by Caryl McAdoo
He stared at her for a second then shrugged. “I like the way you smell.” He moved to the chair next to her, sat, and clasped his hands, elbows resting on his knees. “You've been a widow as long as I've been a widower. Thought that was an interesting coincidence. You don't have young children. There’s a few other reasons. Will you stay?”
His easy manner, rugged looks, and deep, resonant voice appealed to her, but she had come looking for a job, not a romantic encounter, and certainly not a husband.
“Mr. Preston...” She mentally rehearsed the right words then looked him square in the eye. “You don’t expect any of these women… Uh… To, well, sleep with you, do you?”
“Heavens, no. I certainly do not.” He smiled. “I don't buy sex, Mrs. Winters. Could be, I’ll figure this is a ridiculous way to try and find a wife, but living with eight woman should at least give me an idea of what I'm getting myself into. What do you say?”
“I don’t know.” She stood then turned away. “Oh Lord, what should I do?” she whispered to herself. “You haven’t been out of your house in five years?”
“Oh, yes. I get out of the house. Manage a business from here, an apple orchard. I haven’t been off my property. Hadn’t had any reason.” He held his hands out palms up. “Got delivery trucks and UPS. Everything I need right here. Even got a doctor who makes house calls.” He brought his hands together and in one graceful swoop lowered them to his lap and leaned forward. “I’m offering a six-month guarantee.”
How could she not like this man? He seemed genuine and down to earth. If all he wanted was to pay for her time while he got to know her, she’d be a fool not to take it. She’d have seven other women as chaperones. It wouldn’t be like she was living here alone with him. If nothing else, she could use the time to find another job.
“Am I’m obligating myself for the entire six months then?”
“Oh, no, it’s not like you’re going to be an indentured servant or anything. You can leave whenever you want.”
“So you’re not looking for a manager for your Bed and Breakfast at all?”
He shook his head.
“Are you ever going to open it?”
“Maybe, someday. Nancy, my wife, she wanted one real bad. Thought it would be a great way to meet interesting folks from all over the country. Then again I don’t eat breakfast, so it may have to be a bed and bath. Who knows?”
She hesitated a moment longer then extended her right hand. “When would you like me to start?”
Preston jumped to his feet and clasped it with a firm grip. “Everyone’s to be here at seven sharp. First day of March.”
“First of March it is.” She turned to leave.
“Oh, one last thing.” Preston handed her a slip of paper. “You'll need to call this number to make an appointment for a physical sometime before the first.”
“No problem, I’ll be happy to.” With plenty to think about, she started out, but halfway down the hall, stopped, then decided to wait until she came back to ask about the apple trees.
CHAPTER TWO
Journal entry - March 1st
Let the games begin. Everyone came in this morning. Got all my ladies together.
The phone rang. Instead of answering, Vicki incorporated the bell into her dream. It rang again. The third piercing trill stirred her enough to lift the receiver. Who had been on the phone in her dream? She couldn't recall.
“What?” Forcing her eyes open, she focused several times on the glowing digital numbers across her room. Augggh, four in the morning. The fancy hotel’s recorded message rattled in her ear. “Okay, okay.” She fumbled the phone back into its cradle and rolled out of bed. “Three hours sleep? Good grief, I've got to be crazy.”
Forty-five minutes later, she walked into a deserted lobby, returned her key card to the front desk, then staggered past the waterfalls to the dazzling main entrance. With a last look around, she spoke aloud to herself. “I always wanted a stay at the Hyatt Regency. Thank you, Mr. Preston.” She pushed once on the revolving door.
The doorman met her on the other side and took her bag. “Transportation?”
“Taxi, please.”
He blew two musical notes on the high pitched whistle that hung around his neck.
“Find how much the fare will be to Canton.”
“Oh, it’s not far. What hundred block, ma'am?” He set her bag near the front curb.
“No, the city. The place where they have First Monday. You know, in East Texas. That Canton.”
