Obligation

by Charlotte Byrd

  In the baggage claim area of the small local airport, I meet my driver. Desert mountains rise on either side of us near the horizon. This isn’t an unfamiliar sight. I’m used to the nature that far-flung places in the wilds of California have to offer.

  During the drive, I try to talk to the driver, but he offers very little in the way of information.

  “I don’t know, miss. You’ll find out when you get there,” he says over and over again. That’s his canned response to almost every question I have about this whole experience.

  We turn off the main highway and onto a lonely desert road. My heart starts to pound and matches the bumps in the road that we drive over. The car isn’t your typical sedan. It’s a tall Jeep, which is meant for off-road. Just as I thought that the road couldn’t be any more off-road, we turn onto an actual off-road road. There are no signs, but the driver turns to the left at the sandy fork in the road. Now we’re driving through the desert. Across its wide expanse and over little shrubs and around tall creosote bushes that dot the area.

  Finally, somewhere in the distance, I see a large house. It’s actually in the middle of nowhere. As we get closer, I make out the beautiful tall white columns that give it grandeur and stature. There are two large white lion statues at the gate. The driver pulls to the intercom and pushes the button.

  “We’re here,” he says. The wrought-iron gates open and let us in. The lions don’t move, but continue to stare somewhere into the distance, probably wondering the same thing that I am at this moment: how the hell did we get here?

  The driveway is expansive and circular, and the driver pulls up right to the steps of the mansion. I’ve never been to the White House, but this house looks just like it. The columns are a pristine ivory color. How the hell they keep them so white in the middle of this dusty desert is beyond me.

  “Go on up,” the driver says when he comes around and opens my door.

  “What about you?” I ask. I don’t know him, but I don’t want him to leave. I have no idea what awaits me inside. I look at my phone and see that I don’t even have one bar. There’s absolutely no reception here.

  “Oh, I’m not going in there, miss.”

  There? Why did he say it like that? My heart starts to pound harder. It’s so loud, I can barely hear my own thoughts in my head.

  The driver gets my two modest suitcases out of the trunk and takes them up the few steps to the porch. The porch is made of beautiful polished wooden slats, and it seems to wrap all the way around the building.

  There are two imposing double doors before me. The driver picks up the large metal door knocker and slams it into the door. After two knocks, the door finally opens.

  Chapter 7 - Sophia

  When I arrive…

  “Ms. Sophia Cole,” a small older gentleman says. He’s dressed up like a butler from Downtown Abbey.

  “My name is Mr. Francis Whitewater, it’s my pleasure to meet you.”

  I shake his extended hand.

  “May I help you with your bags?”

  I nod, leave one bag on the porch, and go inside with the other one.

  “Let me show you to your room,” he says, walking past me.

  When I enter the lobby, my mouth drops open. The ceilings are close to twenty feet high and gorgeous natural light permeates the space. The desert sun is rather harsh outside, but in here the temperature is a cool and comfortable seventy-five degrees without a whiff of central air. There’s a beautiful round marble entry table with a bouquet of flowers in the middle of the entry room the size of a ballroom and two winding staircases frame the table on either side, leading up to the second floor.

  “What a beautiful…house?” I say. House doesn’t seem like the right word. Mansion? Castle?

  “Thank you. I’ll let Mr. Grayson know that you approve.”

  “So, Mr. Grayson? Is that who requested my presence here?” I take the opportunity to ask.

  “Yes, of course. I thought that was clear from the letter.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “The letter wasn’t very clear about much. The thing is, Mr. Whitewater, I don’t even know who Mr. Grayson is. I have no idea why he wants me here. Or what he expects me to do.”

  Mr. Whitewater turns to face me. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to insinuate by that, Ms. Cole, but you are not expected to do anything that you are not 100% willing and interested in doing. Mr. Grayson invited you here as a guest. There is nothing sinister about his intentions.”

