by Sabrina York
* * *
During the massages, Wren, Olivia, and I circled the house to make sure all the guests who weren’t being massaged had what they needed, and I realized something about this Visit right away. It was like high school all over again.
All the girls—except one—assembled a cabal in Farley’s master suite to talk about the one who wasn’t there. And then they would all snigger when Eliza walked in.
Not to mention the fact that Farley sent her minion, Jaxon, on incessant missions to deliver messages to her boyfriend, Jamison, who had set up court in the billiards room with his boys. She sent love notes, random questions, and quizzes on how much he loved her. Of course she had to send Jaxon as go-between. The other side of the lodge was apparently too far for them to walk.
Then Bobby and Dion got into a fist fight over who’d seen Keiko first. That one broke a vase.
And all the boys all complained that the food we’d offered for lunch was too frou frou, and demanded steaks—even though they were all going out to dinner in an hour—and the girls all fretted about their carb intake, miserably crunching on raw veggies as they watched the others inhale their food.
In public, that was. When they were in private, it was a carb bacchanal.
One time I popped into Farley’s suite with a genial, “How is everything?”
Her response was, “Oh, could you have one of the servant people bring us some Doritos?”
Servant people?
“And sodas,” one of her posse reminded her.
“Yes. And sodas please. Diet only. Cold. Nothing off-brand,” Farley clarified.
“Certainly.”
“Oh. Ask her for green M&Ms.” Again, from the peanut gallery, this time from the young nymph with the Chihuahua on her lap and a bad case of resting sneer.
Farley’s brow wrinkled. “Why, Tressa? I don’t even like the green ones.”
Tressa sniffed. “Because then they have to go separate them out. Wouldn’t that be hilarious?”
“That’s just stupid.” Farley turned back to me. “Just the Doritos and soda.” She tipped her head to the side. “But you could also bring some M&Ms, I suppose. I can eat around the green ones.”
I was humbled by her generosity.
“Right away.” I hoped to God we had Doritos and M&Ms in the pantry.
It went on like this for the rest of the afternoon. Running errand after errand—while trying to avoid the attention of an overly ardent Carlo and Coop’s chortles when he noticed. Ugh.
Thank God the masseurs packed up and left on time—taking Carlo with them (an extra thank God for that small miracle)—and the guests retreated to their rooms to get ready for dinner.
I practically held my breath. Hoping, praying, nothing happened to change their plans of going out.
My prayers were answered. They all piled into their cars and yes! As soon as they left, the whole energy of the place changed. It was easy to pretend that this was our house for Christmas and we were the special ones.
Of course, we didn’t dare eat dinner in the main house—not when we’d have to be the ones to clean it all up. We all gathered together in the staff kitchen for the meal instead. It was warm, intimate, and surprisingly homey. Noel had made us a Mexican fiesta, for some reason. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but surprisingly, I enjoyed it. The conversation was quick and witty and I found myself laughing more than I intended. I got to know Mungo and Christie better—between whom I was sandwiched—which was nice, because I didn’t work much with Coop’s team, and I found I really liked them both.
Mason was there too. Apparently, he’d adopted me as his new best friend, setting his long wet snout on my jeans and drooling all over my leg while I ate. Coop laughed and said Mason just knew who the softie was, but I was pretty sure if there was a softie at the table, it sure wasn’t me.
But I did give the hound some scraps; he seemed to really enjoy Mexican food. And then, when Coop asked me to stop because beans gave Mason the hot farts, I did it under the table.
It was a wonderful break, and a really lovely meal, but we needed to get back to work. When I stood, nearly everyone groaned.
“Party pooper,” Coop said sotto voce.
I gave him a reproving glance. “We need to do turndowns,” I reminded them all. In a house that large, with that many bedrooms and bathrooms, it could take a while to tidy everything up. Especially with this particular clientele. “Also, Whit mentioned the adults might want a nightcap when they return.”
