But Winston just gave that little head nod of his, his version of what probably would have been a deep bow in Victorian times, and murmured that he would take care of it. And Sanford knew that the butler was as good as his word.
Upstairs, in his bedroom, Sanford stripped off his clothes and climbed into his massive bed. He grabbed the novel he'd been reading the previous night before he dozed off, opening it up to the little scrap of newspaper he'd torn off to serve as a bookmark. The book was incredibly dense, an account of the financial errors that led up to the most recent stock market crash, but Sanford forced himself to read a chapter or so, up until his eyelids started sagging. Only then did he reach over, turn off the lamp that hung over the bed, and put his head down on the pillow.
The window of his bedroom overlooked Elaine's cottage. If Sanford went to the window, he could look right down over the backyard fence into the windows of the little house. If Elaine had the lights on, he might even be able to see inside.
Not that he had any interest in looking at anything inside Elaine's house, of course. The woman was just one more annoyance, one who would hopefully be out of his house, and his life, as soon as she finished her job of inventorying and disposing of all the old furniture that came along with the house.
"What are you going to put in here, once this is gone?" she'd asked, while looking around the main floor.
Sanford hadn't answered, because he didn't have an answer. Whatever he wanted, he thought sleepily to himself before drifting off. He was free, his own man, and that was all that mattered.
He'd never be beholden again.
Chapter Ten
*
Over the next few days, I began to wonder whether I'd bitten off more than I could chew in terms of workload.
The next morning, Winston greeted me at my front door, giving me a professional little smile as he stood there, looking perfectly pressed and ironed in the tuxedo that I'd come to regard as his everyday outfit. "I understand that you needed these," he said as soon as I opened the door, holding out his hand.
I took a ring with two keys on it and a slip of paper from him, still fighting the latest yawn. I didn't want to look down at myself, see what I was wearing as I greeted this tuxedoed man on my doorstep. "'Kay," I managed to get out around the stubborn yawn.
"On the ring is the key to the front door, as well as the key to the interior closets," Winston went on. "The slip of paper has the login details for the wifi network. It's not especially strong, so you may not have service in all areas of the house, but it should cover most of the main areas."
"Thank you," I managed this time, looking back up from the items to the butler. "I'll be over in a bit, once I've gotten, uh, dressed."
Winston didn't look like he was judging me, but he'd probably had a lifetime of practice at keeping his face straight. "Sounds perfect, Miss Dean. Would you like me to provide you with any breakfast when you arrive? Coffee, perhaps a muffin or bagel?"
My stomach rumbled loudly before I could respond. "Sure, I'll take some coffee," I gave in. My stomach growled a second time, and I smacked myself in the midsection to try and quiet it. "And maybe a muffin, I suppose."
"Wonderful. See you soon, Miss Dean." And with that, the man gave me another one of his little bows, and headed down the sidewalk and off to the mansion next door.
I yawned again, blinked a couple of times, and then went back inside to get dressed.
No professional outfit this time, however. After seeing the piles of dusty furniture, I instead pulled on a pair of comfortable jeans and a tee shirt emblazoned with a logo from some "fun run" race I'd tried to do years earlier. I didn't remember the run being especially fun, but at least I'd gotten a nice tee shirt out of the whole deal.
I then looked around for Whiskers, can of wet cat food in hand. But even after checking all his usual spots, I couldn't find him anywhere.
And then, ten minutes too late, I remembered that, while I'd held the door open and talked with Winston on my front stoop, I'd felt something warm and fuzzy brush against my ankles.
Dammit. He got out again!
I thought about ducking out into the backyard to confirm that Whiskers was once again on the Winterhearst mansion back porch, but I was already running late for my first day of furniture appraisal work. Instead, I just decided to bring the can of cat food over to the house. Maybe Winston could bring the food out to the cat while I got started on the work.
At the mansion, I knocked on the door - but when it opened, Winston wasn't on the other side. Instead, can of open cat food still in hand, I found myself face to face with Sanford.
