splurge from one of the shops on the ship, her dress had a semi-revealing neckline. She fretted that maybe too much boob showed. Silver, with an asymmetrical hemline and a few sequins, she hoped it would be fancy enough with the matching heels and handbag, as well as some jewelry. This was a costume she wasn’t used to but with her long, blond hair in an up do, and some freshening up after the plane ride, at least she felt good about her appearance.
The driver pulled up at the closed iron gate. She stepped out into the mild heat of a sunny day in late September, in New York. As instructed, she pushed a button and announced herself so the man who answered would get James so he could bring his car down and unload the cab of her meager belongings from the ship. With her finger poised over the button, she heard the sound of voices, many voices. She peered around the gate, careful not to touch the thing, in case it had some fancy alarm or something as who knew how this worked. Maybe she’d just watched too many movies where the rich were being attacked for one reason or another.
In the distance, she could see the party, the whole side-yard filled with people holding crystal with drink and fancy food. Like a spy, she moved to the side, out of their view, so she could get a good look at them, but not before shooting the cab driver a warning glare not to judge her, and with a finger to her lips to shush him. Even though, what did he care with his meter running?
Her eyes narrowed. She let her mind do the stupid thing and compared her dress to the others she saw. James caught her gaze, all dressed up and looking much his role as James Alexander Whitmore III. This his casual dress clothes, she guessed his pony tail his only rebellion. Yet, he appeared draped in a woman wearing a white, sequined gown of sorts.
Not that she was an expert on clothing, but the chick looked over-dressed for even this sort of party. Backyard, yes, but barbeque, no. This was a catered event, a hobnobbing of potential clients. James had briefly provided her with a description, important for his father to look like a family man as well as determined, controlled, and the gracious host as he talked up his company of current and potential clients.
An odd wave of panic hit her. A foreign emotion, almost unidentifiable to one who thrived on new experiences, an adrenaline junkie for sure. Her heart screamed that too much was at stake, she needed some sort of training or something, a dummies book on cocktail parties of the rich and famous, before making a poor showing and blowing her chance to make a good impression on his parents.
He’d avoided the topic, but she had no idea what kind of information on her background Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore had received from James. In a panic she didn’t quite comprehend, she got back in the cab and instructed the man to take her back into the city. After some brief talk, the cabbie dropped her outside a coffee shop with her two large bags, thankfully on wheels, and three small bags in a neat stack beside her.
She picked a table, stashed her embarrassing array of stuff between the table and the wall, and ordered. Her phone rang, and she ignored it, her face already red, not knowing how to explain her pathetic actions. She took some time over coffee and a bagel to berate herself for her lack of courage in the face of difference. Her heart the culprit, vulnerable like it’d never been before, she talked herself around as her phone went off for the second time in twenty minutes.
She grabbed a book she’d been reading on the plane out of one of her bags, and tried to distract herself back into her thriller, back to where psychos killed what got in their way in the most gruesome of ways. Time passed slowly. Her stomach had really had enough as she sipped and sipped with nowhere to go.
Finally, sanity won out. Not wanting him to worry, she answered her phone the next time it rang five minutes later.
“Where the hell are
The driver pulled up at the closed iron gate. She stepped out into the mild heat of a sunny day in late September, in New York. As instructed, she pushed a button and announced herself so the man who answered would get James so he could bring his car down and unload the cab of her meager belongings from the ship. With her finger poised over the button, she heard the sound of voices, many voices. She peered around the gate, careful not to touch the thing, in case it had some fancy alarm or something as who knew how this worked. Maybe she’d just watched too many movies where the rich were being attacked for one reason or another.
In the distance, she could see the party, the whole side-yard filled with people holding crystal with drink and fancy food. Like a spy, she moved to the side, out of their view, so she could get a good look at them, but not before shooting the cab driver a warning glare not to judge her, and with a finger to her lips to shush him. Even though, what did he care with his meter running?
Her eyes narrowed. She let her mind do the stupid thing and compared her dress to the others she saw. James caught her gaze, all dressed up and looking much his role as James Alexander Whitmore III. This his casual dress clothes, she guessed his pony tail his only rebellion. Yet, he appeared draped in a woman wearing a white, sequined gown of sorts.
Not that she was an expert on clothing, but the chick looked over-dressed for even this sort of party. Backyard, yes, but barbeque, no. This was a catered event, a hobnobbing of potential clients. James had briefly provided her with a description, important for his father to look like a family man as well as determined, controlled, and the gracious host as he talked up his company of current and potential clients.
An odd wave of panic hit her. A foreign emotion, almost unidentifiable to one who thrived on new experiences, an adrenaline junkie for sure. Her heart screamed that too much was at stake, she needed some sort of training or something, a dummies book on cocktail parties of the rich and famous, before making a poor showing and blowing her chance to make a good impression on his parents.
He’d avoided the topic, but she had no idea what kind of information on her background Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore had received from James. In a panic she didn’t quite comprehend, she got back in the cab and instructed the man to take her back into the city. After some brief talk, the cabbie dropped her outside a coffee shop with her two large bags, thankfully on wheels, and three small bags in a neat stack beside her.
She picked a table, stashed her embarrassing array of stuff between the table and the wall, and ordered. Her phone rang, and she ignored it, her face already red, not knowing how to explain her pathetic actions. She took some time over coffee and a bagel to berate herself for her lack of courage in the face of difference. Her heart the culprit, vulnerable like it’d never been before, she talked herself around as her phone went off for the second time in twenty minutes.
She grabbed a book she’d been reading on the plane out of one of her bags, and tried to distract herself back into her thriller, back to where psychos killed what got in their way in the most gruesome of ways. Time passed slowly. Her stomach had really had enough as she sipped and sipped with nowhere to go.
Finally, sanity won out. Not wanting him to worry, she answered her phone the next time it rang five minutes later.
“Where the hell are
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