My eyes narrow at the insinuation there. Just how much has Francis told her about me?
“It is and yes, I think meeting would be a good idea.”
Jerome silently throws his hands in the air as though he’s done with me.
“Perfect, I’ll have Arnaldo whip something up for the two of us at my residence. I can have a car sent for you. Let’s say around one?”
Well, lah-dee-dah.
I think about telling her I can take the subway instead, but change my mind. Why should I use my money to come to her?
“That should work, the address is—”
“Yes,” she says, giving a small cough. “I’m aware of the address.”
“Actually,” I stress, feeling a tight smile come to my face. “I don’t live there anymore.”
“Oh?”
“Oh,” I say, my smile growing. Jerome gives me a cunning look as he observes. I give the address to his place.
“My, you certainly did move out, didn’t you?” Muffy remarks. I feel my blood boil at the obvious judgement. Jerome is definitely more than a hop-skip-and-a-jump away from the Upper West Side where I used to live.
“I look forward to seeing you at one, Muffy.” I make sure to add a little spice as I utter her name, then hang up before she can even respond.
“Done,” I say, giving Jerome and Annabelle a satisfied look.
“Honey child, I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah,” Annabelle says. “Good luck.”
Chapter Twenty-Three Honey
The address for Maude “Muffy” Sinclair Aston is about as upper-crust as I expected. Some grand mid-rise on the East Side abutting the park with a white-washed facade and a doorman in full uniform.
I’m in my standard pink.
No spa manicure today. Just one of the many things I have to start being self-reliant about.
With Jerome and Annabelle, it was fun though. After all, in a luxury day spa you don’t get uncensored trash talk while Diana Ross’s “Love Hangover” is blasting in the background.
I may not be Maude “Muffy” Sinclair Aston, however, I know what my charms are and the dimple I give to the doorman as he opens the door for me proves that you don’t need money to win people over. His cheeks are about as pink as the sweater I’m wearing.
I glide to the front desk and offer the same smile to the man in a suit. “I’m Miss Honey Dewberry, here to see Miss, ah, Muffy Aston.”
“Of course, Miss Dewberry. She’s expecting you. It will be the elevators to the right. The thirtieth floor. Residence 30A.”
“Thank you, kindly,” I simper.
A dimple rewards me with yet another shade of pink from him. I could certainly give Cupid himself a run for his money. It’s enough to re-bolster my spirits as I head up in the elevator, a pleased smile on my face. Francis may not think I’m worth more than his family business, but my smile could turn lead into gold.
I exit into a hallway that is fit for a royal palace. I doubt even The Ritz has such rich carpet and fine crown molding.
There are only four doors on the whole floor. Residence 30A (not “apartment” or “unit” but “residence”) is no doubt the one situated on the side facing Central Park. My suspicion is confirmed when I near it.
There’s a doorbell, understated and sophisticated. I press my finger into it and hear a noble chime on the other side of the door. It takes exactly five seconds for the door to be opened by a woman dressed in all black, from her thick tights and sensible shoes to the pencil skirt and high-collared blouse. A more diplomatic version of a housemaid, I suppose.
“Good morning, Miss Dewberry,” she says in a pleasant enough tone. “Please follow me. Ms. Aston is expecting you.” I don’t miss the difference in titles.
I’ve spent enough time orbiting in Francis’ universe to avoid being awed by “Ms. Aston’s” residence. I doubt the average house you’d find in the rest of the country has this much square footage.
But the vision of Central Park I’m met with when we finally reach our destination is enough to practically blow me over. It’s a panoramic view through the very large picture window looking out on the trees and the reservoir.
Muffy is seated at a table that typically seats four. She is in a simple but elegant pair of slacks and a blouse that I’m sure cost more than the monthly maintenance on this place. In person she looks even more severe than in her photos, made of thin edges, sharp points, and unyielding surfaces.
The camera not only adds ten pounds, but in her case, it obviously adds ten megawatts of charm. But heck if she doesn’t look elegant.
“Forgive the humble accommodations,” she says with a cool but casual air. “This is one of the more comfortable residences I use while I’m in the city.”
If she’s hoping to leave me nonplused, she’s going to be disappointed.
“Oh, don’t go gettin’ embarrassed on my account,” I say in a sweetly sympathetic voice, drenched in that Georgia accent that I know for a fact works wonders in chipping away at even the most hardened exteriors. “I’ve certainly seen worse.”
To her credit, she keeps her cool, and a tiny smile that hints at respect touches her lips. I can practically see the wheels in her head shifting gears as her entire inner workings realign to accommodate this version of me she probably didn’t expect.
The woman who opened the door for me steps in to offer something to drink. Despite Muffy’s suggestion for food, I certainly don’t intend to stay that long.
Still, no need to be rude. I match her request for tea and we have the room to ourselves again. The time is spent sizing each other up, both of us realizing there’s no reason to get into it before the tea is brought back.
“As I stated, Arnaldo can make us something. He makes a wonderful egg-white, feta and chive omelet or perhaps—”
“I don’t want food.”
“Very well,” she says thinly.
When the tea is poured, the