  I nod politely. I’m trying to understand, but rich people have a way of saying things that don’t make sense. Supposedly, I’m only here as a guest, but the letter was also quite clear about a certain debt that had to be paid. So what would happen if I didn’t pay it?

  Mr. Whitewater leads me through the foyer, the gigantic living room with even taller windows, which look out to the expanse of the desert in the background. The windows are so large, floor-to-ceiling, and clear that I feel like I am walking outside.

  “You probably have some problems with birds here,” I say. I don’t know why I bring this up, but large floor-to-ceiling windows always make me wonder about birds.

  “How do you mean?” Mr. Whitewater asks with a grave expression of concern on his face.

  Now, I’m totally regretting bringing anything up at all. Me and my stupid mouth!

  “Well, it’s just that the windows are so big and crystal clear…”

  He stares at me, waiting for me to continue.

  “I just think that you probably have a lot of birds flying into it.”

  Mr. Whitewater takes a moment to consider the situation. “You know, come to think of it, yes, we do. It’s almost every morning or so that I find one or two dead birds lying on the back porch.”

  “Oh, how sad,” I say. “Well, I guess that’s something I can try to fix.”

  Mr. Whitewater smiles at me. “Perhaps, perhaps.”

  “You don’t think so?” I ask. I’m usually quite good at reading people. Waitressing for seven years has taught me that, if nothing else, but I find Mr. Whitewater difficult to read and analyze. Perhaps, it’s his English accent that’s throwing me off.

  “No, not at all. I just wasn’t sure that would be part of your job description.”

  “I’m not sure either, but I was told that I am here to be a personal assistant and caregiver of the place. Perhaps, within the scope of those duties, I can make some time to try to prevent the deaths of one or two birds per day.”

  I don’t mean to be smug and condescending, but as soon as these words come out of my mouth, I realize that I am. Luckily, Mr. Whitewater lets it slide.

  I follow him to the left wing of the house, past the kitchen the size of three doublewide trailers, without another word.

  “Well, here we are.” Mr. Whitewater reaches into his pocket and gets a keycard. He slides it into an opening on the card reader and then hands it to me.

  “This is your room. And this is your card.”

  We walk into a spacious one-bedroom suite with a full entryway leading to the living room and a large bedroom. The living room and bedroom are separated by French doors and there’s also another pair of French doors leading to the private patio outside of the bedroom.

  “Wow, this is beautiful.”

  Mr. Whitewater puts down my bag.

  “I’m glad that it’s to your liking.”

  “Yes, definitely. Thank you.”

  Mr. Whitewater starts to leave, but turns around.

  “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Mr. Grayson is expecting you for dinner at six p.m. There are dresses and shoes in the closet. Jewelry is on the vanity. And you are, of course, welcome to wear your own clothes as well.”

  I nod, but he doesn’t let me off the hook that easily.

  “Can I tell him that you are coming?”

  “Yes, of course,” I mumble.

  Of course, I know that I’m supposed to meet this Mr. Grayson at some point. I just didn’t think it would be so soon. No, not so soon. It
’s not soon. It’s in a few hours, and I thought I’d meet him right away. I just didn’t think that it would be so formal. Dinner? Why doesn’t he just come up here? Or I could go to his office? I don’t know if I can manage a whole dinner.

  After Mr. Whitewater excuses himself, I open the closet. The closet is almost as big as the bedroom.

  I’ve seen these closets before. Walk-in closet with shelves lining all three walls and a large island in the middle. On elegant, real wooden hangers, I find five dresses. Pink, red, black, blue, and green. Each one is more beautiful than the others. One is knee-length made of chiffon. One is short and tight with built-in bra cups. I run my fingers over the dresses and inhale the luxury.

  Below the dresses, I find ten pair of different kinds of shoes. All pristine, never worn, without one scuffed up bottom. The heels vary in size, and I quickly try on each one. The flats are the most comfortable, but the high heeled five inch heels with red bottoms make me feel most like a woman.