"Elaine," he said, his voice giving away nothing. His eyes flicked down to the can of cat food in my hand, and then back up to me. His face remained blank - too blank, I guessed. The stone-faced jerk had to be fighting at least a little smile in there.
"Hi," I said back after a second. "Uh, my cat managed to get out, and I bet that he's headed to his new favorite spot."
This time I was watching his lips, and I definitely saw them quirk up into a smile for the briefest of seconds before he hid the expression. "Of course. So you decided to bring the food over to him."
"Well, I just was so eager to get working!" I replied, giving him a big, happy smile. If he wasn't going to smile at all, well, I'd just show enough expression for both of us! "Now, are you going to help me out with pulling out some of this furniture, or-"
"I think not," he said, interrupting me (of course, I should be used to this by now. I'd forgotten that, despite looking very pretty, he was still a jerk). "I'm about to head out on my run."
Indeed, now that I looked down at him, he was wearing that same ridiculous black jogging outfit that he'd worn yesterday morning. Whatever. If he wanted to sweat from the heat, that was fine with me.
"Have fun," I told him, moving aside so that he could get out through the front door and past me. "I'll be here when you get back, working hard!"
I intended to elicit another smile with that comment, but for just an instant, I saw him grimace. Why did that bother the man? Was he so intent on privacy that he didn't want anyone else around him?
Oh well. Not my problem. Sanford started jogging off down the sidewalk, and I headed into the dusty interior of the mansion.
Even before Winston brought me my coffee and a bran muffin on a plate, however, I was starting to fear that I might have bitten off more than I could chew with this job. I had an inventory of everything on the first floor, sure, but I hadn't been quite prepared for the overwhelming variety of stuff all crammed into the corners of the rooms.
Gritting my teeth, I tugged at a wooden chair (Queen Anne, very nice, looking to be in excellent condition after it got a good wipe-down to get off the cobwebs), trying to get its legs out from where they'd become entangled in a folding table (plastic and metal, totally worthless unless someone was having an outdoor party for their child). With one more heave, the chair finally came loose, but I overbalanced and tumbled backward, landing on my ass on the hardwood floor.
"Ouch!" I exclaimed, getting up and glaring at the floor, the chair, the table, everything around me. I took another sip of coffee to distract myself, and sighed.
At least Winston hadn't been exaggerating about the quality of the coffee. This tasted miles better than anything that came out of my old, dented Mr. Coffee on my counter back at home.
About two hours later, just as I'd finally gotten a handle on the pile of furniture, managing to get most of the large piles broken apart into smaller piles that were easier to manage, I saw a familiar orange face poke around the corner. "Admiral Whiskers!" I exclaimed, giving the face a little wave.
With a meow, my cat strolled around the corner and into the room, looking as if he owned the whole place. He greeted me with a rub against my legs, sniffed at the empty plate that had very briefly held a bran muffin, and then began crawling into the largest remaining pile of furniture.
"He ate all his food," Winston spoke up behind me, and
I leapt a foot in the air.
I landed with a gasp, pressing my hand against my chest and feeling my heart thumping at a million beats per minute. "Winston! Don't sneak up on me like that!" I exclaimed. "You're going to give me a heart attack!"
"My apologies, Miss Dean." The man really did look sorry, and I instantly felt bad, reassuring him that he didn't do anything wrong. "In any case, he seemed to want to explore the house, and I didn't see any dangerous hazards. Is that alright with you?"
I looked over at Whiskers, who was now shoving his paw into a sideways vase in an attempt to reach something trapped inside. "I suppose that he'll be fine," I said. "As long as Sanford doesn't throw a hissy fit over having a cat inside his house."
Winston didn't have the same facial rigidity as his employer, and he smiled at this comment. "I'm sure that Mister Welles will be fine with the cat's presence," he assured me. "Is there anything else you require at the moment, Miss Dean?"
