An ornate divided staircase curved up around the tapestry couch on which I sat, teeth chattering. There was a low table at my knees, and a tall vase filled with deep blue irises graced its flawless surface. I loved irises and the welcome reminder that, all evidence to the contrary, spring had to be just around the corner. An icy drop of water slithered down my neck, but I kept my eyes on the flowers, comforted by the thought that someday soon it would be warm again.
My host cleared his throat. I looked up and saw that he was carrying an armful of clothes—a hooded sweatshirt and some sweatpants, in crimson. Harvard, I thought.
“Here you are,” he said, handing them over.
I looked at them blankly.
“I thought you might want to change into something dry,” he offered. “I keep these on hand for the club, and trust me, they’re clean.” He patted his fairly ample midsection. “I don’t use them as often as I should. I would’ve had proper clothes for you to change into, but I wasn’t sure…” He looked me up and down in a way that wasn’t remotely flirtatious. If it had been, at least I would have known what was going on. “Size eight?” he asked.
I nodded, not knowing what else to do.
His face lit up. “I’ll remember that. But in the meantime, this is the best I can do. Will you take them for now, with my apologies? You can slip into them in the changing room. Right along here.”
I hesitated. I didn’t usually accept favors from strangers. Then I considered my blue-tinged fingertips and decided to force myself to make an exception this one time. I followed him down the hall, through a magnificent set of double doors and a sumptuous office, to what he had called the changing room. He set out a pile of towels and left, shutting the door behind him.
The changing room was to bathrooms what the Taj Mahal is to the Little Brown Church in the Vale. I would have gladly moved into it and lived there for the rest of my life. It was as elegantly appointed as the entrance hall and spacious enough to hold everything I owned, with room to spare. I had never seen anything like it: shower stall and whirlpool bath in gray marble, closet space galore, sleek reclining leather chair, massage table, full-length mirrors, telephone, stereo system, television, VCR, the works. But the best part of all was a carpet so thick and soft that my toes almost got lost in it. I took my time getting changed, savoring the sensation of being in a place designed to please the eye as well as the body. When I had finished, I tiptoed back into the office.
My host was sitting on the edge of the desk. He sprang to his feet when he saw me.
“Socks,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Socks—I forgot dry socks. Here, take these, and give me those wet clothes. I’ll be right back.” We made our exchange and then he was gone again. The man was like a magic trick: now you see him, now you don’t.
I pulled on the socks and popped back into the changing room to take a look at my new ensemble. It was about what I had expected, considering the fact that the donor was at least eight inches taller than I and a good deal heavier. The sweatpants were baggy enough for two of me, the sweatshirt, complete with its Harvard insignia, came down past my butt, and the heels of the socks reached well above my ankles. My hair was beginning to dry, and my short, dark curls completed the effect. It wasn’t bad, if you go for the waif look.
“Comfy?” asked a now-familiar voice. I nearly jumped out of his socks. My host was looking in from the changing room doorway.
“Yes, thank you,” I answered, “and I appreciate the dry clothes, but… do you think you could tell me who you are?”
“Whoops. Sorry about that,” he apologized, “but you looked so damned wet and miserable that I thought introductions could wait.” He began to chuckle. “I’ll bet you thought I was the butler….” He changed his chuckle into a cough when he saw the look on my face, which told him plainly that I didn’t know what to think.
“I’m Bill Willis,” he said hastily. “Not William. That’s my father. We’re partners in the firm. Do you mind if I call you Lori?”
“No,” I said.
“That’s great,” he said. “Terrific, in fact. I can’t tell you how happy… But please, come in here, sit down, and have your tea. I’ve let Father know you’ve arrived and he’ll be here shortly. He’s thrilled that you’ve come. We’ve both been looking forward to meeting you. You have no idea.” His unexpected burst of enthusiasm hit me like a wave. I must have swayed on my feet because he was immediately at my side.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said as I waited for the room to stop spinning. This had happened once or twice before on days when I skipped meals, but I was mortified to have it happen now, in front of this rich, Harvard-educated lawyer. Holding myself very erect, I walked past him into the adjoining office and sat in one of the two high-backed leather chairs that faced the massive desk. “I’m perfectly… fine.”
“If you say so,” he said doubtfully, crossing from the doorway to the desk. A silver tea service had been placed there. He poured a cup and brought it to me. “Maybe I should call for some food to go along with this.” He reached for the phone, but I held out a restraining hand.
“Please don’t,” I said, in an effort to salvage what was left of my dignity. “There’s no need. I said I was perfectly fine, and I meant it.”
He stroked his beard thoughtfully, then nodded, once. “Okay. If that’s what you want. But at least get some of the tea inside you. I don’t want Father to think I’ve been inhospitable, and he’ll be here any minute.”
* * *
The sovereign remedy worked, as always, and by the time William Willis, Sr., entered the room, I was able to view him with something approaching equanimity. It was hard to believe he was related to Bill. A slight, clean-shaven man in his early sixties, with a high forehead and a patrician nose, he was impeccably attired in a black three-piece suit. Not only did Willis, Sr., dress better than his son, but while Bill had been almost too friendly from the moment I’d staggered through the front door, his father was as formal as an etiquette book, as though he knew the exact amount of pressure—in pounds per square inch—his handshake should exert, under these and any other circumstances. He was scrupulously polite, but he gave no indication of being thrilled about anything. What could Bill have been talking about? Sprawled comfortably in the leather chair beside my own, he had fallen silent at his father’s entrance, and was watching him with an inexplicable gleam of excitement in his eyes.
After the punctilious handshake, Willis, Sr., seated himself behind the desk, unlocked the center drawer, and removed a file folder, which he placed carefully on the desk before him. He opened the folder and studied its contents intently for a moment, then cleared his throat and raised his eyes to mine. “Before continuing, young lady, I must ask you a few questions. Please answer them truthfully. Be advised that the penalties for misrepresentation are grave.”
I felt a sudden urge to look to Bill for support, but I quelled it. Bill, for his part, remained silent.
“May I see your driver’s license?”
I pulled my wallet from the sweatshirt pocket and handed it to him.
“I see,” said Willis, Sr. “Now, will you please state your full name and place of birth?”