by Ann Raina
She crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. Her voice was thin and friendly. “My son, don’t worry about a little interruption. I’m here all day. So, proceed with whatever you’re here to do. It’s awfully stuffy in here, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.” In the warm mist, he searched for the ventilation lid and found it in the wall, about six feet up. He put down the tool case and used a bench to step on and check the screws. “Ventilation went down, ma’am. I’ll try to fix it.”
“Sure.”
He shot a glance. He could be mistaken, but she seemed very happy about his presence. “I’ll hurry.”
“No need to. Take your time. I love men fixing things.”
He worked with a screwdriver and took off the lid. Holding a small flashlight between his teeth, he checked the duct toward the ventilator.
“Have you worked here for long, mister?”
“N…” The flashlight made an answer impossible. He took it out. “No, ma’am, just for a few weeks.”
“Oh.” Her gaze traveled up and down his body. She clicked her tongue. “What’s your name? I couldn’t read your nametag.”
“Matthew.”
“Matthew. A name from the Bible. Very interesting. You’re surely an enrichment for the business. They needed an apt handyman around here.” She shook her head as if she had been a voice in the wilderness for too long.
“Yes, ma’am.” He put the flashlight back between his teeth and stretched his right arm into the tube. Something stuck in the extractor fan had stopped its movement. He tried to reach for it and cursed without words when it brushed his fingertips.
“Anything wrong?”
He tried to shake his head, but bumped the flashlight against the sides. No good. If he didn’t see a thing, he wouldn’t get this done. He tried again. This time his fingers touched something, a part of the plastic that held the construction in place. With two fingers, he got a hold of it and pulled with as much strength as he could provide within the small space. The fragment came loose, but before he could draw back, the cuff of his overall became entangled. The ventilator motor whined, stuck again. His fingers bled. He dropped the plastic and pulled more forcefully. Instead of getting free, the cloth was hooked up even more. He sweated profusely in the moist air and tried to keep his balance on the small bench, which cracked under his weight.
“Are you all right, Matthew?”
Michael blinked when sweat got in his eyes. There has to be a way to get free of the metal ripping my sleeve! He took out the flashlight again. “I’m fine, thanks. Just…stuck.” His smile was forced. He could see the blades of the ventilator move inch by inch, taking the sleeve with them. He had no leeway to maneuver. The overall was tight and his arm stretched out. He opened the long zipper to pull his right arm out of the sleeve. It worked slowly, but it worked. Now the ventilator blades turned faster, screeching as the cloth wound around the inner parts. Michael cursed again when the sleeve was sucked in even more. He shed the other sleeve, too, to have both hands free. “Could you turn off the ventilator, please?”
Mrs. Halsworth watched him as if sitting front row in the stadium while her favorite football team played for the Superbowl. “Sorry, young man, but my legs are weak and I won’t make it this far without stumbling.”
The apologetic smile was thwarted by the joyous glee in her eyes. Michael understood. Great! I try to repair this damn thing and she enjoys the show! He grunted and tried to reach for his tool case, but with the sleeve caught, his only chance was to shed the rest of the overall.
And he did.
He was not mistaken to hear a girlie giggle behind him when he—almost acrobatically—got out of the boots and overall. The ventilator hummed louder as it worked on turning with the cloth caught in between, pulling in more as it became loose. In boxers and socks, Michael went for the switch and turned the ventilator off. He did not glance at the lady on the chair for he was not sure what he would say if she burst into laughter. He took a jackknife from the case and cut the entangled sleeve to unwrap it piece by piece. Finished, there was not much left of it. He cleaned the ventilator, checked for other damages and turned it on again. It hummed and turned and sucked in air as it should. Michael put on the rest of his overall and boots, then closed the lid.
“You are indeed a very apt handyman.”
Michael stared at the floor, torn between anger about his clumsiness and the need to laugh it off. After all, the ladies were not solely here for a healthy hour in the sauna and he had just delivered an applause-worthy show. “Yes, ma’am, if you say so.”
