“I’m a master of the charade,” Greta said, a phrase she’d been repeating to herself for eight hours. “God, it’s quiet!”
“We’re in the country. What did you expect?”
“Church bells,” Greta whispered.
Big Swiss gave her a frightened smile. Stay out of her transcript, Greta ordered herself.
“Cowbells,” Greta said quickly. “Listen, I may have eaten a tiny amount of mushrooms about an hour ago.”
“Fuck,” Big Swiss said. “Will you be able to eat fondue?”
“Well, I’m not hallucinating,” Greta said. “But on the way here, I became completely entranced by a vision of your home life, only to realize that it was a pornographic commercial for Swiss cough drops. And then I wondered why they don’t make pornographic commercials in general. Like for potato chips. So, I don’t know, I guess I’m a horny mess.”
“What else is new,” Big Swiss said.
“Here,” Greta said, and brought forth two bottles of Grüner Veltliner.
“Perfect,” Big Swiss said. “We can’t get drunk, though.”
You can’t, Greta thought. I’m free as a bird. Except I can’t fly. Because I’m broken.
Greta gazed at the wall of antique mirrors hanging above a vintage settee. The umbrella stand seemed worth six grand. The spiky chandelier, sixteen. Dear god, was that an authentic Cy Twombly scribble painting?
“Where the hell am I?” Greta said. “Who are you?”
Big Swiss shrugged. “Luke’s grandfather was an architect. His grandmother was a decorator. Luke always knew he’d inherit this house.”
“Which is why he had them killed,” Greta said. “Or killed them himself?”
“They died six months apart,” Big Swiss said. “Cancer and a broken heart.”
Greta exhaled. “You could’ve warned me.”
“Take off your shoes,” Big Swiss said.
“I’m not wearing socks.”
“The floors are heated,” Big Swiss assured her.
They entered what Big Swiss called “the great room.” Weeks ago, when Greta had asked Big Swiss what sort of house she lived in, Big Swiss had only described it as “glassy.” There hadn’t been any mention of twenty-five-foot ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, lime-washed walls, or smooth stone slab floors.
For once, Greta could feel her own mouth quivering. Her mouth, and something else. It was like receiving oral from someone with the ability to vary the texture of their tongue. Silk, velvet, leather, chrome, cashmere, sturdy linen—all were present and lapping at her persistently. She’d never seen a double-sided… couch. Not in person, anyway. Nor had she seen so many small exotic stools, and no two alike, scattered around one room. A huge, freestanding fireplace wrapped in fieldstone separated the living and dining areas. One side of the double-sided couch was oriented toward the fireplace, the other toward the view. Vintage oriental rugs lay at unexpected angles. She loved every lamp immediately, and there were many. A lot of effort had been put into making everything seem unfussy and haphazard—hence, the ancient wicker chaise in the corner—but Greta wasn’t buying it. Everything was just so, the total opposite of Greta’s house, where everything just was. And the view—well. The view was highly intentional, clearly the starting point of the whole enterprise. When Greta had first pulled up to the house, she’d sensed something big in the backyard, some grand expanse, and she saw now that it was a clear blue lake. A nearly turquoise lake. On the other side of it, moody purple mountains.
“Is that yours?” Greta asked, and pointed out the window.
“The boat?” Big Swiss said.
“The lake,” Greta said.
“Of course not,” Big Swiss said. “That’s Sleepy Hollow Lake.”
Luke wandered in from somewhere, looking a little sleepy and hollow himself, except that he was gripping a hand squeezer. He was both taller and handsomer than she’d imagined, and wore a loose-fitting cashmere sweater with track pants, but Greta immediately pictured him stark naked, gazing out at the lake at dawn, laughing like Howard Roark. He seemed slightly confused by Greta’s yellow coveralls.
“Good evening, sir,” Greta said. “I’m here to wash your windows.”
“You’ll be here all week, then,” he said softly, and smiled. “Nice to finally meet you, Rebekah.”
“Put down the panic gripper, Luke,” Big Swiss said.
“Gripmaster,” Luke said gently.
He placed it in his pocket and shook Greta’s hand. Big Swiss passed him the wine Greta had brought.
“Stick these in the fridge. Bring Rebekah a glass of champagne.”
“Anything else, Flav?” he asked.
“The cheese,” Big Swiss said. “Check the cheese.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Little bubbles,” Big Swiss said. “Don’t let it burn.”
If the whole house hadn’t smelled like Gruyère, Greta would’ve assumed they were speaking in code. She felt unprepared for all the name-calling. Naturally, Luke called Big Swiss by her real name, Flavia, and he called Greta by her fake one, and Greta wasn’t used to any of it, because she and Big Swiss only called each other You.
“You want a tour?” Big Swiss said then.
“You just want me to see your bedroom,” Greta whispered. “Don’t you.”
“You should see it,” Big Swiss said. “You should see our bathroom, too.”
“Your call,” Greta said. “Actually, can you show me later?”
They wandered over to the dining area, where a long wooden table was set for three at one end. Fresh peonies drooped in bud vases. Three Noguchi pendants floated above the table like pregnant moons. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but Big Swiss lit too many candles and directed Greta to sit at the head of the table. Luke approached, carrying the fondue pot. He set it down, lit the burner underneath, and then they settled on either side of Greta.
But where was Silas?
“Sulking,” Big Swiss said. “He’s upset you didn’t bring Pi?on.”
Thank god she’d left him at home. He would’ve humped the whole house by now, or at least one or two poufs. And Silas’s face, of course, but that was a given. Then again, if he were there, Greta would have been smiling right now. Pi?on always brought the party.
“Pi?on,” Luke said slowly. “Your husband?”
Greta looked sideways at Big Swiss. Did you tell him I’m married? To a man named Pi?on?
“Pi?on is her child,” Big Swiss said. “Except he’s a dog.”
He’s my inner child, Greta thought, which is why he growls at you.
“Oh right,” Luke said, and shook his head. “Pi?on, the Jack Russell. Of course. Flavia tells me they get along great. Which is a relief. Silas doesn’t have many friends.”
“Oh, they’re more than friends,” Greta said, and winked.
“How’s that?” Luke asked innocently.
“Silas has huge balls,” Greta said. “As you know. But he also smells male, which engenders a lot of same-sex aggression and obsession.”