Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” he says as I head straight for the espresso machine.
“Oh, today I get a greeting?”
“Yes, because today I need you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
He nods toward an invitation on the counter, near me. I tug it closer and read the words printed in a scrolling gold leaf font. It’s for a fundraiser benefitting the Global Wildlife Conservation that’s next Friday.
“So? Go. Have fun. Save the animals,” I say, pushing the invitation toward him.
“Read the envelope.”
I roll my eyes, but nonetheless do as he says.
It’s addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Walter Jennings II.
They’ve invited us both.
“I send my regrets,” I say simply.
His gaze implores me to please, for once, be easy.
“What? Why should I go?”
He doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods gently and glances back down at his iPad as if he expected nothing less.
Oh god. It’s like when a parent doesn’t say they’re mad, just disappointed. Dammit.
I owe Walt. For the last month, he’s given me a bed to sleep in, food to eat, he went out of his way to set up a studio for me in his library, and…though I hate to admit it, he puts up with my general nonsense.
“Fine.”
Without breaking eye contact with his screen, he replies, “Be ready at 7:30.”
What a romantic, over-the-top gesture! I’d just love to accompany you, Walt! Gee, lucky me!
Once he leaves for work, I sneak back into the kitchen to read the dress code on the invitation: black tie. Oh good, I have exactly zero ball gowns in my closet and no time to shop for one. Also, the last thing I want to spend my money on is a dress I will wear for four hours, tops.
I decide to table thoughts of the fundraiser for now and focus on my art. That works for most of the week, especially since Walt and I don’t cross paths at all. He seems intent on working himself to death, and I do the same. Thursday afternoon, I have a fleeting thought that I should go to a thrift store to look for a dress, but then I get too carried away on a piece I’m working on.
Friday morning, Mason unwittingly acts as my fairy godmother.
He calls me when I’m in the library, surveying the works I’ve already completed for my collection.
“Oh hello, Mason. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask, just trying to get some sort of response out of him that’s not animatronic.
“Hi, Elizabeth. I’m calling to let you know a personal shopper from Bloomingdale’s will arrive at the apartment at 4:30 this afternoon with dresses for tonight’s event.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a good day.”
Call ended.
Boy, I bet their office is a total riot. I bet the two of them just laugh and laugh and laugh all day.
I look down at the time on my phone, annoyed that it’s already half past nine. I have so much to do before 4:30. I could work all day and still not catch up with where I should be for the series I’m supposed to have ready for Nadiya soon.
I work tirelessly, skipping lunch, ignoring the fact that my hand is cramping. I drop my pastel crayon and shake my hand out, stepping back from my work and studying it. The distance helps put things into perspective. My eyes flit across the canvas, finding areas I still need to perfect.
“Mrs. Jennings?”
I jump out of my skin and turn, surprised to find Rebecca, the apartment’s concierge, at the door of the library. Jesus. I press a hand to my racing heart, trying to calm it down.
She smiles regretfully. “I’m sorry. I called your name when we stepped off the elevator, but you didn’t reply. I was told you were expecting us.”
“Is it already 4:30?”
Her smile widens. “4:32.”
Right. Well.
I look down at my stained hands, colorful pastel dust coating every finger. Then I look up and see that behind her, there is a team of people who’ve arrived to get me ready for the fundraiser, four of them in total. At the helm is a woman with a buzz cut à la Natalie Portman in V for Vendetta holding a huge black makeup caddy. A woman beside her is wearing a long floral-printed sleeveless blazer layered over a white turtleneck and carrying a tote overflowing with hair products. Behind her, two guys hang on to either side of a rolling clothing rack loaded up with garment bags from Bloomingdale’s.
I wince.
“Would it be okay if I took a very quick shower?” I ask, feeling guilty for wasting their time.
I really need to rinse off though. I have pastel dust in my hair and caked under my nails.
“That’s fine. We need to get set up anyway,” says the woman with the buzz cut.
“Where would you like them to wait for you?” Rebecca asks.
“Um…the great room? That way we have space for everyone.”