She smiled.
He could hear it in her voice.
“I will mention your extraordinary skills to Lady Summerston, of course.”
Now he had to look at her and returned the smile. “Thank you. That’s…kind.”
“There are always chances for careers in this business.” She was positively beaming with delight.
Michael glanced at the cut-up sleeve, shrugging. “Well, I’ll try to be a sewer today.”
She laughed and slapped her hands and still laughed when he said goodbye and left.
On the corridor, a young man approached him with swinging steps. He wore light brown pants, loafers and a shirt that gave away muscles under it. A lot of muscles. He spoke in a soft baritone. “Is the lady still in there?”
“Yes.”
“And you? What were you doing there?”
“I repaired the ventilator.”
The tall and very good-looking man smiled about the handyman’s grumpiness. “Looks like a very aggressive specimen. Did it bite you?”
“Almost.”
“Well, as long as it wasn’t the lady!”
The juvenile, easy-going manner of the other man made it hard to stay angry. He found himself grinning. “She’s still in there, and if I had stayed a little longer, she would’ve put a twenty dollars note in my pants.”
“Yep, that’s her. Always ready to rock ‘n roll.” He slapped Michael’s shoulder, followed by a movement of his arms as if they were connecting rods of a train. “Thanks, man, for entertaining her. See ya.”
Michael took a deep breath and ignored the astonished gazes at his torn sleeve on the way back.
* * * *
“That will be all, Marc,” Lady Summerston said to the man behind the desk and turned away to face the main lobby. The big double glass doors opened automatically and two of the butlers pushed empty trolleys back to the rear side of the hall. Again, satisfied customers had left the wellness farm with the promise to return. A part of Lady Summerston was glad the business worked so well without much advertisement, but another part wanted more than smiling ladies. She did not allow daydreaming about her wishes. They would not be fulfilled anyway and there was a lot of work waiting for her. The headache building behind her forehead wouldn’t make the day any easier. She was about to return to her office when she heard a warm, familiar voice behind her.
“Don’t look so grumpy, madam, it’s way too early for that.”
Lady Summerston turned around. “Patty?”
“Indeed, you still know me by a glance. Obviously, I haven’t changed that much, thank God!”
Patricia Dellman opened her arms and the ladies shared a brief embrace, careful not to hug too tight. While Lady Summerston was stout, Patricia was five foot six plus high heels. She looked even taller in her slim black dress and yellow jacket, not to mention the artful hair-do.
Lady Summerston stepped back to have a better angle to look at her girlfriend. “Am I wrong or are you here early?”
* * * *
Patricia beamed at her and took a deep breath as if to inhale the aroma of the place. “Can I ever be early in this place? Don’t kid me, Kate, I always like to return. The quicker the better.” She took off her sunglasses and glanced around, taking in the people working at the desk, the women hurrying through the hall toward the rooms and the handyman, who carried a tool case, looking grumpy and trying to conceal it.
She was instantly intrigued. Her gaze followed him and traveled the length of his body, dwelling on his derriere. He stopped when Mr. Callahan spoke to him and nodded before he moved on. She could tell by his stance and hunched shoulders he wasn’t in for a good day.
“I always like my guests to be eager to return. It’s nice to know that the service appealed even to your excellent taste.”
Patricia cocked her head, returning her attention to her girlfriend. “Ah, Kate, cut the official terms here. I’m not the usual customer and you well know it. I feel more like a…how shall I put it? A close confidant and a connoisseur.”
Lady Summerston laughed. “How could I forget that?”
“Yes, how could you ever? And you truly haven’t forgotten what I’m here for, right?”
“Come, let’s go into my office. Grab a scotch and talk about where you’ve been.”
“Wait a minute. You hired a new man. And didn’t tell me at once. How dare you?”
The lady followed her friend’s gaze. “He’s just a handyman. His name’s Matthew.”
“Did he run into a lawn mower? Or was one of the ladies extremely greedy?”