Wren nodded and set down her napkin. “I’ll go set up the bar.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And, Ben, can we make sure the hot tub is at 102°?”
“Will do.”
We all split up then to get back to work. Well, my team. Cooper and his people had work to do preparing for tomorrow’s events. I had no idea what they were doing, I just hoped all the guests went with him—or with Ken—because the house was so nice with no one there.
I was in the great room with Ben, trying to get the big screen TV to play YouTube, as Farley had requested, when Wren came into the room with a rumpled brow.
“Excuse me, Victoria?”
“Yes, Wren?”
“I’m going through the bar and I can’t find the Don Julio tequila. The 1942? Jamison’s mother specifically asked for it.”
I frowned. That particular bottle was over a hundred dollars a pop. Had one of the staff helped themselves? That was a huge no-no. “I thought we had two bottles in the bar?”
She nodded. “We did.”
Yikes. “Can you do another search? Just to make sure it hasn’t been mislaid?”
“Sure. Uh…”
I looked at her. “Yes?”
“Should we search the guests’ rooms?”
“Why don’t you go up now and help Olivia with turndowns. Have a look around.” Honestly, the liquor was for the guests. If they wanted it, it was here for them. What I didn’t want was to have a guest ask for something specific, and not have it on hand. It wasn’t like there was a liquor store around the block out here in the boonies.
A short while later, Wren returned with our two bottles of Don Julio 1942—both bone dry. Her brows arched into her dark bangs. “I found these in Jamison’s room. I guess he drank all of it.”
Awesome.
What on earth could we do about this? Ah… “Okay. Double check in the storage shed. It’s a popular vintage. We might have a bottle or two in there.”
She grimaced. “The storage shed? It’s creepy.” Gosh. And here I thought all Goths liked creepy stuff. Kids. I’ll never understand them.
“Take someone with you.”
My mind spun. How could I get my hands on more Don Julio 1942 by the time Carmella came back from dinner? I knew she was going to ask for it. Did Amazon deliver tequila by drone? “Do we have other tequila?”
Wren snorted a laugh. “Loads. Just not that one.”
Okay. There was that. If push came to shove, at least we had tequila.
I’ll admit, it flashed through my mind to refill the bottles with a different tequila. I mean, I would never do that to a guest—lie or make up facts—unless the alternative was worse. In this case, the alternative was worse: Not having something in a Don Julio bottle when it had been specifically requested.
My only other option was telling Carmella her son drank all her tequila—and I really didn’t want to ruin that poor boy’s Christmas.
I never wanted to ruin anybody’s Christmas. It was kind of my rule of thumb.
Only, every day is Christmas in my biz.
But especially Christmas, Christmas.
Thank God Wren found another bottle of Don Julio 1942 in the (creepy) storage shed. I was so relieved because, frankly, I was well aware of what could happen, should Carmella have a sophisticated tequila palate and call us on our little ploy.
Please God, no. That’s the stuff of which nightmares are made.
“All right.” I stiffened my spine. “We have tequila. Let’s keep
that bottle under lock and key from now on. Oh, and when you serve this, treat it as though this is the most expensive tequila you’ve ever poured. Right?”
“Small servings?” Wren grinned at me. I realized this was the first time I’d seen her smile. I suspected, maybe, this would be her favorite thing that happened all week. “Very small.” I winked, and she winked back.
Suddenly, we were not boss and minion. We were collaborators, and somehow, for some reason, that created a bond. It was nice.
When the guests returned from dinner, it was late, and most of the staff had gone to bed in preparation for the big snow day tomorrow. Only Wren, Ben, and I were still awake to greet them.
It seemed that their numbers had swelled.
The teens, as always, plowed past us into the great room to the TV—which was playing—hoorah!—YouTube. I tried to do a quick head count but got lost at ten.
“Did you have a nice dinner?” I asked Whit.
“Shore did.” He patted his stomach. “We ran into some friends. I hope it’s okay that we brought them back.”
