Her mobile buzz-buzzed in her pocket. A message from the landscape gardener; Hector Rodriguez was coming to plough the snow. Rage a vexing rash, she stuffed the dog’s yellow ball into her coat pocket and put Felix indoors. Then she went to the barn, keyed in the code to unlock the side entrance. She slammed a hand against the control for the garage-like door. Metal rolled upward and she stood shaking amid the bags of potting mix, ride-on tractor, and cloth-covered, half-restored British sports car. A burst of sunlight streamed in through the windows, security bars across the glass painting lines down the fabric draped over the convertible and the large wooden crates Hector had dropped off yesterday.
Heated by solar panels on the roof, the barn’s warmth accentuated the smell of old car, garden soil, and the black rubber mat beneath her feet, the stink of it fuel for her fury. Mae stomped toward the potting mix, gave the bags a swift kick, then another and another, swearing, kicking and swearing in a full-blown tantrum until she was gasping for air the mountain altitude made thin.
“Breathe, Mae,” Kitt said.
Mae took a breath of earthy, grease-tinged air, blew it out slowly, and inhaled again.
“Yes,” Kitt said, “just like that. Breathe.”
Heart slowing, breathing, in and out, Mae heard the sound of Hector’s pickup truck rumbling outside. She moved to the open door, collecting herself.
Handsome, fifteen years older than Bryce, Hector waved a rosy brown hand and hopped out of his big Dodge. With him again was Coyote. “Hiya, Ms Valentine,” Hector said, smiling. “About time we had snow.”
“Hello, Mr, Hector, Mr Coyote,” she said, hoped her glued-on smile wasn’t maniacal.
Stocky Coyote, the Central American cousin of a cousin, spoke little English. He nodded a greeting, flashed a toothy grin, and went off to shovel the front walk.
“I’ll be quick with the tractor.” Hector said. “Tell Jools when he’s done with those crates, Coyote’ll take the wood and chip it.” He turned, hesitated and swung around. “You know, I’m giving the Sunrise Lecture at the Fuller Lodge the day after tomorrow. It’s called ‘Drunken Rabbits and Oenology.’ I invited Jools and his friends. Hope you can come too.”
The plastered-on smile began to ache. “Thank you. I’ll be driving guests into town. Hearing you will be nicer than waiting with the car. Stay warm.”
Long, salt and pepper plait swinging between his shoulder blades, Hector attached the snow-throwing implement to the tractor, hopped on, and powered up the engine. She watched the man clear the long driveway, piling up small mountains of snow along the pavement, and cursed Kitt’s name, the noise of the tractor’s motor drowning out her swearing in between all the breathing.
When she returned to the house, she began preparing the afternoon’s lunch. Soon, five guests would arrive for a pre-party wine tasting. They would stay on after the New Year’s Eve party too, for more wine tasting and skiing or snowboarding the slopes above Los Alamos. With lunch ready to go in the oven, nibbles organised, and guest rooms in order, she readied bottles of Beauséjour Duffau Saint-Emilion, Sine Qua Non Midnight Oil Syrah and Araujo Estate Eisele Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon for the tasting in the great room, arranging a table in front of the spectacular backdrop, the sky outside heavy with blue-grey clouds the colour of Kitt’s eyes.
The mobile in her pocket buzz-buzzed, indicating her new employer had returned. She went to the garage at the opposite end of the house. Despite its heated floor and vaulted ceiling, the garage didn’t quite match the lavishly villainous scale of the rest of the home. Four British convertibles from the ’50s and ’60s—cars he’d restored—sat in the garage, but Taittinger’s taste for what he drove every day was more practical. His bright green Jeep Cherokee, spattered and caked with reddish ice, pulled into the space beside the two-toned Austin Healy and the beige Volvo SUV Mae drove.
Cold air wafted in. Ruddy water dripped on tidy grey concrete as Taittinger jumped from the Jeep, stretching his arms overhead, shirt-tails un-tucked from his jeans. The man’s neck gave an audible crack when he rolled his head and lifted his chin to the ceiling. His sandy brown hair stuck up on his head the way Kitt’s had when he’d climbed from bed in the morning.
Bleedin’ feck, did everything have to be a reminder of Kitt? Mae moved to close the garage door and shut out the wind that had turned frigid.
“Hey, Valentine. Better leave it open.” Taittinger’s neck cracked. “Ruby’s right behind me.”