I shook my head, and the butler disappeared, presumably off to work on some other chores around the house. I glanced back over at Whiskers, who had flopped down onto his side, presumably exhausted by his effort to get the mystery item out of the vase.
"Fat lot of good you'll do me as an assistant," I told him, and he purred back at me, squeezing his eyes into slits. According to a book I'd read, that was a sign of affection from cats.
By mid-afternoon, I was still working on that first room, and I'd started to despair about ever finishing the entire house. If Sanford fired me halfway through, would he pay me for the time I'd put in? Whiskers, meanwhile, had found a spot where a beam of sunlight shone into the house, and now lay sprawled out in the hallway. I could just barely spot him out of the corner of my eye.
"What is this?"
I looked up at the question. Sanford had appeared from around the corner, and he now stood a couple of feet from Whiskers, looking down at the cat with an expression like he'd just been fed a bowl full of sour milk.
"He's a cat," I replied. "You know, hunts mice, sleeps a lot, chases laser pointers?"
The look that Sanford shot at me was cold enough to freeze the sun itself. "Why is it in my house?"
"He, not it," I corrected him. "Admiral Theodore Whiskers-"
"Seriously?"
"-and he's over here because he wanted to explore," I went on, ignoring the interruption. "Maybe he'll find some mice or something, kill some bugs. He's not bothering you, so just leave him alone."
Sanford frowned at me, but I wasn't as put off by that glare as I'd been a couple of days ago. Who knows, maybe I was developing an immunity to handsome jerks. "You don't look like you've made much progress."
"I'm making progress," I said defensively. "You just inherited a lot of stuff when you bought the house, that's all. Good appraisals take time."
"Whatever." Fortunately, he didn't seem inclined to argue with me. He just turned and walked off, not even saying goodbye to me.
At least, I thought that he walked away. A minute later, however, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and I saw that Sanford had paused to crouch down beside Whiskers. I froze, fearing that he might try and hurt my cat, but he instead just reached out and dangled his hand in front of Whiskers for the cat to sniff.
I didn't make a sound as Sanford, Mister Cold and Stony, scratched my cat behind the ears a few times. He then rose back up to his feet and moved off, not saying anything to me, clearly assuming that I hadn't seen him suddenly show his softer side.
I grinned for the rest of the day, just picturing Sanford kneeling down in his dark jeans and button-up shirt, petting a fat and purring cat that lay at his feet.
Chapter Eleven
*
"Really, there isn't that much for me to tell!" I insisted a couple of days later, as I swirled the glass of wine in front of me. "I'm telling you, he doesn't have a bunch of secret skeletons in his closet. And I'd know, I've looked in all of them."
Across from me, Della gave me her best pout, as if I'd spill all the dirty secrets if she just looked sad and adorable enough. "Come on," she wheedled. "You're the only one who's been in his big, scary mansion! What's he doing in there?"
I just shook my head, mainly because I didn't really have a satisfactory answer. As far as I could tell, Sanford wasn't actually working on that much. Sure, he spent plenty of time at his desk in the study I found upstairs, working on something on his computer, but he didn't appear to do much else. He certainly didn't have any sort of fun hobbies or interest in collecting odd objects.
"As far as I can tell, he just wants to be left alone," I said. "Now look, can we talk about something else? Like how I'm finally making some money and can start to hopefully turn my life back around?"
Della grinned at me. "Of course, and that's the reason why we're out here in the first place! Come on, ladies, a toast to Elaine for landing the mother lode of jobs and making tons of cash!"
"Well, tons might be overstating it a bit," I said, but the other ladies at the wine bar's counter were already holding up their glasses and hooting. Despite myself, I flushed, grinning at the cheer.
I didn't know these other women as well as Della did, but they were all regulars at the wine bar, and they were usually friendly enough. Most of them owned their own businesses, little clothing and jewelry boutiques around town, the kinds of places that tourists loved to frequent, where a single dress could cost well over a hundred dollars. I never shopped at those sorts of places ("No Truckee local ever does," Della once confessed to me. "Even I can't afford their prices!"), but they were quite nice women.
