A Date You Can't Refuse Read Online Free PDF

earth, blue sky. The weather was hot, even for mid-May.
    Until I reached Palomino Hills, a gated community. Brown gave way to green, with sprinklers going full blast. A high stone fence flanked a guardhouse. I pulled into the Visitors lane as a sparkling white Lincoln Continental whipped past me in the Residents lane.
    What was I doing here? Gated communities made me anxious. If there was a gate or a fence or a velvet rope dividing people into groups, Insiders versus the Great Unwashed Masses, I knew which category I fell into.
    “I'm visiting Donatella Milos,” I said to the uniformed guard once he'd given a brisk wave to the Lincoln Continental. His expression, when he turned back to me, was studied neutrality. He was large and pasty-complected, and I glimpsed a holstered gun. It wasn't the kind of thing I had ever noticed in my life before Simon, but now I looked for things like that. Guns. Short haircuts. Serious demeanors. The guard asked my name, checked his clipboard, made a phone call, gave me directions, and raised the gate. I drove through.
    I passed a picturesque bridge that traversed a small creek and streets with whimsical names and more walls made of stone—an architectural theme, apparently—and even a wishing well. The houses looked like they'd all been built in the same year by the same architect with the same materials. All were large.
    I came to a street called Tumbleweed Circle, consisting of four color-coordinated mini-mansions. I drove to the far left one and parked.
    I hadn't seen any humans in Palomino Hills, except for the guard. Nor had I seen any palominos. Somewhere in the canyons, a dog barked. I walked up the pathway to the front door. A gecko scurried over my sandal, making me jump. And squeak. I collected myself and rang the bell.
    A thought came and went: I hadn't told anyone where I was going. No one in my life knew I was here.
    The door opened and a lovely face smiled at me. “You're Wollie, yes? I'm Parashie.”
    Parashie was an adolescent with the poise of a flight attendant, and she had an accent, slight but charming. I followed her across a foyer to a winding staircase. We walked side by side up the stairs, our footsteps muffled by Persian rugs. We could have added another six people and still walked side by side. The house was done in Mediterranean style, all gem tones and mahogany, and so air-conditioned I could almost see my breath. I shivered. Parashie had bare arms and legs and wore a sporty little outfit paired with pink hiking boots, but showed no signs of being cold. She chatted about the Dodgers as we walked.
    Upstairs, we traveled down a long hallway toward an open door.
    “Donatella?” Parashie called, pausing at the threshold. “I've brought Wollie.”
    “In the closet!” a voice called in response.
    We walked through a spacious bedroom to a bathroom featuring a sunken square tub and a shower the size of a freight elevator. Then we entered the closet.
    The closet of Donatella Milos was nearly as big as my studio apartment at the Oakwood Gardens. It had textured taupe wallpaper, recessed lighting, more Persian carpets, and an antique desk. A soprano aria issued forth from speakers suspended from the ceiling. Donatella sat at the desk, focused on a computer screen.
    “One moment …” She was dressed in purple velour pants and a velvet tunic. With a click of her fingernails, the computer screen went black, and she turned. “Wollie! My love, it is you at last.” She stood and planted kisses on both cheeks. “You have met Parashie?”
    “Yes, I—”
    “Good. Good. Parashie, bring in the clothes. And send Grusha with refreshments.” Donatella indicated a tufted ottoman, which I perched upon, feeling like Little Miss Muffet. She returned to her high-backed chair, and I found myself looking up at her, an acolyte awaiting instruction.
    “So.” She filled a water goblet from a crystal carafe and took a sip. “We begin. Yuri sends you first to me, as I am the