The Wine Cellar
Flash Fiction
I woke up early and looked around.
Empty bottles of Veuve Clicquot were scattered around the room. Colorful party streamers hung on lamps and littered the floor. I was naked, stretched out on a chaise lounge near Mr. Williams’ ornate desk.
Jacques was asleep on the floor below.
Something was wrong, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I found my silky slip dress on the floor and put it on. I walked down the winding staircase, my bare feet sinking into the carpet. The house was silent. Party debris — empty bottles, glitter hats, half-filled glasses — was strewn in all directions. A white feather boa hung from the dining room chandelier.
I thought of Mrs. Williams leading me through the house on my first day, pointing left and right, giving stern instructions.
“Keep the lights dimmed halfway and no more,” she had said. “Close the draperies at five-fifteen. Check the locks twice before bed. Always triple-check the alarms.”
I wrote everything down in a small notebook. I promised her I would take good care of the place. I meant to, but then I met Jacques. He came to fix the roof and never left. Between the tool belt and the French accent, I couldn’t resist him. I begged him to stay and he happily obliged. It was his idea to invite friends over for New Year’s…
