Claire was reluctant to get out of the cab, even after she'd checked the address on the door against what Eric had written on the card in her hand. The place wasn't what she'd expected, not a trendy boutique or high-fashion shop at all. It was deliberately, almost negligently understated, totally bare of any advertising among the exclusive little restaurants and expensive hair-stylists shoehorned into rows of ancient brownstones on this block of Ohio Street between Rush and Wabash where the real estate was priced by the square inch. The front was a series of glass panes swagged with luxurious fabric from behind, and that, along with the gold hand lettering on the door that said simply
Goddess Within
was the only sign that there was any sort of business being conducted here at all.
The cabbie waited and finally turned and looked back at her. "Eleven oh six east Ohio?" he asked. "This is eleven oh six east, lady. That's what the sign on the door says. Twelve dollars and seventy-five cents."
Claire looked out the window once more, nagged by a strange feeling of emptiness. This wasn't what she'd expected. The whole mission was kind of odd, this whole episode in their relationship. The fight with Eric had been familiar enough, the same subject, the silly superficial business of their lovemaking, but this time he'd suddenly dropped it as if simply unwilling to talk about it and further. Then he'd slipped her this card and told her he'd made her an appointment and that he expected her to go, and that was all. No further discussion, no negotiation. That wasn't like him, getting imperious with her like that, giving her orders, but soon enough he'd softened and made a joke of it, smiled, folded the card into her hand, and that's how he'd left it, as something of a gag, a lover's game, a surprise or some kind of gift. She was supposed to go down there at three o'clock on this snowy and glowering Tuesday afternoon and something special would happen; that's all there was to it. She wasn't sure just what. He said the people here would take care of her. They'd be expecting her.
"You wouldn't," she began as she fished out a twenty for the driver and leaned forward in her seat. "You wouldn't know what this place is, do you?"
The cabdriver craned his neck and looked into her face for the first time. She'd dressed carefully, and Eric had told her what to wear, or had approved her choices. He could be a stickler about things like that. The skirt and jacket were fine wool, bluish-gray and nicely feminine, and she wore stockings, boots, a blue crepe blouse, her long black coat and fine leather boots. The colors were somber but she felt the textures were almost too summery for this time of year, the blouse especially seemed meant to be lifted by a spring breeze. She was cold in the cab. She felt the cabbie's eyes on her body, picking their way between the folds of her coat.
"Honey, I have no idea. Don't
you
know?"
She made a face to show that of course, the question was ridiculous, then tipped him and smiled, returning the same thin bills he'd given her as change, then gathered her coat and stepped out into the street, closed the door and stepped back as the bulk of the cab pulled away, grimed with road salt. It left her standing in a deep cavernous space in the city street, hard among the brick buildings and the piles of cold and crusted snow.
The thick wooden window frames of the place were painted forest green. The fabric behind them was gold, but old gold, tired with time and age. There wasn't the slightest attempt at decoration or advertisement for the place; no sign of invitation. The sidewalk hadn't been shoveled and there wasn't a footprint in the snow as she walked up to the door. It was hard to locate the bell, just a simple plate with a black plastic button, cheap and make-do.
Claire hesitated. At three o'clock shadows already clung to the façade of the building and the wind swept down off the lake not two blocks away and sent spindrifts of snow whirling along Ohio Street, searching her out as she stood in the doorway. The winter was cold. She didn't know why that fact always surprised her. A girl could freeze if she didn't have someone protecting her.
She pressed the button and heard a bell ring inside. She pressed her forehead against the glass of the door and heard music coming from inside; warm, lush music—Vivaldi or something else Baroque and civilized. She pressed on the doorbell again.
The curtain over the door was pulled aside gently by a strikingly elegant Indian woman, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, a pair of half-glasses on a chain around her neck. Her black hair was pulled back in a bun, and a shock of white above her temple gave her eyes a penetrating depth and her features a most arresting cast. She looked at Claire through the glass, then opened a series of locks and chains and swung the door open a crack.
"You're Ms. Anselm? Then please come in, quickly, and do mind the draft."
It was the name that Eric had said he'd use for her, just as he'd be Eric Sperling, and so she walked in. Stepping into the room was like stepping into a florist's, the change in climate was that extreme. There was the same heavy humidity and the odors were almost as thick, but instead of the cloying sweetness of flowers there was the delicate smell of sachet and perfume, fine fabrics and polished leather. It was a shrine to Venus, to the feminine, to those elusive beauties that had to be sought and searched out. There was a rich sensuality beneath the teasing ambergris note that one didn't smell as much as taste. The odor was like a wine that the tongue tasted while the real richness went to work on the deeper centers of the brain.
The inside of the place was as sumptuous as the outside was plain, with oriental carpets and antique furnishings, subdued lighting and old, hand-carved display cases showing articles of lingerie lit discretely from below in jewelry-like settings. The place had the look of an old world library, complete down to the gas fire that burned in an ornate, lion's-mouth fireplace against the side wall. Fresh flowers were everywhere, and above the other smells Claire detected the heavenly aroma of freshly brewed coffee, warm and embracing.
"I'm Dr. Madhuri," the Indian woman said with a warm smile, and from the back came a young man in an immaculate blue suit, his straight blond hair framing a face that would almost be pretty except for a sensuous turn to his full lower lip that gave him a hint of delicious cruelty. "This is David. He's been especially chosen to assist you today. Please, let me take your coat. Can I offer you some coffee? And may I suggest that you sit by the fire to chase the chill away? Chicago winters are just awful, aren't they?"
Claire moved as if in a daze, letting Madhuri take her coat and guide her to a leather armchair by the fire. The city's winters might be cruel, but here in this place they'd found a way to keep them most comfortable at bay. This was an enchanted place.
"There's cream and sugar so you can help yourself," Madhuri said, pointing to the silver and jade service on the coffee table. "And this is our own special blend. I should warn you, it's fully caffeinated. We don't dabble with nature."
"Thank you. That's fine. It smells delicious."
Claire waited while David poured, her eyes fixed on that lip, so eminently biteable, then she opened a pack of sweetener and poured that in, followed by some real sweet cream from a silver pitcher. The black liquid blushed with exuberant clouds of milkiness she found strangely pleasing, and as her spoon worked in the liquid, the bell-like tone of the metal against the china slowly mellowed and lowered in pitch and the coffee released a sudden burst of aroma that kissed her face as she lowered her lips to it. It was excellent, one of those remarkable brews that tasted every bit as good as it smelled, warm and rich and bracingly bitter.
Madhuri watched her drink. "Now," she said, picking up a leather binder and glancing at the contents. "You're sent to us by Mr. Eric Sperling, who has some concerns about the way your romance is going. Is that right?"
Claire froze with the cup still poised at her lips.
"I beg your pardon?"