Back?
Yikes.
“How many?”
“Five. Two adults and three kids.”
Egads. Five more beds? We had extra bunks, but they were in the (creepy) storage shed, which would require schlepping them over—probably not a job for Wren, all things considered. And then, of course, we’d have to make the beds. How long would all that take?
I smiled brightly. “Sure. No problem. When do you all think you’ll want to turn in?”
He grinned sheepishly. “We’re pretty tuckered.”
So, now.
Great.
Awesome.
“No worries.” I turned to Ben and let him know what we needed. He nodded and headed to the staff lodge to get Jed to help him. Wren and I headed upstairs to determine where the beds would be set and to find five extra sets of clean sheets and pillows. She didn’t need supervising once we decided which rooms could accommodate extra beds, so I headed back downstairs to see if anyone else needed anything.
Other than Carmella, and her Don Julio, there were no taxing requests. Still, my heart thudded as I watched her take the first sip, as everyone looked on. Her expression tightened. Her mouth puckered, and she gusted a deep, satisfied sigh. “Ah, Don Julio 1942,” she said. “Always the best.”
“Would you like some more?” I asked.
Her smile gave me the sudden feeling I was her new best friend. “Oh, please.”
Once Carmella started drinking, the other adults joined in—thank God not asking for the precious nectar of agave. Whit and Sabine favored whiskey and the others were martini people. Pretty soon it was a full blown cocktail party. If by cocktail party you mean the adults boozing it up on one end of the room while the kids fight over the remote on the other.
The early night Whit had so teasingly promised never materialized.
I sent Wren and Ben to bed at midnight and stayed up with the guests until slowly, one by one, the adults drifted upstairs, leaving the kids alone.
At that point, I had the blood-curdling realization that I had suddenly become a chaperone for someone else’s children, which was a job I did not want. I also felt decidedly out of place. The kids kept looking over their shoulder at me, as though waiting for me to leave, or maybe grow a second nose. But I couldn’t leave. Not until they went to bed. It was my job to stay up in case they needed anything. No matter how long it took.
Yay. I love my job!
Finally, they all decided it was time for bed, and headed up the stairs. I’m not gonna lie and say I wasn’t relieved. It had been a long day, and I was bushed. I did a quick tidy up of the great room and the bar, and then headed for bed, where I dropped, fully clothed.
* * *
“Wake up!” Someone hissed in my ear in the middle of a warm and fuzzy dream about a tall, handsome someone with mint-flavored breath and a crooked smile.
“G’way,” I responded. I didn’t want to wake up.
“Oh, please wake up, Victoria.” Olivia’s voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I cracked open a lid. It was still dark so I closed it again. “What is it?”
“It’s the boys. They’re all sick.”
I sat up in a shot. “Sick?”
As horrible as it was, my first thought was, thank God we hadn’t fed them dinner. Someone else had made these very rich people sick. Not very charitable of me, I know, but there you have it.
With a groan I arose. When I got to Jamison’s room, I knew it wasn’t food that had made them all sick. The bitter perfume of it hung on the air. It was a smell I knew well, from my youthful stupidity.
They must have gone back downstairs after I’d left and drank themselves stupid. I mean, really stupid. There were four boys in Jamison’s suite. Four very drunk boys and only one toilet. Need I say more?
It was a mess.
I decided to start with the root of the problem, rather than the still-erupting symptoms, and had Wren make four doses of my famous hangover cocktail. I knew it worked from personal experience.
And then, once I had determined no one had alcohol poisoning—which was a very real thing and had happened to clients more than once during my career—I went and woke up Carmella. Because, seriously? This was her circus. And her monkeys.
She harangued the miserable boys while Wren and I bravely tackled the bathroom. I won’t go into detail. You’re welcome.
After that was done, I felt the need to take a shower. And after that, I dropped back into bed, wondering what on earth I had been thinking, back when I’d thought this job was exciting and fun.
