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I draw a deep breath. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”
He shrugs. “Okay. If you say so.”
I say so. I know Rainier doesn’t like the Northups, and I’ve heard what people think of them, but I want to get to know them myself. After all, I might be one of them.
“Okay.” I turn on my heel to walk out of the room.
“Wait,” Rainier calls after me.
I turn again. He hands me a business card. I look at it and find the name of a high-end hotel on the Magnificent Mile.
“What is this?”
“Go to that hotel. Ask for Brenda. She’ll help you pick an engagement ring at their jewelry shop. Also, she’ll help you find clothes to wear from their boutique. You’re going into a den of wolves. You have to be dressed like one.”
I guess he has a point. I can’t very well go to a Christmas party being thrown by a wealthy family looking shabby, especially not when I’m going as Rainier’s fiancee.
I tuck the piece of cardboard into my pocket. “Okay. I’ll drop by after work.”
“Good. Enjoy.”
Enjoy? I’m not doing this for fun. Still, I give Rainier a smile before leaving his office.
Outside, I take out the business card again and take a breath.
I guess I really am doing this.
~
As Rainier’s car goes up the private road leading to Northup Manor, my heart starts hammering in my chest in excitement. I can barely see anything through the curtain of snowflakes, thicker here in northern Maine than in Chicago, but I can tell we’re on a huge property. I bet the house is massive.
And it is. As the car pulls into the courtyard, the sheer size of it takes my breath away.
It looks like a royal palace, its wings stretching left and right. And I have to crane my neck to see the chimneys. It looks old, at least half a century old, and yet it doesn’t seem to show any signs of fading. Even veiled in snow, I can sense its strength, enough to weather any storm, and its proud determination to last decades more. I can feel it boasting of its grandeur, overwhelming, intimidating, forbidding even.
Rainier places his hand over mine. “We can still turn back.”
I shake my head.
True, there’s something about this place that isn’t warm or inviting. If not for the bright lights shining through its many windows, it would look like a behemoth that none would dare approach. And yet, I’m not afraid.
This house, haunting as it is, calls to me. My pulse quickens.
“Let’s go inside,” I tell Rainier.
“Okay.”
We step out of the car. As men in doorman uniforms – buttoned up, high-collared black jackets over black pants and white gloves – come down the wide stairs to help our driver with the luggage, Rainier leads me up the steps. An icy breeze whips against my cheeks. I grip Rainier’s arm tighter.
At the top of the stairs, more men in uniform wait. One of them opens the door. Another standing on the other side asks for my coat. I’m reluctant to shed it, because I still feel cold, but Rainier hands his over and I do the same. I rub my arms through the sleeves of my knitted dress as we go up another set of stairs.
“Are you okay?” he asks me.
“Yeah,” I tell him while trying to keep my teeth from chattering. “Just cold. You didn’t tell me it would be this cold.”
“If I had, would you have decided not to come?”
“No.”
Nothing would have kept me from seizing this rare opportunity.
“Thought so.” Rainier grabs my hand and warms it in his. “Don’t worry. It should get warmer soon.”
Sure enough, after we go through another set of doors, the chill in the air vanishes, replaced by a welcome warmth. One of the reasons for that must be the large fireplace I see, its flames blazing wildly to ward off the cold. I also see two Christmas trees on either side of it, their boughs heavy with tinsel and large ornaments, one dressed in silver and the other in gold. In any other case, they would have been the center of my attention. Instead, my gaze lingers over the portrait above the mantel – a family portrait which I can only guess must be of the Northups.
I step forward to take a closer look. There are six people in the picture – an old man, two other men who look about half and a quarter of his age respectively, and three women who look like they belong to two different generations. Half of them have flaxen hair like mine, the other half have darker hair – yet all of them have blue eyes.
A lump forms in my throat. Just like mine.
“You should stop looking at that,” Rainier tells me in a whisper. “They’re not as nice as they look in that portrait. It’s just setting you up for disappointment.”
