The D-Day

Time seems to fly by as I busy myself with the inventory report. Before I know it, it’s 1:25, and I’m starting to feel pangs of hunger.

“Maybe I should grab a quick snack before lunch,” I wonder aloud.

Someone knocks on my door just then.

“Yes?” I respond.

Joy steps in with a wide smile on her face.

“Someone’s here to see you,” she says almost breathlessly.

“Is it Mr Ewing?” I ask her.

“No. It’s someone else. He looks like a chauffeur, and he arrived in a Bentley!”

“Calm down, Joy. Did he tell you his name?”

“Marcus. He said he’s here to take you to lunch.”

“Marcus? And he mentioned my name?”

“Yes. I think he’s Samson Ewing’s driver. I’ve seen a photo of him posing with that car on I*******m before. It’s his car. I’m sure of it!”

“Thank you, Joy. I’ll be out shortly.”

The girl hurries off as if she’s the one going on the date. I pick up my phone to check with Sam, and I realize that he already sent me a text nearly 30 minutes ago.

Oops!

“Hi, Eunice. My driver will arrive at your store soon. His name is Marcus. I can’t wait to see you.”

A smile curves my face involuntarily. Sam’s clipped style of texting is amusing to me. It’s as if I’m reading a telegraph sent across the sea via an analog medium.

I go to my mini bathroom to touch up my makeup and reapply my perfume. It’s show time!

After giving my staff last-minute instructions, I step outside and find a young Caucasian man dressed in a chauffeur uniform.  He is standing beside a white Bentley parked in front of my store.

“Miss Eunice Francis?” He asks me.

“Yes, that’s me,” I reply and nod for extra confirmation.

“My name is Marcus. I am Mr Samson Ewing’s driver, and he’s asked me to drive you to his residence,” he informs me.

He opens the back door of the car and holds it for me to enter the vehicle. “Please,” he says politely with a smile.

“Of course,” I say and step into the cool interior of the most stylish car. I have never entered such a luxurious vehicle in my life.

The creamy interior with gold accents takes my breath away. There’s a mini wine bar behind the driver with a small pouch of snacks near it.

A small screen on the back of the driver’s seat is set to the N*****x home page. There’s also a mini brunch table laid out in front of me and covered with transparent plastic wrap. Within seconds, I feel like I am in paradise.

“Please, make yourself comfortable, Ma’am,” says Marcus as he takes his place behind the wheel.

“Please, call me Eunice. And thank you for the offer,” I tell him and smile at him in the rearview mirror.

“You’re welcome,” he replies and starts the car.

“Where are we going?”

“Pacific Heights,” Marcus answers promptly.

Of course, I think to myself. Where else would a young billionaire who comes from old money live in San Francisco, if not Pacific Heights?

That place is home to some of the richest people in the States and moneybag celebrities. It’s a cocoon of wealth, so it’s not surprising to me that it is where Sam lives.

As the Bentley pulls out of the driveway soundlessly, I look back at my store.  All of my employees are squeezed together at the window, trying to get a good look at the vehicle as it drives away.

The windows of the vehicle are tinted, but I can see them all as clear as day. I groan when I see Jamie holding up his iPhone to take a picture. That queen is going to be the one who sells me out eventually. His love for gossip is unmatched.

“Are you ok, ma’am?” Marcus asks me.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I answer with a reassuring smile.

He nodded curtly and returned his attention to the road. The drive to Pacific Heights seems to have taken only a few minutes even though it actually took half an hour.

We drive through the gates of  Hartley Gardens shortly before noon. This is a secluded, opulent neighborhood that is home to some of the most obscenely wealthy and famous people in the country.

Marcus eases the car through a pair of huge black gates with an intricate design. He’d opened them with a remote control from inside the car.

Sam’s home is like those fancy mansions that I’ve only seen on TV. The compound is expansive, with two large fountains in front.

There are artfully planted shrubs, an exotic-looking gazebo, and huge flower pots stylishly placed in strategic positions around the grounds. We drive past an avenue of lovely palm trees to the massive garage that houses an array of expensive cars.

I’m not a car buff, but I can tell that the cars in the garage are worth millions of dollars combined. The place looks like a luxury car showroom.

Marcus parks the Bentley, then gets out of the car to come and open the door for me. I feel a little embarrassed by his over-the-top politeness.

I mumble, “Thank you,” as he takes my hand and helps me out of the vehicle. As soon as my feet touch the ground, a middle-aged man appears in front of me. He is dressed formally in a tuxedo.

“Welcome, Miss Eunice Francis. My name is Bernard. I am Mr Ewing’s butler. Please come with me. He is expecting you inside.”

“Uh, hi. Thank you,” I say, flustered.

A butler? Who needs a butler in this time and age? I wonder.

I follow Bernard as he leads me through another path lined with shrubs of wildflowers on both sides. We arrive and the front door and Bernard opens it and steps aside for me to go inside.

I stifle a giggle because the whole experience so far seems a little bit ridiculous to me. Like seriously, what in the Coming to America is going on here? Why all this drama?