Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (2 page)

     But all that was about to change.

     Coco was on her way to a place called The Grove and although she had never been there she had heard about it.

     The tabloids called it a sex club. But The Grove was more than that—an emerald oasis in the Southern California Desert that offered romance, fantasy, escape; gourmet food, vintage wine, imported spirits; aromatherapy, facials, mineral baths; exclusive shops, top flight entertainment, escort services; anonymity, privacy, no questions asked. But mostly everyone remembered the sex. As one Hollywood columnist quipped: "The Grove is a place where the sex is elegant and the elegance is sexy."

     The Grove didn't advertise, its number wasn't listed, you didn't find it written up in the glossy magazines of the very rich. As far as Coco knew, you had to hear about the place from a friend who told you how to contact the reservations desk, how to find the private terminal at LAX. Which was where Coco was now headed, on this flight from New York—to catch the private jet to The Grove to begin her week's free stay there.

     She had won a contest.

     The 747 finally landed and Coco made a hasty exit with a forlorn glance at the handsome stranger who would never know what fabulous sex he had shared with her in the john of a jumbo jet. She collected her luggage and found the chauffeur assigned to drive her to the small terminal on the other side of the airport. "The Grove," with palm trees on the sign. A small jet stood on the tarmac, people in the boarding lounge were helping themselves to complimentary cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.

     Accepting a screwdriver from the foxy bartender, Coco looked out at the twenty-passenger DHC-6 Twin Otter painted in lush azure and green hues as if the craft had been built out of palm trees and blue skies. She saw the pilot walking across the tarmac with his black bag. Tall and square-shouldered in a dashing uniform that sent delicious signals.
Come fly with me.

     Coco tried not to stare at her fellow passengers. Movie stars and celebrities enjoying piña coladas and crab cakes.

     Then she spotted a man who gave her pause.

     Wearing reflective aviator glasses, jeans and a leather jacket while everyone else was in Aloha casual, he seemed to be keeping apart from the others, but watching. Instinct told her he was a cop. Not that there were
any outward signs—no badge or gun or Sam Browne. But Coco knew. And she wondered why a cop was going to The Grove. He didn't have the vacation look about him, he wasn't relaxed, wasn't eating or drinking. He looked exactly like a cop on duty. What possible assignment could a cop have at The Grove? She sized him up with her inner eye and thought: Detective. Homicide.

     "Isn't this exciting?"

     Coco turned and looked into a pair of pale green eyes.

     "I mean, the movie stars! I'm Sissy Whitboro. We don't run into many movie stars in Rockford, Illinois. I don't suppose we can ask for autographs."

     Coco judged Sissy to be in her early thirties, like herself. Pale skin, carrot-colored hair done in a tidy librarian's bun. Cotton shirtwaist dress and sensible shoes. She had housewife written all over her. "I think they'd rather be left alone," Coco said.

     "I could never afford a vacation like this," Sissy said. "I won a contest."

     Coco gave her a surprised look. "So did I. But I don't remember entering one. I don't like contests."

     "Me neither. How do you suppose it happened? I mean, from what I've heard of the place, it isn't the sort to run contests and give away vacations to just anybody. It's exclusive and pricey."

     "I'm sure they'll tell us."

     "I wasn't even going to come," Sissy said, stirring her frosty, fruity cocktail, "but my husband insisted. He said I've earned a vacation. Strange that the prize wasn't for two. Just me. I didn't want to leave Ed and the kids, but he said it would be a shame to pass up a chance to stay at a resort where celebrities go."

     While Mrs. Whitboro went on about movie stars, Coco's eyes slid back to the guy in the reflective aviator glasses and, thinking of the secret reason why she had accepted the contest prize, had a sudden, startling thought. Was
he
the one?

     She smiled to herself. Wouldn't that be a kick, that the man she was searching for turned out to be a cop?

     They were finally called to board the plane. As Sissy set her glass down, her purse slipped from beneath her arm and dropped to the floor. "I've got
it," Coco said as she retrieved it. But the minute her fingers grasped the leather strap, a flash went through her.

     She gave Sissy a searching look and decided not to say anything. It wasn't her business. But Mrs. Ed Whitboro of Rockford, Illinois was in for a big surprise during her stay at The Grove.

     As they took their seats and buckled in, Coco's vagrant thoughts meandered down the aisle and found themselves in the cockpit where the handsome pilot was running his final check.

     She settled back and closed her eyes.
Once airborne, the captain puts the jet on autopilot, fixes his hat onto his head and comes out to smile at the passengers. When he nears Coco his eyes linger on her, his smile wicked and secretive. Up close, she sees the lines of maturity on his face, the years of wisdom in his eyes. He has flown missions in the Gulf War, 747s to France, bush planes in Australia, trimotors over the Amazon. A seasoned pilot who could fly by the seat of his pants.

     
Pants that Coco would very much like to remove.

     "Ladies and gentlemen," came the captain's voice over the intercom. "We will be landing in a few minutes. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened..."

     The jet taxied to a stop, the door opened and stairs unfolded to the ground. Coco joined the others in retrieving carry-ons and saying thank you to the captain who stood there to wish everyone a nice stay. Close up, he had the sexiest gray eyes.