The cab whizzed around the drive and stopped with his rear bumper beside her bag. The driver leaned across the front seat and popped the trunk lid.
Just like the concierge promised, a taxi anytime, day or night at the Hyatt. The hotel's uniformed doorman opened the back passenger door then leaned in and spoke to the cabby. Woo hoo, She admired his cute derriere. When did a boy became a man anyway?
He stepped aside. “Driver said it shouldn't run over a hundred, but he'll have to charge whatever the meter reads.”
She pressed a folded bill into the doorman's hand then slid into the back seat. “The place I'm going is about fifteen miles out of Canton, and I've got to be there no later than seven.”
“No problem, lady.”
While the doorman placed her bags in the trunk, she took one last look at the gold and glass building she always fantasized to be the castle of a fairy princess, but the ungodly hour ruined any chance of her feeling like that princess. Besides, the strong mix of incense and foul body odor inside the taxi nixed any reality of a fairytale. She leaned her head back against the seat.
“You know I-20 to Canton, right? I'll tell you where to go from there.”
She stayed awake while the man maneuvered his cab through the empty streets of downtown Dallas, but once he reached the maze of intersecting highways, she allowed herself the luxury of dreaming about a life with Mr. W. G. Preston. She reflected on what grand and glorious things a girl could do with his kind of money.
Searching for her favorite mental picture of the man, she settled on one with him in his hat. Almost a month had passed since she’d seen him in person, and the newspaper pictures didn’t due him justice, though he was a looker in his younger years, too. Wonder if he found anyone else to take the deal. The driver hit the brakes causing her to open her eyes with a start. Soon as the oncoming car passed, the cab whipped around an eighteen wheeler. She returned to her thoughts.
Maybe Preston stopped looking after she accepted.
Pulling a mirror out of her handbag, she checked her reflection. One thing for sure. If the man likes young and beautiful, he need look no further. She threw a puckered kiss to her faintly lit image.
Soon as the driver sped through the countryside, she let herself doze. When he stopped for gas in Canton, she set up and rolled her neck then checked her cell for the time. Her shoulder and neck muscles knotted. She rolled down her window and stuck her head out. “Didn't you say you'd have no problem getting me there by seven?”
“We're here, lady.” He checked his watch. “With almost twenty minutes to spare.”
“And I told you the place is fifteen miles out of the city proper.”
He shrugged. “So, you’re a few minutes late.”
“No! I cannot be late. If you expect any tip at all, you best get your ass back in the driver's seat. I mean now! Pump gas on your own time.”
The man returned the nozzle and jumped in the car. “Okay, okay. Where to?”
She gave him the directions. “It's an extra fifty if you get me there before seven.”
“Yes, ma'am.” The sedan screeched out of the station, knocking her against the back seat.
Why didn't she leave earlier or stay closer? The last thing she wanted to do was screw up her opportunity to marry money. She pulled herself to the edge of the seat and leaned over the front. The cabby whipped around a SUV, barely beating the oncoming traffic.
“I do want to get there alive.” She stretched her shoulders. �
�The turn-off will jump up on you if you’re not careful.” She bit her lip to keep from telling him to slow down. “It's Farm-to-Market 1388.”
“Got it, lady.”
When the cabby turned into the entrance of the B & B, Vicki's watch read four minutes till. She fished two one-hundred-dollar bills from her purse and dropped them over the seat. “Easy come, easy go.” She gathered the last of her things as he pulled to a stop. The dust cloud continued beyond the car and almost choked her as she hollered on her way to the house. “Bring in my luggage and you can keep the change.”
Vicki dropped her shoulder bag in the hall and joined seven women sitting at a montage of kitchen tables. A quick scan revealed no W. G. Preston. The other women sipped coffee and glanced around, but for all practical purposes, the room remained eerily silent considering all the hens present. Pretty unusual. The knots in her shoulders eased, and she sank into the closest empty chair at a table with only one middle-aged woman. So where was the rooster, anyway? She checked her watch again.
“Excuse me, lady. Where did you want these suitcases?” The taxi driver stood in the doorway.