A champagne-coloured Cadillac slid in front of the open garage door. Engine running, the driver, a fair-skinned middle-aged man got out and opened the rear passenger door.
Red-soled Louboutins flashed. Ruby Bleuville, a Fine Art and Collectables Specialist at Smythe & Dexter Art and Auctions in Santa Fe, took the chauffeur’s hand and climbed out. Long, strawberry hair drawn back with clips accentuated eyeliner that gave large, pale green eyes a doll-like appearance. Petite, all sleek-bodied in a pink Givenchy floral print with long sleeves, she stood a foot below Taittinger and was ten years younger. She was exactly Kitt’s type.
“Criminy, am I the first?” the Texan woman drawled, adjusting the coat over her arm.
“You are.” Taittinger went to her, paused and, somewhat shyly, kissed her cheek.
“I’m starvin’ and,” she put a hand on his arm, “it’s dad-burn freezin’ out there. Mind if I cuddle up alongside you for a sec?”
Taittinger’s face took on a school-boyish flush.
Mae swallowed her amusement.
The driver had taken luggage from the boot and set it beside Taittinger’s Jeep. Ruby glanced at him. “I’ll let you know when I need you again, Wally.”
“I’ll be at the Hampton Inn, ma’am.” The English-accented chauffeur smiled amiably and nodded, silver-shot brown hair flopping over his forehead the way Hugh Grant’s used to. He got back in the Cadillac and pulled away. Mae shut the garage door.
“Howdy. It’s Valentine, right?” Ruby said above the humming automatic door.
“Yes. Good afternoon, Miss Bleuville. May I show you to your room?”
“You can just take my bag, honey.” The woman smiled dazzlingly.
Taittinger took off his round, tortoiseshell glasses and cleaned the lenses with the bottom of his shirt. Perhaps they’d fogged up.
Ruby handed her coat to Mae. “Oh, Jools, that blue car,” she pointed, “is adorable. Will you take me for a ride in it with the top down?”
Taittinger set his glasses on. “That’s a Morgan Plus 4,” he looked at the blue car, “that’s an MG-A, the green one is an Austin Healy Sprite, and we don’t drive these in this weather. Any time you want a ride when it’s clear, you let me know.”
“Aw, thank you, sugar.” Ruby slipped her arm through his.
Taittinger’s ears turned rosy. “Have any of the others arrived, Valentine?”
“Not yet. I expect within the half hour, Dr Jools.” Mae glanced at Kitt’s watch and lifted the bags from beside the Jeep.
Laying a hand over Ruby’s, Taittinger began to hum. “Hm-mm you be mine, tell me quando hmm-hmm quando...”
With a grimace, Mae jerked up the handle on a wheeled red case, steeling herself for more of the doctor singing that song. Her shoulder began to bunch until a ringing mobile cut the performance and she thanked God and the baby Jesus for the small mercy.
Taittinger answered the call and began to lead Ruby away, chatting, “Hey, Baz... Yeah, I know the cell coverage is spotty in places... Uh-huh, that’s right... You’re nearly here. Past the elk sign, turn right, and then up the hill. Keep going ’til you run out of road. Valentine will meet you out front. It’ll take about four minutes from where you are.”
Mae ferried Miss Bleuville’s things to a guest room, then pulled a coat from a rack beside the front door, slipped it on, and met the black Mercedes Maybach halting in the driveway.
Turkish Ari Basil, the Basil in Basil & Vallance, the London upscale grocery store chain, had flown in to Los Alamos on a private jet from Toronto w
ith his man. Dark-haired, mid-thirties like Taittinger, his man swivelled out of the luxury car, shoes a highly-polished black. Overcoat flapping in the breeze, he gave Mae a nod and opened the rear passenger door. A man, sixtyish, exited from the rear of the Mercedes.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
Expensively dressed, tall and quiet-spoken, Basil sounded like the actor Omar Sharif. “Good afternoon to you, Valentine, how lovely to meet you.” He looked over to his butler. “This is Mr Grant.”
Tall, the end of his long nose red-tipped, Grant nodded politely. He removed a Louis Vuitton suitcase from the boot, his black ponytail fluttering in the breeze when he pulled out a leather valise and handed it to Basil.
Mae led the men inside. Taittinger’s easy listening music played throughout the house, soft and ambient, Vince Monroe aptly crooning Let It Snow.
