by Billie Green
A Special Man
❖
Billie Green
Chapter One
If it were an English night, and if she were given to melancholic freaks, Amanda might have compared the drive that lay before her to the second Mrs. de Winter's tormented dream of a return to Manderley.
But it was Southern California and Amanda was not in the least bit melancholic. Today the closest she had come to that state of mind was when the guard at the iron gate behind her had immediately accepted that she and the anemic creature pictured on her driver's license were one and the same.
Gravel crunched beneath the tires as she followed the twisting and turning of the drive. The woods on either side were artfully natural. No tortured trees here, she thought with a smile. No long, tenacious fingers of nature plucked at the road. The fingers of nature in California had more of a tendency to wave gaily, she thought, laughing softly as the warm breeze ruffled her long, brown hair.
But even with the lovely scenery, anticipation made the drive seem interminable. With each turn of the road, her fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
Just when she had decided she had somehow gained entry to a state park and would at any moment be surrounded by fervent picnickers, she broke out of the woods, and Greenleigh Acres stood before her.
The beauty of the house took her breath away. Here in Santa Barbara County was an English country home, ivy-covered walls and all. It sat peacefully in an open pocket of land. From the huge central block, symmetrical wings extended, bending slightly inward like arms guarding the driveway and front garden. Lush green lawn surrounded all, ending only at the cliff that overlooked the blue waters of the Pacific. It was extravagantly serene. No devil rode here, Amanda thought, her eyes wide as she stared in open pleasure.
The gravel road looped, becoming a circular drive that enclosed a formal garden, the kind that always reminded Amanda of the Queen of Hearts's croquet grounds. In the center, a fountain splashed water into marble shells, liquid silver glittering in the sun.
Did one knock at the door of a resort? Amanda wondered seconds later as she took the first of the wide steps before her. It seemed impertinent somehow just to walk into what looked like a private home.
One of the massive doors opened as she gained the top step, solving her dilemma. A couple in casual clothes bounced down the steps, talking and laughing. Each had that special look that only people with a moneyed background could achieve.
Glancing down at her neat linen dress —her best— Amanda shrugged and stepped inside to a vast, high-ceilinged room. Clusters of furniture—antique from the look of it—were arranged around the room. Each grouping had a curiously intimate appearance, giving the feel of privacy to the guests who sat and talked in bushed tones while others passed through in riding habits or swimwear.
Amanda smiled. She felt curiously invisible and was almost tempted to stand on a chair and shout, "I'm Princess Di in disguise, and you all just screwed up royally." But she needed this job, and instead she glanced around, searching for anyone who resembled an employee.
To one side of the room, a plump woman, her ash-brown hair dulled by a vivid white tennis dress, stood speaking to an elderly woman. The harried expression on her face, more than the clipboard in her hand, indicated a woman who worked for her living.
"No, Mrs. Hadley," the plump woman was saying as Amanda approached. "Helga didn't forget you. You're scheduled for a massage at eleven o'clock. Not ten."
"I always have my massage at ten o'clock, young woman. Always." The word was punctuated by a jabbing finger to the younger woman's shoulder. "Mrs. Oates will hear about this. Don't think she won't. You've obviously allowed someone to buy my time with the masseuse. This time your greed will cost you your job."
With a flurry of silk the older woman turned and stalked away, unaware of the rude gesture that followed her.
"Excuse me," Amanda said tentatively.
The plump young woman glanced at Amanda, then back to her clipboard as though she would find a clue to Amanda's appearance listed there.
"Okay, I've got it," the woman said after a moment. "You're Amanda Timbers. Steve called to say you were on your way up." Shoving the clipboard under her arm, she extended her hand. "I'm Ginny Denver. Oates has the day off and I've been delegated to get you settled in—along with everything else," she added under her breath.'
Glancing around, she called out. "Ralph, will you get Amanda's bags?" She turned back to Amanda and extended her hand. "He'll need your keys." After handing the keys to a tall, slouching man, she said, "Take them to four West."
