Page 75 of Filthy Rich

His prolonged silence speaks volumes, probably because he doesn’t like being told no. I get the feeling that I’m the only one who ever does it. And the only one from whom he tolerates it.

“We’ll circle back,” he says, that muscle in his jaw flexing harder than ever.

“I’m the only one that gets to circle back,” I say sourly.

“I don’t think so.”

We laugh again, and the mood shifts back to normal between us.

“It’s so strange,” I say after a while, my thoughts shifting to Mrs. Hooper, who was picked up from the airport by her niece Penny upon our arrival earlier. The welcoming party included the new private nurse that Penny hired to care for Mrs. Hooper in Florida. We said our farewells, and I officially transferred my medical baton to the new nurse. “This is the farthest away from Mrs. Hooper that I’ve been in weeks. I kinda miss her. And Juniper.”

“I get that. But I thought you’d enjoy a break.”

“I do. I feel free. Does that make me a terrible person?”

“Yep. Thank God. I’m glad to discover you have a flaw of some kind.”

We laugh again, but I immediately get distracted by the quaint and upscale little town we’re now driving through.

It’s beautiful. I see several clothing boutiques, a bookstore, a toy store and a gelato store at a quick glance. Oh, and a post office and one of those rustic but fancy gourmet food shops where a coffee and a croissant will cost half your week’s paycheck.

“Oh, what a pretty little town.”

“I guess it is.” He glances around as though seeing it all for the first time. “I’ve been here so long, I’ve stopped noticing. We’re almost home.”

“So, is this walking distance from your house?”

“Yeah. A long walk.”

“Awesome,” I say, because I love a good walk. But then I notice a wedge of darkness creeping its way across the horizon. “Oh, look at the sky over there. A storm’s rolling in.”

“Yep. Heard about it in the forecast.”

“Is it supposed to be bad?” I say, eyeing the clouds with concern.

“Might be. But I’m not worried about it.”

Spoken like a man whose wealth buffers him from a lot of life’s rougher edges. He’s probably bought, I don’t know, a weather bubble with a giant umbrella and solar panels to protect his estate from the vagaries of the weather.

But if he’s not going to worry about it, I won’t either.

We turn off the main street as soon as we clear the little town and head down a narrow and heavily wooded road that gives glimpses of big houses on large properties through the foliage. We keep going, the houses getting bigger and farther apart. At some point, a stone fence appears and runs parallel to the road. Eventually, we come to an opening in the fence featuring an ornate wrought-iron gate with keypad. Lucien pulls up and hits a code. The gate swings open, and we drive through and head down an endless drive. More trees. The occasional glimpse of water. Tennis courts. The flash of a gazebo. The looming edge of a mansion. And then…

“Oh my God,” I breathe.

I know just enough about architecture to understand that the massive home is colonial, with a slate roof, several white A-frames and chimneys, those brown shingles you often see in Hamptons homes, stonework that matches the stone fence, white trim and black shutters. There’s a round section that looks like a conservatory. There’s a greenhouse at one side of the circular driveway. As we pull around to the garage, I see hints of the pool out back, ornate gardens behind a flowering wisteria trellis and more stone walls, a dock and Manhasset Bay beyond.

The house has its own cove. Inlet. Whatever you call it. It looks like the kind of compound the Kennedys would be proud to call home—if only they had old money instead of that tacky new money from bootlegging.

Ackerley is me, Lucien said, and he’s right.

This is exactly the sort of estate I would have matched to Lucien. Stunning and elegant but forbidding, with shadows here and there, especially with the storm rolling in and the sky darkening. Let’s just say it’s not exactly welcoming. And it’s not the sort of house I’d ever in a million years connect with me and my thrifted clothes and purse.

My lower jaw hits my lap and stays there as we pull into the garage.

Inside the garage? The other Bugattis, of course. Also, a Mercedes G-Wagen, a Range Rover, and, for those low-key occasions, a Maybach sedan.

I shake my head and keep shaking it because I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I thought I had brushes with wealth when I lived with Mrs. Hooper in her fancy Upper East Side apartment, but that was nothing compared to this. A child’s train set chugging around a Christmas tree versus a Japanese bullet train streaking through the mountains—not really the same thing at all.

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