Mr Basil came to a dead halt. “Breathtaking,” he said, admiring a seventeenth-century sundial, rather than the view from the rear of the house. Upstairs, he gave an approving nod to the understated furnishings of his black and white room and sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. He glanced around the room and up at the ceiling. “This is splendid, but how do I turn off the music?”
“Just here, Mr Basil.” Mae poked a finger at the touchpad that controlled the lights, the window shades, and music.
“Thank you. Tell me, where would I find the sunbeam?”
“The sunbeam?”
“The little car Jools is restoring, the Sunbeam Alpine.”
“Oh, yes. That one is in the barn. Would you like me to show you?”
“No, no. I’ll wait for Jools. Thank you.” He smiled politely. “And where will Grant be tonight?”
“Mr Grant is in staff quarters. I hope that suits you, Mr Basil.”
“Thank you, Valentine. I’m sure Grant will be happy wherever you have him.” Basil glanced at his man and frowned.
“Dr Taittinger would be happy to have you join the party this evening, Mr Grant.”
“That is very kind of him, Valentine.” Grant, an American, placed the suitcase on a low rack and wiped his nose.
Basil glanced at his man again. “I don’t wish to keep you from having a little holiday fun tonight, but you look terrible, Grant. I think you need something to tame that beastly cold. Valentine, is there a pharmacy nearby, where Grant can go to fetch something medicinal for himself?”
“There’s a pharmacy in the supermarket in White Rock,” she said.
“Thank you, sir.” With a slight smile, Grant set to work unpacking and arranging his employer’s things. “Before I go, sir, the Prada or the Zegna for tonight?”
“Zegna. And the blue shirt,” Basil said, looking at exquisite mandala hanging on the wall.
Grant sneezed convulsively.
“Goodness, Grant. Valentine, please see to Grant. Go settle in, man, and get something for that nose.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mae ushered the sick man through the house, the kitchen and to the staff quarters where Felix greeted them, pawing at Mae, sniffing the butler’s shiny shoes. Within half a second, front paws latched around Grant’s leg, and the humping commenced.
Messenger bag across his chest, small suitcase in one hand, and Mr Basil’s suit over an arm, Grant shook the dog free. Felix scurried in a circle around an overstuffed chair and sat.
“This is Felix, Dr Taittinger’s dog. And you did that well.”
“I’ve had employers with dogs before.” Grant sneezed, then took in the sitting room, kitchen, and folded bed linen Mae had left on the broad back of the sofa. Tired brown eyes filled with a hint of despair. “I’m on the couch?”
“No. You’re in the bedroom on the right.”
“Who’s on the couch?”
“I often fall asleep reading out here,” she said. Dog following, she moved into the kitchen and pulled open a drawer. “Here’s your key,” she said, laying it on the worktop. “Now, once you’re settled, you’ll want to see to Mr Basil’s things. The laundry is just outside the apartment.”
He sneezed again. “Sorry. Of course.” He put the dinner suit on the little dining table, eyes settling on the ceramic bowl of apples next to the new iPad Bryce had given her. She used it to stay in contact with him, make notes, read books, and keep her journal.
“There’s chicken soup in the refrigerator. Do have some.”
“That’s real nice of you, Valentine,” he said, wiping his nose.
“Mae.”
“I’m Russell.”
“You should be in bed. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more useful than aspirin and a slug of Irish whiskey to give you.”
“I’ll take you up on the whiskey later. Thanks.”
“You do look awful.”
“I’ve worked when I’ve been worse. Bet you have too.”
“Not for quite some time. Have you been in service long, Russell?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Have you worked for Mr Basil all that time?” She opened the door to the second bedroom.
He sneezed and dumped his bag on the bed. “Three years. Before that I worked for the British High Commissioner to Malaysia.” Eyes bleary, he sat on the edge of the mattress. “What about you? Been with Taittinger a while?”
“A few months.” Mae pursed her mouth. “Now, give me that dinner suit. You settle in and have a little lie down.”
Mae left Grant and pressed Basil’s dinner suit. When the next guest arrived, she darted out of the house without a coat and wished she hadn’t. The temperature had dropped. The wind had picked up. The glasses on the end of her nose went cold.