Ginny shoved a hand through her flyaway hair. "What first? Your room," she said answering her own question as she walked away. "The west wing is through this hall. It'll probably be a little confusing for you at first, but you'll get used to it." She moved quickly, barely allowing Amanda to keep up. "There are four wings of bedrooms. East, West, A-North and B-North. But we don't usually call them that. You'll learn the nicknames soon enough."
When Amanda laughed aloud, Ginny slowed down and glanced at her quizzically, a reluctant smile curving her full lips. "What did I say that's funny?"
"Don't you ever slow down?"
"Not very often," she said wryly as she reached a staircase and took the first step. "Especially when Oates is away. I have seniority, God help me."
Now that she had the opportunity, Amanda took it. "Who is Oates? And are you the social director and who is Steve and what does Ralph do other than carry luggage?"
Ginny laughed. "Oates is Mrs. Beryl Oates, officially the housekeeper, unofficially the warden. I'm a nurse, but we all have to dress like this. Oates tries to convince us we're all one big happy family. And more important, she feels the guests will feel more at ease if we dress casually." She pinched up her mouth. " 'We want to convey the feeling that we are all guests of a wealthy gentleman.'" She rolled her eyes. "If I ever visit a wealthy gentleman, I'll lie in bed the whole time. Steve is the guard at the gate, and Ralph is general handyman. Anything else?"
Amanda felt as though she should be taking notes. "What about Dr. Sutherland?" she asked tentatively. "Does he live here?"
"He has a private apartment here—you should see his dining room. Looks like something out of the White House," Ginny said in a wry aside. "But he's only here off and on. He has a house in Beverly Hills and an apartment in New York."
They were now in a wide carpeted hall with doors on each side like an apartment building. "And this one big happy family bit?" Amanda asked. "Just exactly what does that mean?"
Ginny gave her a shrewd look. "You're a bookkeeper, right?"
Amanda nodded.
"Wrong, O Innocent One. Here you are whatever is needed. We never stick to our job description. Although we have regular shifts, we're on call twenty-four hours a day and everyone pitches in during a crisis."
Amanda glanced at her warily. "Are there very many crises?"
Ginny shrugged. "About the same as you would find in any family of forty overgrown children."
"There are forty... guests?"
She nodded. "About twenty-five residents and fifteen transients, as we call them. They just pass through."
Stopping in front of a door, Ginny opened it and preceded Amanda inside. The room was bright and airy and big enough to hold a small sitting area. Although the furniture was not of the same quality that had been in the lounge, it wasn't bad; it was the type one would find in a mid-price hotel. Amanda had expected something along the lines of "early motel"—lots of plastic and garish prints.
Glancing around approvingly she said, "Not exactly your average employee's bedroom."
"This is not exactly your average health farm."
"Yes, I can see that." Moving to the wind
ow, she stared out, trying to get her bearings. She had somehow thought the window would look out on the front lawns. But the landscape she saw was completely different.
"You can see the small swimming pool from here," Ginny said as she leaned against a dark, highly polished bureau. She raised one foot to flex it, then the other. "The big one—Olympic-size—is on the other side of B-North. Employees share the small pool with the loonies, and the transients share with the old-timers. Each wing except ours has a private garden surrounded by a nine-foot hedge. To your right are the tennis courts and beyond that the stables. Greenleigh has one hundred and twenty acres in all, some beautiful bridle and footpaths, duck ponds and semi-natural streams."
"Hold it," Amanda said, trying to catch her breath. "You're going too fast again. You sound like a freaked-out travelogue."
"Sorry," Ginny said, grimacing. "They've been coming at me all day. I think there's some rule that says if you're rich you have to have the personality of a gorilla in rut. If you don't, they come and take your money away."
"You said loonies," Amanda said, staring at her in confusion. "Does that mean you have mental patients here? I thought this was some kind of hot-stuff spa for the very wealthy."
"It is, but the rich have their nuts, too. Haven't you ever wondered where they put them?"
"I can't say that I have."
