Page 3 of Make Her Mine

With a nervous glance at the table where the Fairchild siblings all sat, heads together and deep in conversation, Esme shot back the little glass of alcohol and grimaced. “Yeah, no, it’s too early for that, Sash. Never again.”

“Well, you looked like you needed it.” The chef leaned on the counter next to where Ruby sat, and both of them had identical expressions of concern on their faces. “What’s going on?”

Esme did feel a little steadier, though on the whole she might have preferred a super strong coffee. She took a deep breath and looked at the Trouble Trio again. “They’re looking to sell the whole building.”

“What?” Ruby gasped, tears immediately welling in her dark eyes. “Why?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t get that far. I don’t know anything except that they’re not looking for tenants anymore, they’re looking to divest.” Esme looked around the Lounge, taking in the beating heart she’d built from the ground up. She’d painted the irregular walls, white with the occasional deep red accent wall, with her own two hands. She’d picked each and every charmingly mismatched chair and table at thrift stores around LA. She’d chosen every poster of Kate McKinnon, Megan Rapinoe, Frida Kahlo, Lily Tomlin, Sarah Paulson, Samira Wiley, and more queer female icons herself, framed them with care and stood on a ladder to hang them high on the walls. Just last week, she’d added Chappell Roan and Reneé Rapp to the lineup.

The Lounge’s velvet-draped stage was known as a breakout venue for queer musicians; she’d had all the latest big queer acts playing here before they’d really started to take off. Her own friend, Mia Cortés, had been discovered on the tiny end-table-sized stage just a couple of months ago. She, Esme, had made that a cornerstone of her business plan when she opened the Lounge twenty years ago. That queer women would be showcased on her stage, that there would be somewhere they could play to their target audience, that there would be somewhere the audience could even go to hear the music they craved.

When she’d decided to expand the bar into a café and needed someone to make delicious, creative gourmet meals, Esme had hired Sasha straight out of culinary school. They’d worked hard together on that initial menu, with everything from simple chili crisp avocado toast to an elegant twist on Oysters Rockefeller with locally sourced smoked oysters available for new customers to nosh on. Six years later, they were still creating culinary magic together, and Sasha’s work had been reviewed with high honors from a number of notable publications. Esme had printed or cut out each one, framed them in ornate thrifted frames, and displayed them proudly around the perimeter of the café space—much to Sasha’s delighted embarrassment.

Esme had done that. Esme had brought in the clientele; Esme had secured her own financing; Esme had enacted the physical transformation that took an empty, dusty cavern of retail space and made it into a cozy sapphic retreat. No, it didn’t make the money that it used to… no, it had never been a record-breaking profit machine. But Leonard Fairchild had seen Esme’s vision and supported her from the start in a way his children were failing utterly to do.

Twenty years ago, Alexandra Fairchild had been a disgruntled teenager following her father around while he showed a thirty-year-old, starry-eyed Esme the space that would become Indigo Lounge. Now she was barely older than Esme had been, and she was in total control of what would happen here. Everything Esme loved and had built was in Alexandra’s hands—not the boys, Esme dismissed Oliver and Matt, they’d go along with whatever their big sister wanted to do. No help from that quarter. No, Alexandra was in charge, and she and Esme had never really gotten along. She’d never had the sight her father had.

Oh, how Esme missed Leonard Fairchild. No lesbian bar in America had ever had a more fervent, dedicated supporter. Even on his deathbed ten years ago, he’d been sending Esme information on small business grants and financing opportunities to help her keep the Lounge afloat. Fuck cancer, Esme thought, feelingly.

“E…” Sasha was staring at the doors of the Lounge, and she grabbed Esme’s arm so tight, it felt like the circulation was being cut off. “Who the hell is that?”

Esme watched as a tall, statuesque blonde strode across the threshold of Indigo Lounge. She was in head-to-toe designer power suit chic, so perfectly tailored and styled that it made Alexandra’s Dolce & Gabbana look like a Goodwill rag in comparison. Her hair was icy blonde, cut into a longish, sharp-edged bob that swung down below her jaw. As she pulled off a pair of black, oversized sunglasses, Esme caught a glimpse of glittering blue eyes taking in the Lounge, with only the barest arch of one blonde eyebrow betraying any interest.

