Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I ring off and get her two designer purses, each worth about ten thousand—a classic black Chanel flap and a Gucci Dionysus in suede, the chains tinkling softly as the saleswoman wraps them up. Out of sheer habit, I hold my breath as Carolyn Bessant’s black Amex card is swiped through the credit card machine, and I almost can’t believe it when it glides through the reader like it's nothing, the total flashing approved as if it is the most natural thing in the world. I arrange to have the stuff, along with the receipts, delivered to Emma. The store’s courier service promises same-day drop-off in the East Village.
Then I have another brilliant idea. I decide to commission Emma to do a little painting for the housekeeper as a gift—a whimsical watercolor of the estate's gardens, something personal—so that's more extra money for her as well, two thousand two hundred to be exact, wired via Venmo. That sure makes Emma very happy. She texts back a string of hearts and…
Thank u. Thank u. Thank u. Thank u from the bottom of my heart, Jules! You're a sweetheart and the best friend a girl could ever have.
Feeling very pleased with myself, I head out of the mall to where Franklin waits, the Bentley idling smoothly. As the car pulls away, I phone Eileen's Special Cheesecake in Nolita, that little shop on Cleveland Place, is legendary for its chocolate cake. I arrange a custom chocolate layer cake with buttercream frosting with Happy Birthday in elegant script, to be delivered on the day.
Ringing off, I think of exactly how I'm going to organize my surprise party. The music room with its grand piano and velvet settees would be the best place. I’ll get hundreds of balloons in gold and soft pastels, order a chocolate fountain from Godiva, and book a string quartet. Maybe even get a singing telegram. An Elvis one would be fun. But I require more logistical information and a way to make sure Dora suspects nothing while I plan and decorate.
I need someone else to loop into my secret, but don't know who to approach. The butler is too formidable, Blake's too intense, plus I’m staying well away from that simmering sexual tension he evokes in me. Even thinking about it now makes my skin flush. I’m not looking forward to seeing the disgust in Frances’s face, but she’ll have to do. She’s fierce, but there’s no undercurrent of heat to navigate.
I decide that I will go to her.
Chapter Nineteen
JULIET
As the Bentley passes through the magnificent mansion gates, I wonder if the day will come when I don’t feel awe at it. Franklin pulls up outside the front entrance. The sun has dipped low enough to paint the white stone facade in soft warm pinks and oranges, the air is golden and still heavy with humidity. It clings to my skin like a second layer as I step out. Since Franklin rushes to attend to my shopping bags, there is nothing for me to do but square my shoulders and saunter towards the door the way I imagine Carolyn would after a day out spending thousands of dollars shopping. The foyer is lovely and cool until Dora materializes suddenly as if she were a ghost.
“Shall I take those up to your room, Madam?” she asks frostily.
“No, no. I’ll take them myself,” I say, grabbing the shopping bags from a surprised Franklin. The tissue papers inside the bags rustle as I hurry up the stairs. I feel both of them staring at my departing back with some surprise. Clearly, Carolyn doesn’t carry her shopping. Not to worry, Dora and Franklin, in three months, things will all get back to normal. A thought pops into my mind: poor Freya. I push it away quickly. It would be stupid to get too close to the girl. This is not my family.
My mind buzzes with the details of the party as I hide all the presents in a closet and lock it. I pop the key into my purse. I pick up the bag with the Hermes scarf in it and go to look for Freya’s grandma.
When I pop over to her quarters, the two maids who are cleaning her room tell me that she is in the conservatory. I thank them and wander towards the conservatory. Last time I was there the gardener was there. The potted ferns and orchids cast long shadows on the flagstone floor of the conservatory. Frances is having tea at a low wicker table by the French doors. Her silver hair looks like spun silk in the setting light, and she is holding a delicate bone China cup. Steam curls up. The only sound is the tick of the grandfather clock. It is a peaceful, idyllic scene, and it has ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ clearly written all over it.