In Love by Christmas: A Paranormal Romance

by Nathan, Sandy

  Doug admitted a group of people better groomed than the nobility Leroy had met, but dressed in plain black fabric. Doug led them into the kitchen and jerked his head at Leroy to get him to come. His staff?

  “We’re pleased that you are able to join Mr. Watches’ household staff.” Doug gave a formal spiel; picking his words as through he was born saying them. Maybe he was. “He’s going to be coming and going from England, but you will remain in residence, ensuring that his London home is properly looked after, and that he meets his social obligations in good order.”

  Doug took Leroy’s arm and pulled him toward the group. “This is Mr. Evan Ainsley, your butler.” A tall man nodded. He had an enormous nose that pointed straight out, grey hair, and posture more rigid and upright than any of the Lords.

  “How do you do, Mr. …” Leroy said, holding out his hand. Doug had gotten him that far with proper forms of address.

  The butler bowed deeply. “Ainsley will do nicely, sir. This is …” Ainsley introduced the cook, housekeeper, the three maids, and Leroy’s valet, Tom.

  Leroy’s face widened and opened. He started to speak.

  “That will be all for now,” Doug said. Leroy frantically gestured to Doug, but the cook cut in with great earnestness.

  “What would sir being wanting for supper? An’ what do ye like for tea at four?”

  Leroy stood, mouth flapping.

  “Show him a good English tea, Mrs. Elvers. Do you have time to prepare a beef roast for tonight? Mr. Watches will go over the weeks’ menus with you after tea.”

  “Why do I need so many people? We’ve been doing fine, jus’ us.” Tension caused Leroy’s voice to rise. “I’m not even going to be here most of the time.”

  “If you’re going to have any of the people we met yesterday here, you must have an appropriate staff. If you are invited for polo or hunting at their country estates, you’d better have the best damn chauffeur and valet in the universe.”

  “I didn’t meet a chauffeur.”

  “He’s in the garage with the new car. It’s a Jag. Will is going to send different cars when you need them. But do you know who’s going to save your bacon when I’m gone? Tom Wyatt. Your valet.”

  “What does a valet do?”

  “Buttons up your pants.”

  “Nobody’s buttoning up my pants but me.”

  “Leroy, you’re invited to Lord and Lady Ballentyne’s London house for dinner in a week. You are no more ready for that than flying to the moon. You’re going to be ready for it, and I am to make sure you are. Then I’m going home, to Janice.

  “It’s a simple family dinner, just thirty or forty of the Ballentyne’s dearest and nearest. In town. That means it’s the real thing. You’re being auditioned for acceptance into their circle.” The bell rang. “That’s the tailor.” Leroy ran to get the door. “No, Leroy. Ainsley does that. From now on, your servants do everything but wipe your ass.”

  The young valet Tom Wyatt watched carefully as the tailor went to work on Leroy. The tailor and a couple of assistants had cases of patterns and measuring tools, as well as fabric samples.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do bespoke clothing. I don’t have time. Mr. Duane’s man, Mr. Saunders, said you needed a formal wardrobe within a week. We’ll have to do made-to measure.” The tailor seemed genuinely ashamed.

  They had measured every part of him to the quarter inch. He had learned that bespoke clothing was not made from a pattern; it was made to fit, entirely from scratch. What he was getting relied on a pattern that was altered to fit his measurements. Previously, Leroy had considered the Big and Tall Store the ultimate in fashion and fit.

  “The invitation is to a semi-formal dinner in Lord Ballentyne’s home.” Leroy said to the tailor. “Slacks and a sport coat are fine.”

  Tom, the valet, cut in. “Sir, with all respect, that means it’s black tie, not white tie.” Tom looked horrified. “You cannot go to the Ballentyne residence without being properly dressed.”

  “The young gentleman is right, sir,” the tailor said, practically shaking in his immaculately polished shoes. “Informal is black tie. Formal is white tie. But we’ll be able to do bespoke for that. We’ve plenty of time before you’ll need a tailcoat.”