     As soon as she stepped out into the desert evening, Coco was reminded of the Maria Muldaur song back in the seventies:
"Midnight at the oasis, Send your camel to bed
..." There were a million dazzling stars in the black sky, and palm trees swayed in the breeze. The air was crisp and clear and intoxicating. It was a whole new world, a fantasy world. It was definitely not New York.

     When she stepped down to the tarmac, Coco noticed two women at the end of the landing strip, protected by huge waxy banana plant leaves and dense palms, as if they didn't want to be seen. She surmised one of them to be the owner of The Grove, a woman of mystery from what Coco had heard.

     "Have fun," Sissy Whitboro said as they headed for their separate carts.

     "You, too," said Coco. "Maybe we'll run into each other." And then, remembering the flash she had experienced when she touched Sissy's handbag, added, "I'll give you a reading, if you like." Back in the boarding lounge, she had confided in Sissy what she did for a living. Women tended to be more accepting of it than men. And Coco had a feeling Sissy Whitboro was going to be in need of help while she was here.

     The new arrivals were met individually by attractive male escorts in white Bermuda shorts and colorful Hawaiian shirts, and female hostesses in curve-hugging sarongs, who took the guests in little covered golf carts to their individual accommodations—lavish suites in the main building, or private cottages and bungalows spread out among the lush foliage and greenery. There was no check-in, no front desk. All this had been handled in Los Angeles before take-off.

     The carts hummed past landscaped gardens filled with flowering mimosas and hibiscus, groves of orange trees and cedars, waterfalls and ponds and streams fed by The Grove's own artesian springs, deep beneath the desert floor. And when they arrived at their various accommodations, the guests marveled at the silence around them. All credit to the genius of the woman who had created this paradise: you would not know there were other people nearby. Clever landscaping and the ingenious positioning of guest quarters provided for the quietest possible atmosphere. And the utmost in privacy.

     Perfect for letting loose.

     Coco could barely contain her excitement as the little cart carried her along the paved paths. There were men everywhere! In Hawaiian shirts and shorts, in pale slacks and tennis shirts. Old men, young men, tall and short, chunky and thin.

     And one of them was hers.

     Coco's accommodations were a garden cottage with its own pool in a walled garden. A place made for partying. The mini-bar was bigger than her fridge at home; the TV was a massive home entertainment center, and there were sofas enough for a gang of Monday Night football fans. Yet it was just her.

     It was always just her.

     But that was going to change.

     The young woman in the Tahitian sarong offered to unpack for her but
Coco declined. Bad enough when people said, "What do you do for a living?" But to have someone see the contents of her luggage?

     As she took the suitcase from her, wrapping her hand for a moment around the young woman's hand, Coco saw something all in an instant. "Marry him," she said on an impulse.

     "I beg your pardon?"

     "Don't let his family stand in the way. It's
your
life, not theirs."

     The young woman's eyes widened. Then, with a baffled smile, she said thank you and left. It was a habit Coco was trying to kick. Not everybody wanted their fortunes told. Not everybody sought psychic advice. But she couldn't help it. She would get a flash— especially if it involved a difficult decision—and she saw the answer clearer than the person wrestling with the dilemma. Sometimes, though, instead of helping, she only made matters worse.

     She carefully unpacked her things, working up to the "special" case—the strangely shaped, custom-made case that carried the most precious cargo she owned—putting her bras and panties away, hanging up her clothes, shoes in the closet, toiletries and cosmetics in the bathroom, everything perfect and in place so that the atmosphere was just right to address the contents of the special case.

     Finally she was ready to unlock the bag and lift out the cube-shaped, sturdy velvet case within. Setting it on the dresser, she lifted the lid to expose the instrument that was the cornerstone of her life's work.

     "What do you do for a living?" people would ask—men at parties, women at card clubs, the grocery store checker.

     Coco had stopped telling the truth long ago.

     And she certainly never told anyone about the crystal ball.

     Before getting started, she went into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, chase away the cobwebs of flying and alcohol. She ran her long acrylic fingernails through her burgundy-dyed hair, frizzing it out even bigger, checked her make-up (you never knew who was going to come to the door) and decided to change out of her traveling clothes into a comfortable ankle-length shirt and gypsy blouse.

     Pouring a chilled glass of Evian, she was ready.

     Gently cradling the crystal in her hands, she brought it to the sofa and set it on the coffee table where it sparkled in emerald and turquoise highlights. Opening the sliding glass door to the private patio to admit desert breezes and the lonely call of a night bird, Coco addressed the shimmering globe. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes, hummed a soothing mantra, felt her body relax, then she opened her eyes and stretched her hands out over the globe. As perfume drifted in from the garden where flowers were bursting on their stems, as the draperies stirred and the call of a loon filled the air, Coco drove her gaze into the heart of the crystal.

     She felt guilty. She should not be doing this. "Your gift is to help others, not yourself," her mother frequently admonished, adding that, to use her psychic gift for selfish reasons, Coco was inviting disaster. But she couldn't help it. She was desperate. Years of failed relationships, one night stands that went no where, men giving her strange looks because of her gift. Coco had come to The Grove to find a man.

     Not just any man. Her soul mate. Her Romeo, her Antony, with whom she was destined to spend eternity in deep love and passion.

     But first she had to find out who he was.