“Oh, thanks. Just set it there is fine.” With her elbows on the table, she supported her face with both hands. “I sure hope Preston doesn’t expect us to get up this early every day, or I’m outta here.”
The blonde across from her shook her head then stuck out her hand. “I'm Audrey McLaudin. Are you all right? You look a little green around the gills.” She tossed her honey-colored tresses behind her shoulder.
What a witch. Vicki grinned. “Wild livin’ I guess. Spent the last thou of Preston's signing bonus partyin’ hardy.” The woman’s expression didn’t change. “You know, having a lot of fun.” Still no reaction. What a fuddy dud. No competition here she mused. But that hair! Only three-year-olds had that color naturally. No roots though. Had to come out of a bottle.
Audrey opened her mouth, but the rooster crowed before she could offer any response.
“Ladies, good morning. Glad each of you decided to take me up on my offer.” He walked around the long serving counter, and poured himself a mug of coffee.
“First.” He took a sip. “I want you to understand this is not a contest. And there are no guarantees, either given or asked for.” Sitting his coffee down, he looked around the room and stopped with a nod or smile toward each woman. “There are eight rooms available, six downstairs and two up. The first order of business is to get settled in. Choose a room and get unpacked.”
A dark-haired woman with a silver-white skunk streak in her otherwise dark hair set just off center spoke up. “But how do we decide who gets what room? I, for one, don't particularly want to be climbing stairs every day.”
“Dorothy, isn’t it? Sorry, I forget your last name.” He pointed toward the heavy-set woman who was obviously a beauty in her younger years.
“Casey.”
“Right.” He nodded. “I don't care how y’all decide. Stake a claim, then fight it out if anyone tries to jump your digs.” He drained his coffee and walked toward the door. “Oh, and my office is off limits. If you need anything, ask Jorje or catch me at lunch.
“Have a good morning, ladies, and I'll see you at noon. That is, if anyone wants to cook.” A slight grin eased across his lips.
Vicki jumped up, fetched her bags, and raced down the side hall. From her first visit, she knew exactly which room she wanted, the last one downstairs on the right. The biggest of course, even had its own kitchen, not that she’d be using it. But she liked that room's decor the best - a crisp white with lots of bright primary-colored accents. Plus—best of all—it had a huge Jacuzzi.
She locked the door, unpacked her clothes and arranged her toilet items, then took a bath. The tiny jets pulsed, and the hot water massaged away the last of her tension. She closed her eyes. “Oh man, I'm going to love this deal.” Counting room and board in with her salary, she figured about five grand a month for doing nothing but being her glorious self. She hugged her shoulders and squealed.
After the bath, she wrapped in a towel and fell on her bed. Within minutes, her mind drifted to a peaceful slumber.
A double knock woke her. The door creaked open and the heavyset loudmouth stuck her skunk head into the room. “You Vicki?”
She opened her eyes and checked the wall clock. A two-hour nap. That’s what she called being herself all right. “Yeah, that'd be me.” She rolled onto her side and propped her head with a pillow.
The nap-buster barged in with another old woman Vicki hadn’t met close behind. “Some of us ladies have been working on a cooking schedule. You know?” She flashed her list as though Vicki could read it.
The other one spoke up. “Which meal would you prefer, honey?”
“Sorry, I don't cook, never learned how. And I really don’t care much for other women calling me honey, either.” She yawned and covered her mouth. “Now if y’all will excuse me.”
Miss Organizer studied her clipboard. “Oh, well, I guess you could always swap with someone. They can take your turn cooking, and you could do their dishes, you know. Want breakfast, lunch, or dinner?”
Vicki raised one eyebrow. The way the woman talked with her hands amused her, but Skunk had another think coming if she thought she could assign her any work. Who died and made her Hitler anyway? “I'm not sure I caught your name.”
“Dorothy Casey.”
“Well, Dorothy.” She spread her fingers, admired her sculptured nails then wiggled them in Chub’s direction. “I don't do dishes, either. The nails. You know.”