  “Oh my God! What am I doing here?” I say out loud, walking out of the walk-in closet. “People don’t do this for nothing. Why does he want me here? To live here?”

  Crazy, anti-social thoughts flood my mind. He wants something from me, and whatever he wants isn’t easy to get. But what? I shake my head. I don’t know.

  But then I sit down at the vanity. I slowly open the jewelry box and run my fingers over the pearls. Diamonds glisten and blind me for a moment. But then something else altogether catches my eye. A small pair of elegant silver earrings in the shape of a leaf. And right next to them is another pair. In gold. Yes, this is what I’m going to wear. I don’t know which ones, but it’s going to be one of these for sure.

  I sit on the couch and put my feet up on the soft upholstered coffee table. I need to decide what to do. Hours crawl by, but I am still at an impasse. Finally close to five forty-five, I decide that I will go downstairs and find out what this is all about. I’m a guest here, at least so far, and I will act like a guest. But I won’t do anything that I don’t feel comfortable with.

  I look at the dresses hanging in the closet. They are beautiful, of course, but I’m not a charity case. I don’t know who this man is, and I need to retain some power in this relationship. I open my suitcase and look for the best thing that I have. Jeans are too casual. Besides, I don’t really have any without any holes in them. T-shirts are also too casual. Aha! A button-down shirt and a pair of khakis. Practical. Professional. Not too sexy. Not sexy at all, actually.

  Chapter 8 - Sophia

  When I get ready…

  I still have some time to kill before dinner. There is no television in the room. A part of me is relieved, yet another is horrified. My phone doesn’t work and, though I brought my laptop, there is also no internet connection to be found. What the hell do people do here? I wish that I’d brought some paperbacks from home. My mom has an extensive collection of romance books, and a handful of those would at least keep me entertained in the evenings.

  I walk over to the window. The sun is setting and hugging the whole world outside with a warm, comforting hue. This is the color of possibility. Nothing can go wrong in a world bathed in this color. I feel like that’s true, but I’m afraid it’s not. I look out of the window and see horses grazing in the distance. There’s no grass to speak of, but hay is scattered for them on the ground, and they stand with steadfast calmness, which puts me at ease.

  I’ve never ridden a horse, but I’ve always wanted to. There were only a couple of girls from my high school who rode horses, and both of their families were quite wealthy and owned many acres of ranch land. I always found the idea of living on a ranch very romantic, but now that I am on one, I am not so sure. The idea of Mr. Grayson freaks me out. What kind of elusive and crazy millionaire would ask a stranger to come and live and work in his house for a year? What does he want from me? My mind immediately goes somewhere dark and scary, and I can’t let it wander too much. Too much thinking, too many scary thoughts, are not good. Especially since I have to be here for some time.

  On the other hand, my mind continues wandering without my permission, this isn’t mandatory. Of course, he could keep me here without my permission, but I have no indication that it’s what he means to do. So far, everyone has been nothing but nice and professional. Maybe there’s nothing sinister about this place at all.

  I look at the clock again. I have ten minutes until dinner. Most girls would need more time, but I don’t. I slowly change into my khakis and a pink button down shirt. Something about the pink shirt makes it clash with the khakis, so I try on the blue polka dot button down shirt.

  “Yes, this looks much better,” I say out loud into the mirror. There’s no one around. I’m not used to having so much privacy, given that I grew up in a double-wide with my mom. I’m kind of enjoying the space and the solitude.

  “This looks great,” I say to myself. I take out my hair tie and flip my head over. When I bring my head back up, my hair falls with much more volume than before. Though it’s usually as straight as straw, today it’s all in waves around my face.

  “Not bad.” I smile and run my fingers through it. “Not bad at all.”

  Makeup. The heat from the long ride from the airport has all but melted off whatever little amount of eyeliner and mascara I’d applied earlier this morning.

  I apply a generous amount of eyeliner with my mouth open. I’m not sure what opening my mouth does for eyeliner application, but it’s been a habit since I was thirteen. I’ve also seen girls do it on television, so it must be how it’s done.