“Red’ keinen Stuss!”
Patricia lifted an eyebrow. “I appreciate your abilities in foreign languages, but could you repeat that in plain English? Just for me, your little stupid dinosaur?”
“I just said you’re talking nonsense.”
“How flattering. And I don’t like that grin on your face. It reminds me of a shark. An evil one.”
“You should learn German.”
“To swear? I don’t think to.” She pointed to the handyman. “Look, his sleeve’s torn. And if I’m not mistaken, his fingers are bleeding.” She made a face of appreciation. “Even if the lucky girl got to him more forceful than she should, I hope she had a good time.”
Lady Summerston sighed. “He’s not with the ladies, Patty. He’s a handyman. He makes repairs. Which means he checks ducts and ventilators and replaces cables.” She lifted her hand. “I add this before you get this all wrong. As I know you will.”
“Ri-ight!” Patricia waved her gloved hand, a you-know-me-well gesture. “You mean, you truly waste him with changing bulbs and stuff?” Shaking her head, Patricia followed Lady Summerston into her office. She sat down and took the offered scotch with ice. “Thank you. Tell me more about him.”
“George and Liza hired him.” Lady Summerston took the broad chair opposite her friend. “We needed a new handyman and he had the qualifications. So he’s here for the job.”
Patricia Dellman got serious. “I’ve been with you since you started this business and you made some excellent choices. I know that firsthand, you remember?” She did not wait for Katherine to answer. “That Matthew—he looks nice. He is tall, lean. Nice features. Could be a charmer. Did Liza chose the overall to be a size too small? I thought so. Brings out what he’s got. He also got a clear face. Honest. Regarding who you got in your little escort service, I’d say he fits the bill.”
Lady Summerston smiled briefly. “You know this from a short glance while he walked through the hall? Or was it his crumbled exterior that spoke to you?”
“Do I know men or don’t I know men?” Patricia sipped the liquor. It was very smooth. “Good booze. Let me get a second glance at him. Maybe even talk to him.”
“I don’t want the guests to realize I have employees.”
“I know the rules. I might accidentally stumble into him. Hard to believe that I’m so near-sighted, but I get older, too.”
“I’m not sure I want this.”
Patricia leaned forward. “Listen, Kate, you don’t risk anything by giving him a chance. If he’s a complete jerk, you can always get rid of him.”
“We still need a handyman though.”
Patricia gave back the knowing smile. “Yeah, you need a new handyman then. If he hits it off.”
Lady Summerston gave a shrug and a sigh. “I know I can’t stop you. Never could. So have it your way.”
“Thank you. You’ll see, I’m right. And don’t pretend you haven’t thought about him before. I know you too well for that.” Satisfied that Katherine didn’t contradict, Patricia leaned back, crossed her legs and gently swung her foot with the yellow pump. “Is there more I should know? You look worried.”
“I never look worried. It’s my usual impenetrable expression.”
“In which I learned to read long ago. Tell me.”
Lady Summerston sat back. “Then your accident with the handyman will have to wait.”
* * * *
It is never a good sign, his father had told him, if you are asked to come to the boss. It’s hardly ever about a raise, but more likely about some mistake you made. Michael’s hands sweated as he walked through the corridor toward the west wing where Lady Summerston had her office and private quarters. Before that, he would have wished to have time and gather evidence in this wing, but right now—seeing the bodyguards patrolling the floor—he wished he were back at his shabby little house. Or better—in his apartment. To live far away from the pleasantries his life usually provided was tough. To be parted with his lovers was even tougher.
He thought about the incident with one of the ladies two days ago. He had been checking the pump of the main pool when she had virtually stumbled over him. He had helped her up, but she had collapsed in his arms, claiming to have sprained her ankle. Michael had supported her to the closest lounge chair and fetched a butler to get her a drink and a cold compress. He had smiled and, when spoken to, made light conversation. He couldn’t imagine her to have complained about clumsiness or rudeness. But here he was. Nervous. Fidgeting. He swore to himself that if he got into trouble and was fired, he would blame it on Patch and his stupid idea.