The woman jammed the clipboard under her arm and put her hands on her ample hips straightening her back. “Fine. Guess you won't eat, either then.”
“Look. I don’t think that’s up to you. I'm just not into domestic. If you ladies choose to cook, that'll be great with me because I am into eating. Though obviously not quite as much as some people.”
Chub’s face flamed bright red. She took one step forward then turned on her heels and stormed away. The other woman just watched her go, didn’t follow. Vicki laughed into her pillow. “What a bossy cow! Why would Preston ever have asked her to stay?”
“That's not being very nice now, is it?” Vicki lowered the feather pillow. The second softer looking lady remained. Dark hair salted with glistening silver even in the dim light framed her kind face.
“Oh give me a break. She had it coming.”
“I'm Marge.” The lady extended her hand slightly, but pulled it back when Vicki took no notice. “Don't be too harsh on Dorothy. She's only trying to get everything organized for all of us. I have a feeling she means well.”
Vicki tucked her left leg underneath then sat up on the bed. “So. Nice to meet you Miss Marge., but I don’t take to anyone telling me what to do, and I can be as harsh as I want as long as I look like this.”
Marge shook her head. “You’re missing the point.”
“Oh please, get real. Do you think for one minute Preston would choose you or that loud-mouthed cow over me?”
“Haven't you ever heard the old adage, dear, that beauty’s only skin deep? A man never chooses a whore for a wife.”
“Who’re you calling a whore?”
“Why, no one. I'm just relating a fact of life, but you know, if the shoe fits…” Marge held her chin high, turned, and left.
“Get real, old woman.” Vicki jumped up and slammed her door. “Being young and beautiful does not make me a whore.”
She caught her reflection in the dresser mirror and burst out laughing. “Well, Victoria Truchard, you’ve already got them going.”
CHAPTER THREE
Journal entry - March 1st
What a piece of work. I figured she’d be fun, but I had no idea how much. She’ll rub them all raw before this deal is over.
While Vicki finished her beauty nap and Dorothy made the rounds taking notes, the only real cook in the group figured she better see to lunch. Soft steps on the hard Mexican tile didn’t pull her from her missi
on. If whoever had come to help, fine. Otherwise, she had no time for idle conversations. She dug around in a lower cabinet then fished out a large serving bowl.
“Hi, you Audrey?”
She stood straight, set the bowl on the counter, and opened the Miracle Whip. “That’d be me.”
“The bossy one with the clipboard told me I should help with lunch.”
“Good.” Audrey finished spreading a piece of wheat bread. “And you are? Sorry, I’m not very good with names and with meeting so many –”
“Oh, I understand. Charlotte, Charlotte Rushing. Pleased to meet you.” Her southern drawl seemed slightly exaggerated, but who could resist being intrigued? The slender woman smiled, stuck out her hand then pulled it back. “Sorry, silly me. You're busy.”
Audrey handed her the knife. “Here. How about you spread, and I'll put on the fixings?”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” The Southern Belle crammed the blade into the jar, scraped it against the sides, then pulled out a teetering white glob. She held the knife in midair. “Think I ought to do some mustard ones, too?”
“Sure, that’d be nice.” The glob plopped onto the speckled, soft pink counter. Maybe letting her help wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Oh, I am so sorry. Clumsy me.”
“Well, don't be sorry.” Audrey smiled to make certain her tone sounded friendly. “Just grab a rag and clean it up.” She doubted the belle had prepared many meals. “I love your accent. You from Georgia?”
She shook her head, “North Carolina,” then headed toward the sink. “Can you believe this beautiful kitchen?”
“It's something else all right. Have you seen the pantry?”
“No, ma’am, I guess I haven’t seen much of anything.”
Ma’am? Audrey wasn’t that much older. This gal might be carrying her Southern charm a little too far.
“But I surely do love this kitchen, don’t you?” Charlotte swiped once at her mess then threw the soiled dishrag in the sink's direction.