  The late afternoon brought another horror: his tutor on matters of noble titles and court etiquette. Sir Glathering had a firm grasp on how to talk to the nobles he’d meet. “No, Mr. Watches, you do not call Lord Ballentyne’s wife Lady Ballentyne,” he said. “She is Her Grace Violetta, the Duchess of Radenberry and Cloudfill. She is a Duchess, while her husband is an Earl. Her title and ancestral lands are far superior to his. Address her informally as Your Grace.” Sir Glathering’s lips, nose and face pinched so hard Leroy was surprised he could breathe.

  After the tailor and barber left—the only hair Leroy got to keep was the little tail in back where he tied his feathers—Sir Glathering had arrived to begin teaching him how to speak to his hosts. Leroy got right away that Glathering was not very high in the royal pecking order if he was giving Lord and Lady lessons to an unknown cattle rancher from America.

  Continuing on the topic of Her Grace, the Duchess of Radenberry and Cloudfill, Sir Glathering explained, “It’s not an unusual thing that a woman would marry lower than herself in the new England, but it would have been unheard of earlier. Now, what would you call Her Grace’s mother? She will be in attendance at the dinner party.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “No! She is the Dowager Duchess of Raddenbery and Cloudfill. She retains her titles even though her husband, the late Lord of Raddenbery and Cloudfill, has passed on. Her estates went to her daughter, Her Grace, with her titles also going to her daughter. She is the Dowager Duchess. She retains a small estate and lives independently.” Sir Glathering brightened when the butler brought in a tray of food. “I must say your cook puts on a good tea.”

  “She has a small estate?”

  “Yes. That’s the way things are. When her husband died, her daughter inherited everything. Now, stand and pretend to greet the Dowager Duchess for the first time.”

  Leroy did. “How do you do, Your Royal Dowager …”

  “No! You do not speak until spoken to. Do it again.”

  Leroy stood there until Doug put on a squeaky voice and said, “How do you do, Mr. Watches. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Then Leroy said, “How do you do, Your Grace.”

  Glathering was pleased. “Now, how do you greet Lord Ballentyne’s mother, the Dowager Lady Ballentyne?”

  “She’ll be there too?”

  “Oh, yes. And aunts and uncles. Cousins. Very eager to meet you. The massacre, you know. But they won’t say anything about it.”

  The week was like that: Glathering and his friends harassed him every day, all day. They presented charts of people who would probably be at the party, with pictures so he’d recognize them. “I must comment, be careful of the Dowager Duchess. She’s a bit of a bristler.” That meant she was such a bitch that Glathering thought he should be warned ahead of time. More on knives and forks. He was trundled to a dance studio downtown for private dance lessons. They were exceptionally private: they shut the studio for him. A red-headed woman with no backbone slithered around with him while a guy in a toupee shouted orders.

  “Doug, I’m done. I won’t do this anymore.”

  “That’s good, Leroy. Because the party’s tomorrow night and I’m leaving in the morning. Will doesn’t think you’re ready to do this alone, but I do. I have to get back to Janice. You’ll have to face the bristling dowagers yourself.”

  “The Dowager Duchess of Raddenberry and Cloudfill bristles, not the other one. She’s nice.” He was furious. “Why does Will tell you what he thinks about me? Why don’t he talk to me? If I’m so stupid an’ this matters so much, why don’t he send someone else over who can do it better? Or send someone else to babysit me if you can’t?

  “An’ believe it or not, I can eat dinner with decent folks. Y’all seem to th
ink I’m just a good ol’ boy who’s never done nothing …”

  “You seem to think that I’m a country boy who hasn’t done anything,” Doug corrected. They’d had the language police after him too. They had given up.

  “I don’t care. You think I’m can’t walk across the street by myself. I’ve done plenty. Come in here. I want to show you something. You all just assume I can’t do nothin’,” Leroy stormed into the living room. He powered up the computer and hit the button to put it on the large screen. Half the wall lit up. Typing an address, he stood back. “What do you think of that?”

  “Holy shit!” Doug walked to the front of the screen. “What the fuck?”

  “Yeah, what the …” Leroy didn’t swear. “Dumb old can’t-do-a-thing Leroy Watches did that. No education, no money, just a bunch of cows. An’ I did that. When I came home to the ranch, my daddy was goin’ under. Four years later, this is what we are.”