His musings stopped when two men guided him into the lady’s office.
It didn’t look like the usual office space he had expected, but so far, nothing had been as he had imagined it. Long rows of shelves covered the walls, filled with books and framed pictures. The furniture on the right side was old, heavy and looked well used. Though of a dark brown it did not oppress the room because it was large and lofty and the sun shone in through high windows, casting glitters of light on the Chinese carpet. Its artful and lively pattern was an excellent counterpoint to the monochrome of the desk, chairs and table. The smell of leather and smoke was in the air and beneath it, if he was not mistaken, the fine aroma of scotch.
Lady Katherine Summerston sat behind the impressive desk. Her dark gray hair was cut short at the sides and left a little longer on top. It wasn’t the typical hair-do for a woman her age and thus gave her the aura of a woman in charge. Her dark blue eyes were the most intelligent and keenest ever seen. If it had not been for the lines around them and above the thin lips, she would have passed for years younger than her age.
She was overweight, but the expensive jacket and blouse covered it. Two large golden rings caught the eye, taking the edge off her stubby fingers. She was no beauty, but in her own way, attractive and a woman to respect.
Michael stood five foot from the large desk, greeted her and waited to be spoken to, hands loosely at his sides. He wondered what brought him before her. For the weeks of service, he had tried to be invisible. He might have failed at that and remembered his approaches toward the maids and butlers. Is the lady already suspicious of my intentions? Will she question me about my inquiries?
Lady Summerston looked from Peter at the door to Ms. Monroe, who rested her butt against the backrest of an armchair, and finally to Michael. Her rich voice would have sufficed to command an army. “How does it come that you work as a handyman, Mr. Hathaway?”
He tried to look innocent. “It pays the bills.” Michael glanced over his shoulder. Mr. Muscle still stood at the door, one hand gripping the other wrist. Very bodyguard-ish, but ineffective if Michael tried to kill his employer. He had not been checked for weapons. The sloppy handling told him much about the man’s quality.
“But your paper
s tell me that you are a man of some education. You even got a college degree.”
“Yes, but…I needed to work. Needed money.”
“Why?”
“My sister’s sick. I need every cent I earn to pay for her treatment. Medication. Hospital bills. It never ends.” His hurt look was only partly acted. His mother had been ill with an ulcer for more than three months, and he knew firsthand how the family had struggled—both mentally and financially—while she recovered.
“I see.” She eyed him, lips pursed, head resting on two fingers and the thumb of her right hand. It was a scrutiny as if uncertain of the next sentence. But Lady Summerston had never lost the knack of how to approach and solve problems. “Would you like to earn more money, Mr. Hathaway?”
“Yes, who wouldn’t? How?”
She smiled pleasantly. The noble, knowing smile of a woman who got what she wanted. She bent forward and folded her hands on the tabletop. Her brows twitched once, then her face became still, concentrated. “Before I decide about offering you a new occupation in my house, I would like to ask you to take off that overall.”
“The overall? Why?” He couldn’t have looked more puzzled if she had pulled a Mac10 from under the desk.
“I need to see you in a suit.” Lady Summerston’s smile deepened, yet it didn’t reach her eyes. She was thoughtful, keeping Michael at a distance. “Some men look nice in a suit. You might be one of them.”
A brief nod to the secretary spurred her to deliver a black suit with a white dress shirt.
Michael stared at it. “You have a room where I can change?” Ms. Monroe smiled while she shook her head. He could not have been told more blatantly that this was a test. He failed to look indifferent while he pulled the gray overall off his shoulders. “That’s a very nice piece.”
“Armani thought so, too, yes.” The chair creaked when the lady changed position. “You know, some women made remarks about you.”
“Oh, really? What did they say?” Michael was out of the overall, flashing wide yellow boxers with little pigs on it. He didn’t wear an undershirt.
