Red Interlude (Moon Dance Book 2) by R. Saint Claire

Author:R. Saint Claire [Saint Claire, R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-03-26T05:00:00+00:00

I managed to avoid Jacobin for the rest of the night and the following morning. Over coffee in my hotel room, I Facetimed with Axel. With the deep planes of his face filled out, and his coloring improved, Axel looked like his old self, sitting on our thrift store sofa with a shaft of bright sunlight streaming in from our one living room window.

From all reports, Wanda was taking good care of him, and his treatments were going so well, he hinted, that perhaps he would visit me when we were in Canada. That was the best news I had heard in weeks. So, with a spring in my step, I left the hotel for my appointment with Mrs. Vandegrift.

I knew the lady was wealthy, but still, my jaw positively dropped when I approached the four-story Madison Avenue mansion composed of smooth gray stones with a green copper roof. The glistening windowpanes reflected the traffic moving behind me. I nervously climbed the few wide steps to the door and pressed the doorbell. From inside the mansion, a muffled gong rang.

An elderly gentleman in a trim black suit opened the door with a smile. “Good afternoon, miss.” He held open the door for me and I wandered into the foyer trying not to gawk at the marble interior and the splashes of color from the enormous modern art canvases covering every inch of the walls. I’m not an art expert, but I recognized Warhol and Rothko in the mix.

The man, a butler I assumed, had just taken my coat when Mrs. Vandegrift floated down the curving staircase wearing a trailing hot pink muumuu shot with gold accents. She was beautifully made-up; her dark hair fluttered in waves to her shoulders. I tried not to cough at the heavy cloud of jasmine perfume preceding her.

“Lovely to see you, my dear,” she said, lifting herself in relevé to kiss both my cheeks. “Otis,” she said, referring to the butler, “we’ll have tea in the drawing-room. The afternoon sun is so nice in there.”

“Yes, madam,” replied Otis, his back a stiff plank as he turned and left the room.

“I hope you like a fire,” she said as she linked her arm in mine and led me across the marble floor. “This old house is so drafty.”

“Your home is beautiful,” I said, trying not to feel shabby in my black jeans, boots, and sweater.

She nodded. “Yes, I’m quite fortunate I was never forced to subdivide into—” her delicate shoulders shuddered with revulsion”—condos. Ah, here we are.”

We passed through opened pocket doors and entered the drawing-room. Floor-to-ceiling drapes framed two large bay windows in cascades of striped silk. The sparkling glass panes revealed a walled courtyard framing a winter garden. I don’t know Beidermier from Ikea, but the polished furnishings appeared old and expensive. A low fire added warmth to the wainscoted walls adorned with Hudson Valley landscapes.

“Your art collection is beautiful,” I gushed as Mrs. Vandegrift motioned for me to sit on a pink velvet armchair.

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