  A brilliantly simple but stylish website filled the screen. Colors were black, red, white, with a couple of skin colored areas. The background was bright red. Watches Ranch was written across the top in huge black letters. Round, friendly-looking letters. Under the letters on the right side and moving down the screen was a simple, pen-and-ink sketch of Yosemite’s half dome. Giant Sequoia trees were drawn on the other side. In the middle, a neat bulleted list said what they raised.

  Kosher beef.

  Grass fed beef.

  Our beef is organic pasture grass fed only.

  Certified no hormones, antibiotics, inoculations, or grain.

  There was a menu going to other pages.

  “You raise Kosher beef.”

  “Kosher and grass fed beef. All natural. We make four times what my pop was making before I got home.”

  “But look at this.” Doug gawked at the rest of the web site covering the wall. The top half was spectacular enough, but the bottom part clenched the sale. A black, three-board fence ran across the red backdrop. The two very tall Watches men leaned against a fence, smiling at the viewer. Their cowboy hats were pushed back on their heads so their faces showed. Leaning against the fence next to them was a huge clock like an old-fashioned pocket watch. The clock face was white; its hands moved. The only flesh color in the composition was on the men’s dark faces and hands.

  “Watches Ranch.” Doug continued staring at the clock. “That’s California time. Jesus, Leroy, I’d buy anything from you.”

  “Yeah. Every animal we raise is sold before it hits the ground. Only reason money’s so tight is we bought the trucks.”

  “Trucks?”

  “Refrigerated trucks. We can’t get our beef to those health food stores and yuppie markets fast enough. They’ll pay for themselves. They are already”

  Doug’s shoulders sagged. He sagged and sat down, facing the screen. “How did you do that web site? That’s as good as anything Will has.”

  “High school kids on the reservation. Those kids can do anything. They’re so smart. They showed me some of what the other beef suppliers were doing for sites and then did up this for us. We gave ‘em a side of beef for the job.”

  “I can’t believe it, Leroy. All this time, I thought you were going to get creamed in this place, but you’ve got this major business going. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why didn’t you ask? I showed the website to you because I got sick of being treated like I needed diapers. Me an’ my people don’t flash what we got and brag about it. It’s a cultural thing, Doug.

  “An’ we ain’t the kings of kosher beef. We don’t have big house and barn, but we do have refrigerated trucks. We got everything we need. An’ money’s coming easier.”

  Doug put his head in his hands. “I can’t believe I didn’t ask you about your ranch. Or guess. Or look you up online. I can’t believe Will didn’t either. I just assumed …”

  “You just assumed. An’ that’s it, isn’t it? Ol’ Leroy can’t be nothing if he looks like that. Or talks like that. Like what, Doug?

  “You gave me a lecture on how people were gonna cut me because of my skin. How about you? And color blind Will? You’re the only ones hurt my feelings so far.”

  Leroy stomped away from Doug, stopped, and stomped back. “If you’d have looked online, you’d ‘a’ found a lot more. You ever heard of cowboy poetry? My dad’s been writing it since my mom died.” Leroy’s face ran through a half dozen feelings: sadness, pain, pride. “He wrote about everything that happened. Mama dyin’, him beatin’ me, and my grandpa taking me. All of it. And about rodeo. It’s got all his feelin’s in it. Rodeo isn’t just a fun show. It’s rough. And it hurts.

  “He started reading at the rodeos. Almost every rodeo has a cowboy reading, an’ he went to all of them. An’ then the poetry competitions. My dad’s a star! He sells his books on our site too. I should a brought you one.”

  “You raise Kosher beef and beef for yuppies. Your dad’s a rodeo star and a cowboy poet.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why didn’t you ask? Anyone else, you would have investigated before you met ‘em. You, know,” Leroy scratched his nose, “I think I’m lookin’ at a situation of cultural and racial discrimination.”

  Leroy stood in the empty hall. Doug had gone home. He was alone in a terrifying world with massive expectations that meant his whole life piled on his head. He came from nothing. He didn’t want to embarrass himself with the Sirs and Lords and Dowagers. He went back into the living room. The Watches Ranch website still covered the wall, clock hands moving reassuringly. The clock ticked, a nice sound.