After the cheer subsided, we all sipped at our wine for a few minutes. I knew, however, that Della wasn't going to let the topic go so easily. Sure enough, after walking a quick lap around her store to make sure she didn't need to restock any of the bottles, she returned over to me, leaning on her elbows on the other side of the counter.
"But seriously, tell me," she whispered to me, as if every other woman at the counter wasn't straining her ears to listen in. "Is he still sexy? Is he married to anyone? You must have found out something!"
I started to open my mouth, but my eyes, and my brain, kept on getting distracted. "Della, can you seriously do something about that?" I asked, pointing at her chest.
Della glanced down into the miles of cleavage on display as she leaned forward on the counter. "What, the girls? Come on, it's not that distracting."
"I'm pretty sure that you could give a man a heart attack, as all his blood rushed elsewhere," I said. "I'm happily straight, but even I'm getting distracted by the sight! Are you wearing a corset or something?"
"Trying out a new push-up bra," she admitted immediately, beaming at me for noticing. "But fine, I'll straighten up. But tell me something, please, I'm dying!"
I really ought to have just clammed up and not told Della a thing. After all, I always told myself that I wasn't a gossip, and I shouldn't be sharing any information that wasn't mine to share. But still, gossiping was just so tempting, and besides, Sanford had to know that these details about him would get out sooner or later!
"I can guarantee that he's not married to anyone, at least no one living with him," I confided. "And I can see why. No woman could possibly handle more than five minutes with him before wanting to break up - or maybe just throwing him through a window!"
"Yes, but he's rich!" said one of the women sitting beside me, an older lady with her brightly dyed orange hair pulled into a swirling up-do on top of her head. She blinked at me through red-rimmed oval glasses. "A lot of girls wouldn't say no to a man who can support them, if you know what I mean!"
"Have you seen him jogging?" piped up one of the other women. "He could be broke, and I wouldn't kick him out of my house, if you know what I mean!"
The women hooted with wine-soaked laughter, and I laughed along with them. "But seriously, he's awful," I went on, once the laughter subsided. "Sure, it's a very pretty package, but he's a self-centered jerk, and acts constantly suspicious about everyth
ing. No one would be able to handle it. Heck, he probably would have his butler sleep with you, just because he couldn't be bothered to do it himself!"
Della sighed, pulling a mostly empty wine bottle from beneath the counter and refilling my glass for me. "On the house," she told me. "And that's too bad. It really is a pretty package, but he sounds like he's still a mess. I guess money can't fix all problems."
For a moment, I thought about my own problems. The money from the job was definitely fixing my the problem of my meager bank account, but this job wasn't likely to do me any favors in the romance department. I remembered that brief little flash of heat when Sanford had reached past me to open the door for me on the night when he hired me, but that definitely wasn't enough to even count as a single point in the romance category.
"For now, at least, I'm happy with just the money," I said to Della. "After all, if it lets me come out here and have a night on the town, it can't be all bad!"
Predictably, this comment roused another cheer from the peanut gallery. The topic of conversation moved on to how some minor local celebrity had stopped off in Britta's shop to look at lingerie for a female friend of his, and I relaxed, sipped my wine, and tried to distract myself from thinking about the job.
I'd finally finished that first room, and was on to the third room. Sanford had shown up again and complained about how slowly I was progressing, and I'd pointed out to him that part of the delay was because it took me so long to pull apart all the furniture on my own.
Of course, I hadn't actually expected him to do anything about it. But when I pointed out that I wasn't necessarily strong enough to separate all the heavy items without needing to strain myself and take frequent breaks, he immediately rolled up his sleeves and stepped up to the pile of furniture.
"What are you doing?" I'd asked, doing my best to not ogle his forearms. Cold and haughty, I reminded myself.
"Helping you, like you asked for," he answered immediately, reaching into the pile and grabbing a small end table. I just stared at him for a moment, feeling momentarily speechless.
Selling Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 1) Page 24