She wasn’t what she’d describe as drop dead gorgeous, Esme decided, but there was something intriguing about her haughty face, something that made it transcend mere prettiness. Something of mystery. And she didn’t have Resting Bitch Face, but she definitely gave off an air of elevated indifference that would keep people from bothering her without damn good reason. Something about her drew Esme in, made her stomach twist and her heart begin to race.

“Nora!” Alexandra was up on her feet and hurrying over to the blonde at the door. “Thank you so much for coming out.”

“Of course… Alexandra, is it?” The woman was looking around the Lounge, that one slightly arched eyebrow curving further upward by the second, and one corner of her pale rose mouth tilting up to match. “Interesting place you’ve got here.”

“Oh, it’s not ours. It’s just one of the retail spaces that come with the building. Come, let me take you around and show you what you’re dealing with. We’ll come back for lunch.” Alexandra swept off out the door, heading for the main building entrance, and the blonde, with one last glance around the café, followed her out.

“Esme,” Oliver’s soft voice interrupted her thoughts. “Sorry to bother you, but can I put in an order for four cappuccinos with oat milk and a pitcher of lemon-cucumber water?”

“Sure.” She exchanged glances with Sasha, who nodded and went off to the kitchen to get the drink order started with the Lounge barista, Natalie. Then she turned her attention back to the middle Fairchild sibling. “Ollie. Who was that woman?”

His dark eyes were something approaching sad as he shrugged a shoulder and sighed. “Nora Hartley. She’s this big deal commercial realtor. Alexandra saw some article on her in Forbes magazine and said that she was exactly what we needed for the building.”

“But why sell?” Panic flooded Esme. “What about me?”

“I don’t know everything, Es. I’m sorry. All I can tell you is what you already know—that we can’t get tenants into the office space and those other retail spaces.”

She grabbed a towel and twisted it in her hands. “I can still expand into the space next door…”

“We’re barely treading water with this building, Es. You know that. You expanding this place isn’t going to turn that around. I wish it could.” Of all the Fairchilds, the usually idealistic Oliver was the most like his departed father, but he lacked the power and charisma Leonard had had in spades. He was more often than not the only one who ever sympathized with Esme. “I’m really sorry. But maybe Nora can help you find a new space for Indigo Lounge if she closes you down. Somewhere you can really make all your expansion dreams come true. Make a fresh start. She’s supposed to be a real wizard in commercial real estate.”

The suggestion that the Lounge could be anywhere other than it was made Esme’s heart hurt. But she put on a brave face in front of Oliver. She’d known him since he was a kid, and she wasn’t about to break down in front of him now. “Maybe she can. Great. Thanks, Ollie.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “I see Sasha and Natalie coming with your drinks.”

“Great.” He smiled, and Esme was sure there was no small measure of relief in it that she wasn’t going to cause a scene.

Not in public, anyway. Nailing her smile on, Esme walked into the Indigo Lounge kitchen, brushing past Sasha and Natalie, and making a beeline for the walk-in freezer. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, taking a deep, frigid breath into her lungs.

Then, crouching down and grabbing a handful of her long skirt, she stuffed it over her mouth and let out a soul-deep, agonized scream that felt like it might never, ever end.

3

The outside of the Fairchild Building, all pale pressed brick and rather unprepossessing as a whole, didn’t exactly catch the eye. Nora was sure she’d passed by it dozens, if not hundreds, of times in her life and not paid it a second thought, even though she knew, thanks to her Masters in Architecture from UCLA, that it was considered significant due to its nearly unidentifiable mixture of styles. How a blend of beautiful styles had turned out such an extremely normal building, she had no idea.

But it wasn’t the outside that interested her, anyway. Nora was itching to finally visit the legendary foyer of the Fairchild, a huge open-air atrium wreathed in wrought iron and illuminated by wide, frosted glass skylights. She was positive that the photos she’d seen, even the glossy high-definition ones included in her file on the building, didn’t do it justice. Excitement propelled her out of the Town Car and onto the sidewalk, briefcase in hand.

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