, it’s hard to see. I also know from memorizing the employee map that it’s not supposed to be there—as in, it shouldn’t exist.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Room one-zero-zero-one,” he says, showing me the old key, which has a tag attached to it. “Like, One ?ousand and One Nights, Arabian Nights, Ali Baba, and all that.”
“?ere’s another room? Why isn’t this open to the public?”
He hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder and attens his palm against the door. “Now, look. ?is is a huge Cavern Palace secret. You have to solemnly swear that you’ll never tell anyone what I’m about to show you on the other side of this door. Not even Gracie. Especially Gracie, because I love her, but she knows everyone, and it will y around faster than the chicken pox virus. Swear to me, Bailey. Hold up your hand and swear.”
I hold up my hand. “I swear.”
“Okay, this is the Cave’s dirtiest secret.” He unlocks the door,
ips on the lights, which take a second to icker on, and we step
inside a perfectly round room lit in soft oranges and golds. It smells a little musty, like a library that hasn’t seen a lot of action. And as Porter closes the door behind us, I look around in amazement.
?ick, star-scattered indigo curtains cover the walls. A cluster of arabesque pendant lamps hang in various lengths from the domed ceiling over a low, velvet cushion about the size of a large bed. It’s tufted and comes up to my knees, and crowning one side of it, like a half-moon, it’s surrounded by hundreds of small pillows with geometric designs that look like they came straight out of a palace in Istanbul.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Like a dream. I don’t understand why it’s not open. Are these pillows from the 1930s? ?ey should be preserved.”
Porter dumps his stuff on the oor next to the velvet cushion. “Don’t you remember your Cave history? Vivian hated Jay. When their marriage fell apart, he wouldn’t give her a divorce, so she had this room constructed as big middle nger to him. Come feast your eyes on her revenge. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He steps up to one of the starry blue curtains on the wall and lifts a golden cord to reveal a mural on the wall beneath. It’s a life-size art deco painting of Vivian Davenport dressed up as a Middle Eastern princess, with bells on her ngers and owers in her long hair, a sheer gown owing over her buxom, naked body. ?rongs of men in suits bow down at her feet.
“Oh … my … God,” I murmur.
?ere are several big-eyed smiling cartoon animals looking on, like even they can’t look away from the glory that is naked Vivian.
“Is that … Groucho Marx?” I say, squinting to look at one of the kneeling men.
“Vivian made history come alive,” Porter answers, grinning.
“Make it stop,” I say, laughing, and he closes the curtain.
I’m scarred for life, but it was worth it. We fall on the velvet cushion together, and a small cloud of dust motes ies up. I guess the janitorial service doesn’t come back here much. Porter fake coughs and brushes off the rest of the cushion.
?at’s when it hits me that this is a bed we’re sitting on. “You don’t think Vivian had crazy sex parties right here, do you?” I ask, moving my hand off the velvet. “More revenge against her husband?”
“Doubtful. But if she did, it was a hundred years ago,” he says, squinting his eyes merrily at me. “And it all ended so tragically for the both of them, what with her shooting him and killing herself, you almost hope she had some fun before it all went sideways, you know? Like maybe she actually modeled for that portrait.”
“Yeah.”
After a few moments of silence, a heavy awkwardness blooms in the space between us. Porter nally sighs, sits up, and begins stripping the radio equipment from his shoulder. My heart hammers.
He slides a sideways glance in my direction. “Look, I’m not getting naked or anything—cool your jets. How could I compete with all that wackiness on the walls, anyway? I just can’t sleep with a bunch of wires and crap attached to me. Or shoes. I’m leaving the shirt and pants on. You can leave on whatever you want. Ladies’ choice.” He winks.
His good humor puts me somewhat at ease, and I slip off my shoes next to his. He shuts off his radio and sets a timer on his phone for six thirty a.m. But when he takes off his belt, all the blood in my brain swooshes so loud, I worry I might be having an aneurism.
?e belt buckle hits the Turkish-patterned rug with a dull thump. “You’re a great mystery to me, Bailey Rydell.”
“I am?”
“I can never tell if you’re scared of me, or if you’re about to jump me.”
