Her face caved in on itself. “Oh. I didn’t mean it in a bad way at all—”
“That was a joke.” I took my card back. “A really stupid one. Sorry about that. I’ll just . . .” I lifted up the bag. “Thanks for the flowers. They’re beautiful. Have a nice night.”
She nodded once, mutely, and I pushed through the door out into the chilly night. My face burned, even though I told myself it didn’t matter. But God, did I always have to be such an asshole? What was it about being in the same city as Frances that turned me into a whiny, spiteful bitch?
And what did it say about me that I kind of enjoyed it when someone reminded me that my mother was considered a hack? Did it make me feel superior?
Ten minutes later, I arrived at my mother’s building. I took a moment to gather myself on the sidewalk and looked up. The place had been designed to impress—white limestone blocks stacked like sugar cubes, brass window grilles and doors flashing in the lights of passing taxis. All the windows glowed except the ones on the top floor, which was oddly dark in the cold, blue dusk.
Strange.
When I walked in, the doorman—not Paolo, a new guy—raised his index finger at me.
“Hold up,” he said. “Can I help you?”
I smiled at him, trying not to look as nervous as I felt. He smiled back, but it was more of a Hey, chica, what’s up kind of smile, like I was here to deliver some takeout. I got that a lot. The Mexican guys always assumed I was Mexican. The Persian guys assumed I was Persian. The Colombians, Puerto Ricans, Indians—all the same. They would make me whoever they wanted me to be, their all-purpose woman of color.
I didn’t mind it, honestly. I kind of considered it my own personal superpower, the ability to blend in wherever and with whomever. It allowed me to slip under the radar when I needed to. In reality, my genetic makeup was a fairly simple combination: I took after my long-deceased father, a blend of his Creole and Brazilian roots.
I straightened, shifted the bag to the other hand. “Delivery for Ashley. Penthouse.”
The new doorman puffed his chest—“Just a moment”—and picked up the phone. He covered the receiver. “Who?”
I hesitated a second, then glanced down at the burlap bag. “Bramble and Bloom.”
He waited, eyes flicking from me to the elevator. Finally he put down the phone. “Sorry. No one’s home.”
“They’re home. The flowers are for a party. Try again.”
He squared his shoulders. “You can leave them at the desk, and I’ll see that Ms. Ashley gets them when she returns.”
I sighed and chewed at my lip. “Actually, I’ll just go up. I’m . . . expected.”
Something flickered in his expression. “Oh, wait a second.” He pointed at me. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re . . . ? You’re her daughter, aren’t you? Paolo told me about you . . .”
He came around the side of the desk. No more hey-chica eyes, that was for sure. But something else had replaced them. A spark. The look.
God, it must be a full moon.
I executed a side maneuver and darted past him, around the leather chairs and a huge arrangement of tulips spilling over the inlaid table, into the cool, perfumed air of the elevator. I hit ten. His jaunty cap appeared around the corner, hopeful eyes wide beneath the patent-leather brim.
The closing doors silenced whatever he was about to say, and next thing I knew I was rocketing up into the building. I backed into the upholstered corner and exhaled. My feet throbbed from the long walk, and I sniffed at one armpit. It smelled like a nauseating combination of airplane, taxicab, and flower shop, but I’d have to forgo a shower. It was almost eight thirty. Frances had probably already wrapped up cocktail hour and started on the first course.
I rang the buzzer on the white enameled door with the brass number 10. Once, twice, then another long blast. No one appeared. I juggled my packages, fished my key ring out from my purse, and let myself in.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 2
Ambletern was quiet, too. Surveying it from the drive, Fay imagined it was not the kind of place to which families brought their noisy children on holiday.
Rather, lovers rendezvoused there. Scientists came to study the wildlife, and authors to write their spooky mysteries. Ambletern was a different sort of place, a house brimming with history and secrets and promise. A house where things happened.
With a flutter of excitement in her belly, Fay set her suitcase down on the sandy drive and lifted her long, red hair off her neck and into a clasp. She was already bathed in sweat.
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Four
The foyer and the rooms beyond in my mother’s apartment were dark, everything strangely silent. I paused, set the flowers and macarons on a glossy table, and walked into the living room.
Nothing much had changed since I’d last been here three years ago—it still looked like a magazine spread. The room was swathed in shades of pale pink and cream and furnished with the perfect combination of antiques and elegant, custom-made furniture. A Gustavian clock ticktocked on the carved marble mantelpiece. Above that, my mother, in a green silk ball gown rendered in flattering oil brushstrokes, smiled down at me. I averted my eyes.
As usual, there was not a speck of dust anywhere. Nor were there any party guests. The place was empty.
I slipped off my shoes and padded across the thick Persian rug, turning on lights as I went. I pushed open a window, breathed in the cool, exhaust-laden air, and went into the kitchen. The marble counters were spotless, appliances tucked away in the pantry. No sign of a catering staff having been here.
I flung open the doors of the massive Sub-Zero fridge. One lone, unopened bottle of champagne sat on the shelf.
“Hello, darling,” I said.
I filled a coffee mug to the brim, then continued my cursory check of the apartment. The dining room, library, and salon. Down the hall to the bedrooms. Halfway to the master, I pulled up short. The door to Frances’s study was closed, but there was a sliver of light glowing under it.
I knocked softly. “Frances?”
There was a rustling sound, then a sharp thump. On instinct, I stepped back.
“Frances?” I said again.
I heard more rustling on the other side, then silence.
I’d encountered my mother’s crazed fans before, and they were the real deal. Fucking one hundred percent, off-the-charts insane. The person in there could be anyone—a college student who’d recently discovered Kitten in his Contemporary American Horror class and wormed his way past the new doorman; some rando teenage stalker who’d dug up Frances’s address and wanted to ask her to his prom. Or maybe it was one of the really crazy ones, the kooks who called themselves the Kitty Cult. Those were the ones who clotted up the Internet with their fanfic, creepy art, and nutso conspiracy theories about her book.
I wished desperately for pepper spray or a rape whistle. Or a gun.
I squared up to the door, my pulse hammering. “Whoever’s in there, you better show your face right now.”