Coke is at the space when Jennifer arrives. She notices a bottle of scotch and two highball glasses on the black porphyry bar. An acoustic version of Bruce Springsteen singing “Fire” plays over the sound system. All the lights are out.
Coke is standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows looking northeast over the financial district and the seaport. To the west is Boston Common, the Boston Public Garden, and Back Bay. This penthouse has been designed to make the owner feel like the king of Boston.
“The views are much better at night with the lights off,” Coke says. “Can I fix you a drink?”
Jennifer is about to ask if he has any wine, but she doesn’t want to come off as fussy. She has never tasted scotch, although Patrick drinks it occasionally, so how bad can it be?
“Sure,” she says.
He pours them each a drink and they clink glasses. Coke says, “Not only the best interior decorator in Boston, but certainly the most beautiful. Do people ever tell you you look like Selma Blair?”
“All the time,” Jennifer says, because they do, and this gets a big laugh out of Coke. Jennifer laughs right along and takes a sip of her whiskey. It’s bitter firewater, but Jennifer savors the burn.
Jennifer pulls out her laptop, but Coke waves it away. “I don’t need to see the pictures,” he says. “I trust you.”
“Are you sure?” Jennifer says. These are the words every decorator wants to hear, but she’s wary. Most of the things she picked out are severe, but some are softer, such as two Kelly Wearstler soufflé chairs. The chairs verge on feminine, but Jennifer’s thought is that they will make the room seem inviting to women. She has also picked a selection of antique banks to line the accent shelf in the living space, since all she knows about Coke, really, is that he’s a banker. She also knows he’s a philanthropist to Boston charities—the Jimmy Fund, the MFA, Boston Ballet. And he’s something of a notorious bachelor, photographed with a different woman on the social pages of nearly every issue of Boston Common.
“I’m sure,” Coke says. “I did my research.”
“You looked at my designs online?” Jennifer asks.
“Some,” Coke says. “I learned what I could about you as a professional and as a person. You grew up in San Francisco, you attended Stanford, you worked for six years at Christie’s, you’re married to Patrick Quinn, formerly of Everlast Investments, and stood by his side while he served time for insider trading. You live on Beacon Street in the house that has the Christmas tree in the bay window, the one all the tourists take pictures of.”
“Wow,” Jennifer says. “I’m flattered. And also a little frightened.”
“Well, I figure if I’m going to be paying someone north of half a million dollars and entrusting her with a budget that’s four or five times that, then I’d better know who I’m dealing with.”
Jennifer nods slowly and takes a closer look at Coke. He’s six feet tall, has salt-and-pepper hair. He’s reasonably well built, but he’s not overtly handsome. And yet he has something. He’s a conqueror. His confidence is the biggest thing in the room. It’s impossible not to notice, difficult not to admire. He heads one of the biggest banks in Boston, but what that entails Jennifer isn’t sure. Probably it entails being decisive, strong, and… intimidating.
“Did you learn anything else about me?” Jennifer asks.
He throws back his scotch and gives her a laser stare. His eyes are green, which gives him a touch of humanity somehow. “Is there something else you want to tell me?”
Jennifer imagines divulging her dark secret—her addiction—and then the even darker news that she still thinks about the pills all the time. But she would never want Coke to know about her weakness. She would sooner take a dive off the wraparound balcony.
“No,” she says. “You can learn as we go along.” She worries it sounds like she’s flirting. Coke’s eyes are resting on her throat, and then they travel down the front of her body.
“There is something I want to ask you about the master bath,” Coke says. “I have a friendly enemy, a competitor of mine over at Bank of America, who told me that his master bath has an accent wall of lunar rocks.”
“Lunar rocks?” Jennifer asks. “Rocks from the moon? The actual moon?”
“Come, let’s look at it,” Coke says. His hand lands on the exposed bare skin of Jennifer’s back. The halter blouse she’s wearing is one she bought specifically to please Patrick upon his return from prison. Coke leads Jennifer into the next room, the bedroom, which is empty save for a California king platform bed and a black lacquered dresser. The master bath is on the far side of the bedroom, but Coke stops Jennifer in front of the south-facing window, from which one can see Washington Street, the theater district, Chinatown.
Jennifer is now very, very sorry she agreed to this meeting and even sorrier that she wore such a seductive outfit. The music changes to John Mayer singing the world’s sexiest song. It’s then Jennifer realizes that Coke intentionally laid a trap and Jennifer has fallen right into it.
She clears her throat and says, “Well, there’s no arguing with the view—” But before her words are fully out, Coke is pulling her toward him for a kiss. His hand runs down her spine.
She can’t believe this is happening. When his lips meet hers, she panics. What should she do? She pushes against the front of Coke’s beautifully tailored shirt.
“No,” she says. “I’m sorry, Coke, I can’t. I’m happily married.”
There is one instant when Jennifer thinks things might still be okay. Coke can laugh it off, apologize, blame his forwardness on the alcohol. He can promise to behave himself from here on out so that they can have a drama-free working relationship, and Jennifer can collect her half a million in fees and be the decorator for the most prestigious project in Boston.
But instead Coke pulls Jennifer in even closer and places his mouth on the sensitive skin just below her ear. He bites her lightly and says, “Come on, Jen. We both know you aren’t that happy.”
“What?” Jennifer says. Coke’s voice is that of her inner demons. She’s not that happy. But sleeping with Grayson Coker isn’t going to help; it’s going to make things far, far worse. Jennifer struggles to disentangle herself without actually striking out at him, but he won’t loosen his grip. She can still feel his breath on her neck. “Please,” she says. “Let me go. Let me go right this instant.”
He pushes her away and she stumbles in her boots, but thankfully doesn’t fall. She steadies herself and hurries into the other room, where she pulls on her coat. She should never have taken it off! She should never have worn this blouse! What was she thinking! She snatches up her bag.
“I’m leaving, Mr. Coker,” she says. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this job will work out for me.”
Coke stands in the doorway, shaking his head as though she’s a disappointing child. “It’s your loss, Jen.”
“Jennifer,” she says. “My name is Jennifer Quinn.” With this, she storms from the apartment onto the elevator and prays he won’t follow her.
Walking home, Jennifer is shaking, addled, confused. How did that meeting go off the rails so quickly? Was it her fault for agreeing to the late hour, to the empty apartment, to the drink? She had worn the wrong outfit, and she should never have gone for a cocktail at Carrie Nation. She shouldn’t have worn makeup or perfume, a skirt or high-heeled boots.
Then Jennifer stops herself. It wasn’t her fault. Coke misinterpreted her body language or her nonverbal cues, maybe even the tone of her voice. Jennifer asked him nicely to stop; she was firm and clear, and still he persisted. He was in the wrong. Jennifer’s only choice was to walk away from Grayson Coker and his fabulous project and all his money.
It’s your loss, Jen.
She can’t help feeling he’s right. She and Paddy needed that money. Needed it badly.
Jennifer arrives home a few minutes before Paddy and the boys, which gives her enough time to change out of the cursed outfit into her yoga pants and Patriots T-shirt. Paddy looks happier than he has in weeks, maybe months; the time alone with the kids cheered him up. He has barbecue sauce on his cheek. Jennifer wipes it off, and he kisses her.