  When all of my makeup, hair, and clothes are done, I again look in the mirror and then at the clock. I still have nine minutes left. How’s that possible? Should I go down early? No, I decide. I can’t go down early.

  My eyes drift back to the closet. I open it again and look at the dresses. I run my fingers over the different fabrics. Each is different from the next. All are much more expensive than any fabric I’ve ever owned.

  I start to unbutton my shirt and pull off my pants before I even realize what I’m doing. Suddenly, I’m pulling on the dress with the thick taffeta skirt on the bottom. The dress poofs out at my hips, and I love how small it makes my legs and waist look.

  “Amazing.”

  I twirl and the dress continues without me. I try on the pair of high heels that are placed right underneath the dress. I’ve never heard of the company, but I love how pointy the front is and how high the heels are.

  I twirl again in front of the window.

  I feel like I’m a princess. The fabric feels amazing next to my skin. The taffeta skirt hides my hips and emphasizes my breasts. The polka dots make me feel young, friendly, and alive.

  I look back at the clock. I still have a few minutes before dinner if I want to change.

  “You should change,” I say to myself in the mirror, but the girl who looks back at me doesn’t want to.

  “If I don’t ever see Mr. Grayson again, if I leave tonight after dinner, then at least I got to wear this beautiful dress once.” I reason.

  I’m rationalizing. Justifying. Trying to give myself reasons to wear it. But I don’t need to. I want to wear it. That should be enough.

  “Okay.” I look in the mirror. “Okay, this is it.” I complete the outfit with delicate leaf earrings in silver.

  Chapter 9 - Sophia

  When I meet Mr. Grayson…

  I walk down the elaborate and ornate staircase in my taffeta polka dot dress and high heels. I touch his earrings with my fingertips and shivers run up my spine. My steps are cautious and deliberate. All I hear is the sound my shoes make when they hit the marble and echo off the walls. The walls are lined with beautiful ornate rugs I’ve only seen in expensive stores on Rodeo Drive. The stairs are a little slippery, and I hold on to the railing. Why they don’t put some of those rugs on the staircase is beyond me.

  I remember where the kitchen is, and I see Mr. Whitewater in the distance. Near the dining room. I take a deep brea
th and nearly float the rest of the way over.

  “Ms. Sophia Cole, thank you for coming,” Mr. Whitewater says to me. He’s holding a tray and one tall glass with something in it.

  “Would you care for some champagne with strawberries?”

  I nod, and he hands me the glass.

  “Mr. Grayson is waiting for you in the library.”

  Library? I wasn’t shown a library before. My heart skips a beat. I’m not sure who I’m more excited to see, Mr. Grayson or the library. The presence of a library solves the entire problem of what the hell I’m going to do in my room when I’m not working.

  Mr. Whitewater takes me down a hallway which was not part of today’s tour. In the end, he turns off to the right into a large spacious room entirely covered in books. Books line every imaginable part of it, from floor to ceiling. The ceiling is about twenty feet, just like in the rest of the house. What really makes the place special is the large bay window overlooking an orange grove.

  There’s a man sitting there in the shadows. I can’t see his face, but I can see his well fitted suit and handsome profile. His hair is brushed back and his nose reminds me of a Roman emperor.

  “Mr. Grayson. May I present Ms. Sophia Elizabeth Cole,” Mr. Whitewater announces.

  I’ve never been presented before. I don’t know what to do. Mr. Grayson gets up and approaches me. His walk is deliberate and considerate. His shoes are so shiny they are bouncing light into my eyes even though it’s relatively dark in the library. So dark, in fact, that I can barely make out his face.

  “Ms. Sophia Cole,” Mr. Grayson says. Immediately, his voice sounds incredibly familiar, but I can’t place it. Do I know him? How in the world would I know him?

  Finally, Mr. Grayson steps into the light and I see his face.