by Brea Brown
Tight-Lipped Tom seems to know his way quite well around the place. I stiffen when he pushes open a large set of double-doors at the end of the hall and leads me into a bright, airy, enormous bedroom with a huge bed (and some other furniture… but the bed is definitely the centerpiece). Wide, dark wooden floor planks stretch from wall to wall, uninterrupted save for a ten by ten square of exquisite Oriental rug anchored by the bed, which looks like the softest, coolest, snuggliest… instrument of sex… I’ve ever seen.
Before I can check my brain, it delivers a picture of Lucas lying naked in the center of it.
I blush and quickly look away from it, as if by doing so I can also avert my gaze from my own thoughts. “Uh… Tom?”
He turns from where he’s stowing my two suitcases next to a gleaming dresser. “Yes?”
I pin my eyes to a spot in the middle of the cheery pale yellow wall nearest me. “Yeah. Umm… Here’s the thing. Tom.”
When I’m too embarrassed to go on, he prods, “Yeesss?”
Gosh, he’s going to make me spell it out. “Okay, here’s the thing,” I repeat, before rushing on, “I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to stay in the master bedroom. Maybe one of the other sixteen bedrooms will be better.”
“There are only five other bedrooms,” he flatly informs me and then tacks on, “Miss.”
I sigh. “My point is… there are a lot of bedrooms.”
“It’s a big house, yes.”
Is this guy for real? And what does he know about it, anyway? I’m about to ask him how he knows Lucas when he says, “This isn’t his room, if that’s what you’re worried about. His is next door.” He gestures in that direction with his eyes. “And this is the room he wants you to have while you’re his guest.”
I can’t fathom why it would matter to Lucas which room I sleep in. I also can’t figure out why it makes me feel tingly that he thought about it. To cover my increased discomposure, I cross to one of the huge windows and look at the backyard that slopes down to a private beach. “Oh. Well, okay. As long as I’m not imposing…”
“You’re not. Now, if that’s all, then I’ll be going. Paulette will be arriving later today. She’s the housekeeper, and she can help you with anything you need.”
My heart lifts at the idea that I won’t be rattling around this huge house alone, but it sinks at the prospect of being put in charge of a staff member. I’m such an outsider in this world. There’s no way I can pull off bossing someone around like the mistress of the castle. But Tom is hardly the one I need to talk to about this. I’ll give Lucas a call and tell him I don’t need a housekeeper while I’m staying in his house. It’s a little over-the-top, considering I’ll probably dirty one towel, one plate, and one glass a day. I’m sure I can clean up after myself.
I wave goodbye to Tom, listen as he trots down the stairs and through the front door, and turn toward that incredible bed again. I have to know what it feels like.
I slink toward it like a cat sneaking up on a mouse. When I’m standing close enough that the fronts of my thighs press against its high mattress, I reach out my hands and smooth my palms across the surface of the cool, soft comforter.
“Oh, my,” I say on an exhale.
Moving aside several pillows, I pull back one corner of the bedspread and slide my hand against the sheets. I’ve never felt anything like them. They look like cotton, but they’re almost as soft as silk or satin. Hesitantly at first and then more confidently as I remember no one’s here to see me, I lower my face to the bed and bury my nose in the linens. They smell like… money. Okay, not the real thing, but… if wealth has a scent, it’s this. It’s a strange amalgamation of the perfume counter at a department store, a bank lobby, leather, citrus, and sea spray.
Suddenly, as quickly as if I’ve been goosed, I straighten and spin in a circle, my hands covering my mouth and nose.
“Oh, my gosh,” I muffle into my hands. “What. The. Figgity?!” I wonder giddily at the entire situation. A house like this one never figured into even my wildest, most-optimistic bestselling-author dreams.
I can’t wait to spend some time here, not writing. I can’t wait to have Gus here for the weekend. I can’t wait to have my morning coffee in the gazebo and swim in the infinity pool and walk in the surf. I can’t wait to sleep in that bed.
Writer’s block is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
*****
“What is Tom?”
“You mean, who is he?”
Impatient to have answered the question that’s been preventing me from relaxing and enjoying myself at this remarkable house, I tap my foot and fiddle with my hair as I interrogate Lucas via cell phone. “Yes. What or who is he to you? Is he your favorite chauffeur at the car service? Your valet? Your hit man?” I’m only half-joking about that last one. I’ve come up with crazier scenarios while I replay my interactions with the driver.