Chapter Six
I woke up way too early the next morning, considering the delights of the night before. One might assume that I was so enthusiastic about my life, I couldn’t bear to sleep through a moment of it, but it wasn’t that.
It was a bone-chilling scream that woke me up.
My eyes snapped open and I stared into the darkness, quivering, waiting for another sound to give me some insight on what had just happened. And yeah, another shrill scream reverberated from the room next to mine—the boys’ bunk. I leaped out of bed and ran into the living room and to the bunkroom door, from which these sounds were emanating. I was about to knock, when another scream ensued.
So I burst through the door.
Jed sat on his bunk staring at his tablet. He was glued to the screen, his mouth agape.
“Hey, Jed?”
He shrieked and bounded off the bed, then whirled around to face me, slapping his hand to his chest. “Oh, Vic. You scared me. Don’t do that!”
“Um, sorry?” I barely winced as another blood-curdling scream from the tablet ended amongst a stabby percussion of stabbiness. “Would you mind turning that down? It’s early.”
“Oh. Sure.” He gaped at me as though he’d only just worked out the fact that other people lived in this tiny cabin too. Then he grunted and complied.
Realizing I wasn’t going back to sleep anytime soon, I headed to the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee and sat next to Ben at the table. He looked sleepy, but determined to empty his mug.
“Does it creep you out that Jed likes to watch murdery movies at a remote mountain lodge in the wilderness?” I asked, taking a sip. “Or is it just me?”
He laughed. “Probably just you.”
“Of course.” We both sipped through a delicious silence.
“Hey, Vic.” He shot a look at me. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Yeah?”
“So, you and Rocky?”
“You mean Cooper?”
“Right. Are you a thing?”
I took another snort of my java. “Ancient history.”
“Yeah. But…history.”
“We’re talking crumbling-mummy history. As in way-dead.”
“Okay.”
I frowned at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Okay? I mean, okay. It’s just that…”
&n
bsp; “What?”
He winked at me. “It doesn’t seem like it’s way-dead. Whatever that is. You know?”
I could only think of one response. “Humph.”
He leaned closer. “So, give me some dirt. Why do they call him Rocky?”
“They do not call him Rocky.” I gusted a breath. “No one ever calls him Rocky. He calls himself Rocky.”
“I just want to know why. Why the nickname?”
“It’s stupid.”
“All the more reason to tell me.”
“Okay. But it’s dumb.”
“Spill.”
“Ugh. I hate this story. Okay. When we were kids he used to get drunk and sing to the moon.”
Ben chuckled. “That sounds about normal.”
“But he always sang the same stupid song.”
“Rocky’s theme song, right?”
Hah! “Yeah. You’d think that. But no. His song was Rocky Raccoon. By John Lennon? How many times did I have to listen to that song? And he sings off key.”
“I most certainly do not.”
I should have known he’d be lurking somewhere.
“Oooh. Rocky Raccoon!” Ben warbled as he pointed at Coop, whose hair was slicked back from his shower. His long-sleeved cotton shirt clung to his chest. Damn, he looked good.
“Do you even know the song?” Coop asked him, pulling a mug out of the rack and filling it with thick, redolent brew.
Ben laughed. “Before my time, old man.”
Coop rolled his eyes. “Shut up, pup. It’s a great song.”
“Anyway, that’s why we started calling him Rocky.”
“She called me Rocky too,” Coop said, as he sat and dropped an arm around my shoulder. “She loved calling me Rocky.”
I stiffened my upper lip. “All lies. Anyway, there you have it. From the Diary of the Young and Stupid.”
“Eh,” Coop said. “We weren’t that stupid.”
“We were very stupid. Some of us ran off and joined the Navy for no reason.” I took a slurp of coffee to show my nonchalance, despite the fact that my cup was empty.
“I had a good reason to join the Navy.”
“Such as?”
“I wanted to join the Navy.”