A red sedan dulled by crusted ice and dirty snow pulled away, revealing a lean man. Robert Nash was a retired Premier League player, a restaurateur, and Irishman whose good looks were spoiled by a fashion sense from the ’80s. Mullet-style blond hair and electric blue parachute jogging bottoms flapped in the wind. He handed over a brown box. “Shall we get out of this wind?” he said, sounding vaguely like her brother. He hoisted on an enormous backpack, grabbed a yellow snowboard, and followed her indoors, pausing to inspect various antiques and artefacts, sniffing disdainfully.
When they’d reached his room, he tossed the snowboard and backpack on the floor at the foot of the bed and took the box from her. Then he yanked his shirt overhead, revealing a pale blue tee stained with chocolate. He tossed the shirt aside, opened the bag, and began pulling out one dirty garment after another until there was a mound of soiled things. He grabbed the pile and tossed it at her. “Don’t shrink anything.”
The trumpet of a car horn heralded the next arrival. A smallish Ford SUV stood in the driveway, sky-blue body glazed with red soil the state used to neutralise icy roads. This would be the Australian Private Equity Investors, David Case and Ian Somerset, but a lone man in a brown beanie hopped from the SUV. He dragged out an ugly, down-filled parka, and put it on quickly. He tucked a shoebox-sized container under an arm, grabbed a small duffle and garment bag from the rear seat.
Mae stared at him, at the way he moved with easy grace, and the man became Kitt; Kitt lifting the duffle he’d left on the chair by the door. Kitt hoisting a garment bag over his shoulder. “G’day,” he said.
Her mouth went dry. She ran her arid tongue over parched lips, took a breath, blew it out softly. “Good afternoon. Mr Somerset or Mr Case?”
“David Case. Ian’s plane was delayed.” Late forties or early fifties, and handsome in all the ways Kitt was not, the Australian stood six feet, maybe more. He had crow’s feet around eyes that were bright blue-green. Ginger hair poked from the edge of his beanie. “Valentine, I assume?” He cocked his head, a darker ginger eyebrow arched.
The gesture, the expectant expression, was so like Kitt and Mae swallowed. “Yes. Dr Taittinger would like you to join him and the others in the great room, after you settle in, or before if you like. May I take your things to your room?”
“You can take me to my room. I’ll keep the bag and box, you can hav
e the suit.” He held out the garment bag.
With a nod, she took his suit, led him into the house, and pushed her fogged-up glasses down her nose. Mr Case trailed behind. When they reached his room, he tossed his duffle on the king-sized bed. It left a rusty smear on the cream coverlet, one she’d have to soak out. She hung his garment bag in the walk-in wardrobe, returned to the bedroom and demonstrated the room’s touchpad controls. “May I assist you with anything further?”
“Ari Basil here yet?” He pulled a black and red paper ring from a cigar he’d already clipped.
“Mr Basil arrived a short time ago, with his assistant. I believe Dr Jools is showing him, Ms Bleuville, and Mr Nash the sports car he’s restoring. It’s a Sunbeam. Would you like to see it?”
“Nah.” The flame of a gold DuPont lighter flared near the end of the Arturo Fuente between his teeth.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Case. Dr Jools asks that smoking is confined to outdoors. May I take you to the patio where you can enjoy your cigar?”
MAE COVERED TAITTINGER’S four bottles with a tea towel and placed a box over the top of the towel. Sunlight spilled into the great room and shone upon the sculpture made by Taittinger’s mother. A green glass lizard, the size of a ten-year-old boy, glittered and refracted sunlight, dappling the bottles of wine for the afternoon tasting. Glasses and the wines, all a 2001 vintage, sat alongside bread and crackers on the table. Spittoons had been placed in discreet locations around the great room. By the time guests began to filter out of the cellar, she’d uncorked the Sine Qua Non Midnight Oil Syrah and filled glasses on a tray. She offered the tray to Mr Nash.
Wine in hand, Nash shuffled around the dragon, sniffing wine, ragged hem of his purple trousers scuffing the floor. “That’s quite a cellar, Jools.”
“Took six months to tunnel in, three months to fit it out, and nine years to build my collection. I’m happy with it.” Taittinger beamed.
Felix wove his way around the furniture and glass dragon, sniffing everything and everyone. David Case nodded, taking a glass, avoiding the dog. “You should be. Ian will be impressed—if he ever gets here.”
Forever in Your Service Page 5