"The loonies—which is cruel but typical of the mentality around here—are the ones who really need psychiatric care. They're in B-North, right there." She moved to stand beside Amanda and gestured to a wing that angled away from them. "A-North is the old-timers' wing. They're permanent residents; for them this is a fancy old-folks' home. My parents should have it so good."
Glancing at her watch, Ginny moved away from the window. "Now that you've seen your room, we'd better look at the rest of it—at least the important parts. I hate to rush you, but lunch is coming up, and there are always squabbles over who gets which table."
Several minutes later, they were back in the lounge. Amanda hadn't noticed before how many doors opened off of it. Would she ever learn her way around?
They paused before one of the open doors, and Ginny nodded toward the interior. "The dining room."
Amanda stepped past her to look inside. Deep-red carpet covered the floors giving contrast to the massive chandeliers that hung majestically from the ceiling. There were numerous small tables draped with startlingly white linen cloths. Crystal and silver were already in place, and floral centerpieces decorated each table.
"The guests can eat here if they feel sociable or they can eat in their rooms. We have a Belgian chef who is very temperamental about being asked for a souffle at three in the morning, but Dr. Sutherland pays him well so he keeps his grousing to himself," Ginny said dryly. "He also caters the doctor's dinner parties. The doctor's private dining room seats twenty, and it's by invitation only. Sometimes he gets up a party but only for very special guests."
When Ginny spoke of Dr. Sutherland her voice softened and her brown eyes sparkled. Amanda couldn't blame the nurse; the one time she had met the doctor, her own pulse had picked up a bit. Even if Amanda had been able to overlook his stunning appearance, she had almost overdosed on the charm that positively oozed from him.
Before Dr. Anderson had told her about the job at Greenleigh Acres, Amanda had heard of Ted Sutherland. Anyone who watched television at all had heard of him. Talk-show hosts loved him. Although his reputation as a doctor hadn't hurt, Amanda suspected it had been his charm and playboy reputation that had prompted a recent Barbara Walters special on him.
Leaving the dining room, they passed several other open doors. Amanda got tantalizing glimpses of grand pianos in one and walls of plants and glass in another. She hoped she could find them again when she had time to explore.
They entered another hall. "The old-timers' rooms are above the offices," Ginny said, stopping in front of a door. "This is your office. Oates is next door and Cherry—Dr. Sutherland's secretary—has one just down the hall."
It didn't look like any office Amanda had ever worked in. With its dark paneled walls and leather furniture and small fireplace, it looked like a wealthy man's study—maybe one of his lesser studies, the place where he received menials or mistresses rather than heads of state.
Walking across the room, Ginny slid open a wooden panel to reveal built-in filing cabinets, "Here are all the files—at least the financial ones,.insurance and that kind of thing. The medical files are kept in Dr. Sutherland's secretary's office or in the basement where he does his research."
"He has a research lab here?"
"Are you kidding? Some hospitals don't have such sophisticated labs. Ill show it to you sometime," Ginny said over her shoulder as she pulled back burgundy-colored drapes to let in the sunlight.
Amanda walked to the window and looked out, then shook her head, trying to take everything in. Her head was whirling with all the visual and verbal information.
"Think you'll like it?" Ginny asked from behind her. "You look a little stunned, as though it's not quite what you expected. Didn't you check it out before you applied for the job?"
"Actually I didn't apply for it," Amanda said ruefully. "Dr. Anderson—I worked for him for the past six years at a small clinic in Los Angeles—decided to retire, but being the man he is, he wanted to make sure I had somewhere to go. He talked to Dr. Sutherland, which led to an interview, which led me here." She shrugged. "It's all a little confusing. I thought this was a fancy kind of dude ranch. I had no idea it was an institution."
"Greenleigh Acres is unique," Ginny said, and not without a hint of pride in her voice. "It's not a hospital or a funny farm. Mostly it's a resting place for the rich and famous. We get actors and actresses who want to lose weight or dry out or who are simply between pictures and need pampering. In fact Delores Carey is here right now."
Amanda swung around. "Really?" she asked, impressed against her will as she thought of the auburn-haired actress who had been the top box-office draw of the sixties. "She's one of my favorite actresses. I must have seen The Dark Backward a dozen times."