Lucas laughs. “Uh… no. But it’s good to see your imagination is waking up. Tom’s my driver.”
“Your driver? As in, he drives you everywhere?” I know I sound stupid, but the question makes sense to me.
I simply sound stupid to Lucas, apparently. He answers as if he’s speaking to a cross-eyed dog, “Yes. That’s typically what a driver does.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m starting to think that maybe I don’t, actually.”
Irritated at my inability to express myself clearly, I say, “I mean, is he on your personal payroll, listed as your chauffeur? I mean, are you the type of person with the means to employ a staff?”
“Jayne.”
“Yes?”
“I’m busy. Did you call me about something to do with our business together, or have you suddenly decided your true calling is as an auditor for the IRS?”
I realize with embarrassment how nosy and pushy I’m being. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. Then in my defense, I explain, “But he didn’t make it clear to me what his role was in your life or how he knew you. I thought he was a random driver with the car service, but then he was unlocking the door and punching in the alarm code and leading me through the house like he knows the place, and then when he showed me to my room—which is awesome, by the way—”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“He knew it wasn’t your bedroom—”
“Is that something you were worried about?”
“Sort of. But before I could ask him, ‘Hey, how do you know all this stuff?’ he was telling me about some lady named Paulette—”
“She’s my housekeeper, yes.”
“—which, by the way, I don’t need a housekeeper. That’s just too weird.”
“I don’t want you to think about anything but relaxing and writing, when the inspiration strikes, which it will,” he insists. “Now, I can email you my family tree later, if you want to know how I’m related to all the other Edwardses in the world, and I can have Sally send you a full list of all the people on my payroll—”
“You do have a payroll, then?”
“—but I really have to go now. I’m late for a meeting with Arthur Thornfield, who—incidentally—lists me on his payroll.”
I feel embarrassed and awkward again. “Oh. Yeah. Okay. Well, I’ll… go swimming or something, then.”
I can tell he’s smiling, and I can even picture what that looks like when he says, “You do that. Goodbye now.”
“Bye.”
It’s not until after I hang up and have been standing in the middle of the gleaming white and stainless steel kitchen for a while, staring off into space, that I realize we just had our first conversation that didn’t include an argument.
Chapter Eight
As promised, Mrs. Paulette McGovern arrives later, in time to serve me a light dinner by the pool. I didn't realize she had arrived, and if she hadn’t been carrying a tray of food, I may have been alarmed at the sudden appearance of a stranger when I opened my eyes during my impromptu duet with Chris Martin. Instead, I’m merely
mortified.
I sit up on my lounger and pop the earbuds from my ears, letting them drop into my lap.
She pretends nothing strange has happened. “Hello there, I’m Paulette. Thought you might be peckish,” she says in a delightful English accent.
Taking my cues from her, glad to ignore my embarrassing behavior, I manage to recover with, “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
As she sets the tray of food on the wrought-iron table under the umbrella, I cringe at my ignorant surprise at her attire. She’s wearing a linen button-up shirt and a pair of culottes, which are classy and very comfortable-looking, but not what I expected Lucas’s maid to be wearing. Unfortunately, I have to admit that I had pictured her more like one of the chamber maids in the BBC period dramas I seem to be addicted to. I feel like an idiot that I thought she’d be decked out in a black dress with a white apron and a silly little cap, like one of the girls in Upstairs Downstairs. I’m such a rube!
While I’m beating myself up, she says, “Luke tells me you’re quite the writer.”
“Quite bad?”
She laughs as if I’m joking, and I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, so again, I go along with her. Or maybe she’s laughing because Lucas did say I was quite bad, but she’s being generous and putting a positive spin on it. While I wrap my towel around myself, I study her through my peripheral vision, but I can’t glean anything from her expression. She doesn’t have a secret smile on her face that would indicate she’s double-speaking. She’s not rolling her eyes or doing anything else overtly disparaging. Her expression is blankly innocent as she positions the dishes, cutlery, glass, and pitcher of lemonade.
When I get closer to the table, my stomach growls at the sight of BLT Paninis cut into neat triangles, a dainty pot of baked beans, and a generous square of strawberry cheesecake waiting for me. I stop next to the table and gaze down, delighted at the quintessentially-summer meal, one that I didn’t have to make for myself.