  Out the window, life pulsated on the street below. He had never had time off. Some animal always needed tending, or their hay crop was having a crisis. Or the house, tractor, truck. His father. Now all he had to do was go to dinner at palaces. The space of not having any real work felt almost too open.

  And then it didn’t. He’d do some things, and he wouldn’t do others. He’d be true to Cass and he wouldn’t drink. He’d be honorable. He was a spirit warrior. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a good time.

  Mr. Duane had given him a whole closet of beautiful clothes.

  Leroy slipped on a pair of slacks and sweater, grabbed his leather jacket and wallet and split. He was out on the town.

  10

  A Call from Daddy

  Will sat in his study, staring at the phone. A week had passed since Leroy and Doug had deposited Cass in the hospital. He’d talked to her doctors; he’d talked to her nurses. They knew her; she’d been in there before.

  “She’s different this time,” her doctor had said. “She’s very ill, but she’s more positive than I’ve seen her. I think she’ll work with us and we’ll have a chance to make some real progress. Let us have a bit more time. I’ll have someone call you every day. I think you may be surprised.”

  He sat in front of the phone in his office, pondering. They’d told him Cass could talk to him briefly. He’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times. Cass would be somewhere safe, getting healthy. They’d talk. She’d say she was sorry for what she’d said to him at Christmas, and so many other times. He’d say he was sorry he’d let Enzo Donatore get her and her mother. He was sorry about everything.

  Will knew he couldn’t do all of that at once, it would take time. Skill. Patience. But maybe this time it would work. He would reach toward her—carefully, sensitively—and she would extend herself to him.

  “Can you forgive me, Cass? Can we be friends? Can you love me?”

  That’s what sat on his chest at night, grabbed his throat during the day. Half killed him.

  Will wasn’t doing well. Exactly what he’d expected when he got back from the retreat had happened. Frank Sauvage and Ric Chao whirled around behind him like dervishes with razors, cutting away at his support in the Corporation. Hacking at his heels, not nipping at them.

  But he had to call Cass. Nothing made sense if he didn’t. If he didn’t have Cass, keeping Numenon meant no
thing.

  He reached for the phone, the back of his hand tanned, his nails perfectly manicured.

  “Cass?” His voice seemed to echo through a vast space, even though it was just the phone in his study. They said she was well enough to talk for a few minutes from her bed.

  “Is that you, Daddy?” Her voice was tiny, a little girl’s, not the dreadful dragon’s. “Is that really you?”

  “Yes, baby. It’s me.”

  “Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry.” Broken sobs.

  “Don’t be sorry, baby.”

  “Yes, I have to be sorry. I am sorry. We had a fight. I don’t remember what I said, but it was awful. I’m sorry.”

  He heard a voice in the background, a woman’s voice, “Cass, if this is too much for you, you can try later. Doctor wants you to be calm.”

  “I’m OK. It’s my dad.” Her attention shifted back to him, “I wanted you to know how sorry I am. I’ve caused so much trouble.” Frantic voice, unlike what he’d expected. “All my life. I’m sorry.”

  “Sweetie, that doesn’t matter. You getting well matters. Are you OK?”

  “I’m OK. I get tired. I sleep a lot.”

  “And eat too, I hope.”

  “Yes.” A short silence. “Daddy, I remember someone. He brought me here. His face was dark, but I could see his eyes. They were funny colored. Do you …”

  “No, I don’t know who that was, sweetheart. There were ambulance drivers. Doctors. Doug was there.”

  “It wasn’t Doug.” She sounded wistful. “I wish you knew who he was. I keep remembering his eyes.” She was crying. “I’m so sorry.” Her soft snuffling didn’t taper off.

  “Honey, don’t worry about it. I want you back on your feet, healthy, and we can talk about all that stuff.”

  He felt her faint; knew she had. The silence on the line told him, and the thunk when the phone hit the floor. A scuffle came through the receiver. Will shouted, “Hello! Hello! Is she all right? Hello! Talk to me!”