“What is this?” I ask.
“Room one-zero-zero-one,” he says, showing me the old key, which has a tag attached to it. “Like, One Thousand and One Nights, Arabian Nights, Ali Baba, and all that.”
“There’s another room? Why isn’t this open to the public?”
He hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder and flattens his palm against the door. “Now, look. This is a huge Cavern Palace secret. You have to solemnly swear that you’ll never tell anyone what I’m about to show you on the other side of this door. Not even Gracie. Especially Gracie, because I love her, but she knows everyone, and it will fly around faster than the chicken pox virus. Swear to me, Bailey. Hold up your hand and swear.”
I hold up my hand. “I swear.”
“Okay, this is the Cave’s dirtiest secret.” He unlocks the door, flips on the lights, which take a second to flicker on, and we step inside a perfectly round room lit in soft oranges and golds. It smells a little musty, like a library that hasn’t seen a lot of action. And as Porter closes the door behind us, I look around in amazement.
Thick, star-scattered indigo curtains cover the walls. A cluster of arabesque pendant lamps hang in various lengths from the domed ceiling over a low, velvet cushion about the size of a large bed. It’s tufted and comes up to my knees, and crowning one side of it, like a half-moon, it’s surrounded by hundreds of small pillows with geometric designs that look like they came straight out of a palace in Istanbul.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Like a dream. I don’t understand why it’s not open. Are these pillows from the 1930s? They should be preserved.”
Porter dumps his stuff on the floor next to the velvet cushion. “Don’t you remember your Cave history? Vivian hated Jay. When their marriage fell apart, he wouldn’t give her a divorce, so she had this room constructed as big middle finger to him. Come feast your eyes on her revenge. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He steps up to one of the starry blue curtains on the wall and lifts a golden cord to reveal a mural on the wall beneath. It’s a life-size art deco painting of Vivian Davenport dressed up as a Middle Eastern princess, with bells on her fingers and flowers in her long hair, a sheer gown flowing over her buxom, naked body. Throngs of men in suits bow down at her feet.
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” I murmur.
There are several big-eyed smiling cartoon animals looking on, like even they can’t look away from the glory that is naked Vivian.
“Is that . . . Groucho Marx?” I say, squinting to look at one of the kneeling men.
“Vivian made history come alive,” Porter answers, grinning.
“Make it stop,” I say, laughing, and he closes the curtain.
I’m scarred for life, but it was worth it. We fall on the velvet cushion together, and a small cloud of dust motes flies up. I guess the janitorial service doesn’t come back here much. Porter fake coughs and brushes off the rest of the cushion.
That’s when it hits me that this is a bed we’re sitting on. “You don’t think Vivian had crazy sex parties right here, do you?” I ask, moving my hand off the velvet. “More revenge against her husband?”
“Doubtful. But if she did, it was a hundred years ago,” he says, squinting his eyes merrily at me. “And it all ended so tragically for the both of them, what with her shooting him and killing herself, you almost hope she had some fun before it all went sideways, you know? Like maybe she actually modeled for that portrait.”
“Yeah.”
After a few moments of silence, a heavy awkwardness blooms in the space between us. Porter finally sighs, sits up, and begins stripping the radio equipment from his shoulder. My heart hammers.
He slides a sideways glance in my direction. “Look, I’m not getting naked or anything—cool your jets. How could I compete with all that wackiness on the walls, anyway? I just can’t sleep with a bunch of wires and crap attached to me. Or shoes. I’m leaving the shirt and pants on. You can leave on whatever you want. Ladies’ choice.” He winks.
His good humor puts me somewhat at ease, and I slip off my shoes next to his. He shuts off his radio and sets a timer on his phone for six thirty a.m. But when he takes off his belt, all the blood in my brain swooshes so loud, I worry I might be having an aneurism.
The belt buckle hits the Turkish-patterned rug with a dull thump. “You’re a great mystery to me, Bailey Rydell.”
“I am?”
“I can never tell if you’re scared of me, or if you’re about to jump me.”
I chuckle nervously. “I’m not sure of that myself.”
He pulls me closer and we lie down, facing each other, hands clasped between us. I can feel his heart racing against my fist. I wonder if he can feel mine.
“I’m scared,” I tell him, “of what I feel when I’m around you. I’m scared of what I want from you, and I don’t know how to ask for it.” I’m also scared that if I do, it might be terrible or not live up to my expectations, but I don’t say this, because I’m afraid it will hurt his feelings.
He kisses my forehead. “Know what I’m scared of?”
“What?”
“That I like you way too much, and I’m afraid once you get to know me, you’re going to realize that you can do lots better, and you’re going to break my heart and leave me for someone classier.”
I breathe him in deeply. “When I first came to town, there was someone else. Not Patrick,” I say, as if either of us needs that reminder.
“Your so-called other plans?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess you could say he’s classy, I don’t know. But just when you think you understand someone, it turns out that you didn’t really know them at all. Or maybe the real problem was that you didn’t understand something about yourself.”
“I don’t follow.”
I blow out a long breath. “It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that before I moved out here, I didn’t know I liked churros and moon muffins and Hawaiian poke and Jollof rice, and I didn’t know I would fall for you. But I did. And who wants classy when you can eat posole out of a food truck on the beach? I had no idea what I was missing.”
He slowly traces a wavy tendril near my temple with one finger. “You’ve fallen for me, huh?”
“Maybe.” I hold up my fingers and measure a small amount. “This much.”
“That’s it? Guess I’m going to have to try harder, then,” he says in a low voice against my lips, almost kissing me, but not quite. Then again. Little almost-kisses. Teasing me.
My breath quickens.
“Let’s take a quick quiz, why don’t we?” he murmurs. “If I put my hand here—”
His fingers slide under my shirt over my belly. It’s delicious . . . for all of two seconds. Then he’s too close to the off-limits area of my scar. And—no! He’s actually touching my scar. No way am I stopping this to explain that. I just . . . can’t. No.
He feels me tense up and immediately withdraws. “Hey. I—”
“No, no, no,” I quickly whisper. “It’s not you. It’s something else. Don’t take it personally, I . . . just, um.” I move his hand to the middle of my bare thigh, under my skirt. Talk about dangerous waters.