Open the Door

4 Marianne Freemantle

4 Marianne FreemantleThe double entry doors facing Marianne were ten feet tall and gleamed with a thick layer of yellow ocher paint. They remained firmly shut.

Impatient, Marianne tapped the pointy toe of her glossy black pump on the pebbled stone walkway.

Imagining the line of iconic red on the inside of the slimmed-down stiletto heel soothed her for half a second. She loved her shoes but she was freezing.

The outside temperature was less than forty degrees. Luckily, her thick chestnut- and caramel-colored hair felt as warm as it looked. But her expertly-styled bob only reached the nape of her neck.

She’d been standing on this covered walkway for sixty seconds and she could feel her body going numb.

Shivering, she wished she’d worn her suede trench coat after all.

She’d expected to be outdoors for only a few seconds and she hadn’t wanted to hide her flattering outfit under a coat.

Much better that Bruce Zachary opened the door and instantly got an eye-catching reminder of what he’d soon be missing.

The gunmetal-gray faux leather leggings showed off the well-toned muscles in her calves and thighs. She was in damn good shape for a woman pushing age fifty. Her personal trainer bragged that she had the legs of an eighteen-year-old.

She ran her finger tips lightly over the leggings, enjoying the slick finish. Edgy and unexpected.

Unfortunately, the nylon-spandex fabric did nothing to keep out the cold.

Her black tunic with the V-neck and elbow-length sleeves hung to mid-thigh but the lightweight rayon offered no protection.

She liked how the swingy shark-bite hem offered teasing glimpses of her ass. Right now, though, drafts of wintry air chilled her lady parts.

She had to get indoors before goosebumps pimpled her leggings.

The mortar-washed brick facade to the right of the doors sported a black matte security panel.

Frustrated, she stared at it, opening her eyes as wide as she could. The retinal recognition system was programmed to announce her arrival with an audio signal.

If Bruce couldn’t make it to the door, somebody else should’ve come running to open it.

Or had Bruce deleted her signal before she’d even left town?

The thought of such swift erasure enraged her. She pointed her index finger at the doorbell button, prepared to stab.

Before her fingertip hit, the yellow ocher doors parted.

She heard a few bars of “The Saints Go Marching In” and smiled.

Her signal, personally chosen by Bruce.

Though the only candidate for sainthood in Bruce’s life was the scrawny woman in front of her.

“Sorry it took me so long to answer.” Sue Zachary motioned Marianne inside and shut the doors. “I was dealing with a crisis in the kitchen.”

“No problem.” Marianne felt herself thawing.

The air in the ten-foot-square foyer was warm and smelled of freshly baked bread. A high ceiling, ice-white walls, and a bleached oak floor made the small space feel big and welcoming.

Her hostess’s no-nonsense approach to party attire was less inviting.

For this festive Boxing Day lunch, Sue had chosen a loose dark-blue wool sweater and lighter-blue corduroy trousers that hung on her spare frame.

Her skin was makeup-free, no hair had ever been plucked from her beetling black eyebrows, and her short soot-colored locks looked as if she’d been tugging on them.

As chairman of the Bruce and Sue Zachary charitable foundation, Sue liked to advertise that she didn’t waste time on fancy dress, upscale hairstyling, or personal grooming.

Anyone she met would understand that she was too busy methodically saving the world.

Today’s kitchen crisis, however, had her looking frazzled.

“I know I’m early,” Marianne admitted. “Bruce wants to talk business before the other guests arrive.”

Sue frowned, creating a black unibrow above her narrowed eyes. “Bruce is on a conference call with an investment group in Japan. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll be tied up.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Marianne said. “I’ll wait for Bruce in the living room.”

“You know the way.” Sue scuttled out of the foyer and made a sharp right toward the kitchen area on the long north side of the rectangular mansion.

Marianne strolled straight ahead through an interior sitting room decorated in silver, ivory, and gray. Four large framed paintings hung on the walls, cleverly illuminated by recessed spots.

She hadn’t noticed the room had no windows until her fourth or fifth visit to the six-thousand-square-foot mansion.

Still, she preferred the larger room at the rear of the house. Floor to ceiling windows and French doors filled the back wall and light flooded in from the west.

The glass door opened to a stone terrace overlooking Lake Washington. Stone steps connected to a pathway leading to the shoreline and Bruce’s private dock.

Across the water, the Space Needle rose above the downtown buildings, outlined against a clear blue sky. She sighed happily. She preferred this view of the Seattle skyline to any painting.

“You will knock them dead in DC,” a male voice said from behind her.

Bruce.

Smiling, she turned to face him.

He grinned at her, showing the overlap between his two front teeth that still charmed her.

He held a heavy green glass bottle in one hand, two champagne flutes in the other.

Bruce was ten years older than she was, his longish hair now totally white. But his well-pressed Levis and wine-red Polo shirt hugged a body nearly as fit as her own.

She waved away his compliment. “I won’t be wearing leggings in the nation’s capital.”

“Probably wise.” Bruce eyed her. “The way you look, you might start a riot.”

She laughed. “I’m more worried about upsetting the local fashionistas. Washington, DC is a tad more conservative than Washington State.”

“True, we Seattle folk are famously trendy. You don’t want to humiliate any Easterners in the new administration.”

Bruce lifted the bottle to eye level. “You’ll love this sparkling Riesling. It’s a stunner, grapes grown in the Snake River Valley.”

“Idaho wine? That’ll be a first for me.” She moved a crimson throw pillow aside and sank onto an armless white-upholstered easy chair.

She heard a satisfying pop and the liquid sound of bubbly pouring into crystal.

Bruce set two filled flutes on the table beside her and took the matching chair opposite.

Smoothing the front of her tunic, she inhaled his scent, cedar with hints of lavender, natural and spicy.

Bruce’s cologne smelled nice but its name didn’t fit him. Nobody could call him arrogant. His sense of his own abilities wasn’t exaggerated.

Bruce was so blissfully sure of himself, he didn’t bother to fix his front teeth.

She lifted her flute and sipped the fizzy beverage, savoring the fruity taste, a blend of pear, apple, and peach, accented with lime.

“Takes me back,” she said. “You served a Washington sparkling wine at your New Year’s Eve party when I first you.”

“Yakima Valley Pinot Gris Extra-Sec. I think of you whenever I open a bottle. Working together has been a treat. I’m going to miss seeing you every day.”

“I have to admit, I didn’t guess then that the job you offered would be so much fun. I don’t expect to enjoy myself as much in DC.”

“You may be surprised.” He raised his flute. “Here’s to happy endings and new beginnings.”

She touched her flute to his, smiling to let him know she got the message.

Their discreet affair was over. He was reluctantly cutting her loose.

And that suited her perfectly. Today, she’d calculated how to guilt him out of the ideal farewell gift.

“We’ll always be friends,” she said. “A shared admiration for Barry Goldwater is our bond.”

He smiled back. “Is there anything else we need to take care of before you leave?”

“Just one thing.”

She sighed.

“You have to neutralize Nora Dockson before she runs one of her slimy little numbers.”