I browse the books on the shelves. I would have brought my econ textbook, but I think I left it in class. Many of the books before me seem to be biographies of famous golf players, how-to books on improving one’s golf swing, and reviews of the world’s best courses. There are a few biographies of famous football coaches and quarterbacks as well as biographies of American businessmen, from Henry Ford to Lee Iacocca to Elon Musk. I pick out a book that looks older than the rest: Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. If only it were that easy.
Book in hand, I head back upstairs and find Sierra in the kitchen. Wearing only a satin robe, she peruses the refrigerator and finds leftovers from last night’s dinner.
“Ugh, I could really use some Starbucks right now,” she groans as she takes out a plate of the chocolate torte from last night. “Where did they go anyway?”
I shrug my shoulders. I could use some coffee, too, but I don’t see a coffeemaker, only a fancy espresso machine I have no idea how to operate. But I do find a kettle and a container of loose tea leaves and dried flower petals. It’s interesting because I’ve only ever had tea from bags.
“Want some tea?” I ask as I fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove.
Sierra scrunches up her face. “Gross.” She digs into the torte. “So how was Tony Lee? He make you bleed a lot?”
My face grows warm. “He let me sleep. He didn’t want to do anything.”
“What? What a weirdo.”
“I had a little too much to drink. I guess he was being nice about it.”
“You honestly think that?”
“Or maybe he lost interest.”
That seemed a more plausible reason to Sierra. “So you’re still a virgin. Hunh. Can’t even give it away?”
I let it go. It’s not worth it.
“Thanks for calling the hotel,” I offer.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t call anyone.”
Deciding further conversation with Sierra probably isn’t worth the effort, I open the Napoleon Hill book. She finishes her dessert and, deciding the same about conversation, shuffles out of the kitchen and back upstairs. I make my tea and drink half of it. It turned out bland because I wasn’t sure how much of the tea leaves to use.
Unable to focus on the book, I get my sweater and decide to wand
er around the outside of the house. There’s a narrow dirt path that leads to stairs down to the beach. I can’t imagine how much a house with access to the beach in the San Francisco Bay Area would cost. Several million at least. Maybe tens of million. Rent in the city is like three times what I’m used to seeing back in North Carolina.
The beach isn’t very large and more rocky than sandy for most of it, but it’s a beach, and it’s beautiful. I close my eyes to better drink in the sound of waves crashing, transporting me away from my circumstances, away from my discontent.
Feeling a change in the air, I open my eyes. Tony Lee stands next to me, looking out at the ocean. He has on his trench coat, open in front to reveal the charcoal-colored three-piece suit he’s wearing. I don’t see many men in three-piece suits anymore, but he looks super stylish in his.
“There’s lunch back at the house,” he informs me after several minutes of silence.
“Thanks,” I reply.
“How’s the hangover?”
“Barely there. I think staying hydrated helped.”
We fall back into silence, and I’m more at ease with it than I expect. I almost like it, enjoying his presence without having to talk or hope I don’t say something stupid. But then I remember something.
“Did you call The Montclair?”
He looks at me.
“About me,” I continue.
“I said you weren’t coming in today.”
“Thank you...just today?”