“Better,” I said, then turned back to Duke. “Speaking of paintings, can I ask you something I’ve always wanted to know?”
“Anything, darling.”
“Back at your penthouse,” I said, “you have a safe, right? A wall safe behind a mirror?”
“I do. Why do you ask?”
“We have one, too, behind a painting.”
“Mine’s behind the mirror, but go on. I’m intrigued by this line of questioning.”
“I’ve always wanted to know what you keep in it. I’m not being nosy.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really? Sounds rather nosy to me. Good thing I like your nose.”
I laughed. “It’s a literary question. Every Ducky has their theories about it. It’s supposedly symbolic of—”
“Excuse me, what? Ducky?”
I blushed crimson. “Um…so, your readers have their own nickname. We call ourselves Duckies. Duke? Duck? Get it?”
It was worse than it sounded. When I was eighteen, I desperately wanted to get a Ducky tattoo on my shoulder until Pops reminded me that were I ever to hop into a Nathaniel Hawthorne novel or short story, there was a very good chance it would be considered a devil’s mark, and I’d be hanged as a witch. So there went that idea.
“That is adorable, Ducky.”
Still blushing, I cleared my throat. “As I was saying…One person says your wall safe symbolizes secrets that can’t ever be told,” I said. “Another said it’s symbolic of, um…repressed sexuality.”
“That would be my best guess.” Duke nodded sagely.
“Or maybe it’s your underwear drawer.”
“What do you think is in there?” he asked. “What’s your guess?”
“If we’re speaking symbolically, I thought it might be…your grief.”
“I keep my grief in a safe? Why do you say that?”
“I think that’s where I keep mine—locked up. No father that I know of and my mother died when I was a baby. I…I sometimes want to talk about her, but I don’t like upsetting my grandfather. So I hide it away. Part of the reason I think I identified with you. You’d lost most of your family, too, but you carry on anyway.”
“I’m so sorry, Rainy.”
“It’s fine, promise.”
He stood up, Koshka in his arms. “You want to know what’s in the safe? I’ll show you.”
“You can’t show me. We’re in your office, not your—”
But in the blink of an eye—or the turn of a page?—we were in his penthouse apartment.
“I do like this power,” Duke said, glancing around in approval. “Good, Nigel’s gone to bed already. Don’t need him around tonight asking questions. Drink? Oh, damn, right. You can’t drink.”
“Stand by.” I held up my hand then dropped onto the sofa arm. “Having vertigo.”
Being in Duke’s office had been like visiting Santa Claus at the mall. Being in his penthouse was like getting to visit the North Pole. If the North Pole were a sumptuous bachelor’s paradise that took up the entire top floor of a swanky Chicago hotel.
“What do you think?” Duke asked, leaning against a black marble fireplace mantel. Koshka lay curled at his feet as if he owned the place.
“This sofa is trying to seduce me,” I said as I slid down the arm and onto the supple cushions.