Ginny grimaced. "Don't worry. You'll meet her. No one escapes Miss Carey unnoticed. We also get actresses who are on their way to being somebody. Protegees of directors or other rich men. They come here to recuperate from nose jobs or breast augmentation or tummy tucks or having the fat sacked out of them." Ginny leaned against the desk. "And sometimes Greenleigh is simply a place for the pillars of society to send their embarrassments."
"Embarrassments?"
"We get a lot of those—I won't call them loonies because I can tell it upsets you; you'll toughen up in time. Right now we've got a twenty-year-old man who enjoys dressing in women's clothes. The catch is his father is a famous senator. And we have Mrs. Osgood. Her nephew is big in computers. That's not exactly a sensitive occupation, but he's trying to get the government to institute reforms in public education. Her 'eccentricities' would set him back a century. And then there's Virgie."
"Virgie?"
"DeVries, You've heard the name, of course."
"Not as in William DeVries?" Amanda said, picturing the strong, down-to-earth face of the world-famous evangelist.
"The same," Ginny said. "Virgie, his daughter, likes men... too much. She's a nympho like you've never seen before. She's caused us no end of problems. She's hit on every man on staff and not a few of the guests."
Amanda swallowed heavily. What in hell had Dr. Anderson gotten her into? "Tell me about the rest of the staff," she said, trying to get the conversation back to territory familiar to her.
"Let's see," Ginny said, flopping down on the couch. "We have a total of ten nurses—you'll meet them all later—at least three on duty at all times. Dr. Greg Nabors is the internist who takes care of things when Dr. Sutherland is away. Resident psychiatrist, Paul Choate. A full staff in the kitchen. Maids, gardeners, lifeguards, stable personnel and guards." She ticked them off on her fingers.
"Guards?"
"That's mostly to keep reporters and nosy people out," Ginny said. "We rarely have any trouble inside, but sometimes one of the loonies will get testy. That's when the guards come in handy."
The door opened and a tall, harassed-looking redhead stuck her head in. "Ginny, I've been looking everywhere for you. Mrs. Baxter is doing it again," she said, her voice breathless. "In the lounge."
"Oh, hell," Ginny said, pulling herself to her feet. "Come on, Amanda. Time for your baptism by fire."
She moved quickly toward the door with Amanda two paces behind her. "Who is Mrs. Baxter, and what is she doing in the lounge?" Amanda asked, trying to keep up with the rapidly moving nurse;
"Evelyn Baxter, and if she's holding true to form, she's putting on a show for the guests*" Ginny said over her shoulder, her voice husky with exertion. "She used to be one of the most famous socialites in Palm Beach. Her husband, with his brothers, owns Baxter's Department Stores. Evelyn's husband didn't like t the way she was treating his mistress, so he had her shipped here."
"Can he do that legally?"
Ginny shrugged. "Since Evelyn tried to drown said mistress by pushing her face into a bowl of champagne punch, he was probably being kind."
They ran the rest of the way. When they reached the lounge, they heard laughter and saw a crowd of people gathered to one side of the room. Suddenly a purple silk blouse came flying over the top of the crowd. It landed gently on the head of a portly bald man, the color clashing violently with his orange plaid Bermuda shorts.
When Ginny began pushing her way through the onlookers, Amanda followed because it seemed to be expected of her. At the center, a thin, middle-aged woman that Amanda presumed was Mrs. Baxter stood with her hands on her hips, still wearing a lavender satin slip. Her platinum hair hung in a smooth pageboy the way it must have done for years. Outsize, tinted, rimless glasses covered the upper part of her face. She had a look Amanda had seen before, but only in Beverly Hills and on Rodeo Drive.
The older woman laughed throatily and continued to back away from the people cautiously approaching her. Suddenly, she turned and ran. She was surprisingly agile for her age. Like Hamlin's helpless children, everyone followed her across the lounge, then down a hall, watching helplessly as she ducked through swinging doors.