“Oh, blimey! I didn’t even think to ask if you’re a vegetarian or have any allergies or special dietary needs,” Paulette frets. “Luke didn’t mention any, but that doesn’t mean anything, now, does it?”
I think it’s hilarious she assumes Lucas knows me well enough to have a clue about my “dietary needs,” but I’m not amused that she’s worried about my opinion of the food. Quickly, I reassure her as I take my seat, “It looks great. I love meat.” That hasty declaration makes me blush. “I mean, I’m not a vegetarian.”
She looks disproportionately relieved. Maybe Lucas docks her pay for screw-ups. My heart races at the idea. Once again, I’m terrified at the prospect of having that much power over someone else.
As I’m opening my mouth to make the dangerous statement that I’ll eat anything, she sits across the table from me, pours herself a glass of lemonade after pouring mine, and says, “Well, then, you eat up. And let’s have a bit of a chin wag. If I’m going to be taking care of you, I’ll need to know a bit about you, don’t you think?”
I chew and swallow my first bite of sandwich, barely managing to keep from moaning at how delicious it is, and say, “Oh. Well, you don’t have to take care of me. I’m very independent.”
“Not while you’re here, you’re not,” she says sweetly but firmly. “My feelings will be rather hurt if you try to do everything for yourself and ignore me.”
“Okay…”
“Not that I’ll be a pest about it, you know. You won’t even know I’m around, if you don’t want me around. Luke was very clear about that.”
That twangs a nerve. Slowly I wipe some mayonnaise from the corner of my mouth and deliberately set the cloth napkin into my lap. “Huh. Well, you don’t have to tip-toe around me, either, like I’m a… a… diva. I don’t know what Lucas told you about me, but—”
She flaps her hands in front of her chest. “Oh, no, no, no! That’s not it at all! He didn’t say a word against you; that’s not a bit like him. What I meant was that I’ll be here when you need me but out of your way when you don’t. That’s all.”
“Right-o.”
After a swallow of lemonade, she smiles encouragingly at me. “Now, then. Tell me about the foods you detest. That way, I can be sure not to make anything you don’t want to eat but are too polite to refuse.” When I start to protest and proclaim that I’m not picky, she cuts in with, “Ah-ah-ah! I can tell by the looks of you that you’d eat something you hate before admitting it, so don’t be shy. I’m not going to judge you if you say you won’t eat anything that’s good for you. I can stock up at the market on crisps and sweets just as well as meat and veg.”
When the only foods on my list of won’t-eats are anchovies, uncooked onions, creamed corn, and beets, she relaxes in her chair, grins proudly at me like I’m a clever child who recited the alphabet in another language, and says, “There. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? I think you and I are going to be great friends.”
If every meal she cooks for me is this good, I think we are.
******
The trouble is… I feel like I have a babysitter. Don’t get me wrong; I like Paulette a lot. And she hasn’t said or done anything obvious to make me think she’s reporting back to Lucas about what I’m doing. But… I have this weird feeling that she’s all-knowing and all-seeing when it comes to this house, and if Lucas were to come right out and ask her what I’ve been up to, she’d feel obligated, as his employee, to tell him. And I don’t think he’d hesitate to ask her. Not for a second.
Plus, unless she’s the most duplicitous person I’ve ever met, she seems to be under the impression that I’m a great writer. Maybe she doesn’t get sarcasm (that would explain her long, happy tenure on Lucas’s staff). Anyway, even though I’ve just met her, she’s been so nice to me that I don’t want to let her down. I know, that’s people-pleasing of the highest, most illogical order, but I can’t help it. She’s very motherly, and it’s satisfying a craving I didn’t even know I had. She dotes on me. I haven’t had someone do that in… well, twelve years. However, I feel guilty when she serves me while I lounge next to the pool.
To get an idea of what she thinks of me, I say at breakfast this morning while buttering a flaky croissant, “You must think I’m so lazy.”
Of course, she denies it. “No! I haven’t that opinion at all!”
Washing down a bite with a mouthful of coffee, I smile. “It’s okay. I am being lazy. I usually write for thirteen or fourteen hours a day.”
“Well, you needed a rest, then, like Luke said.”
I can’t stop myself from asking, “What else did he say about me?”
She doesn’t hesitate when she answers, “Only that you’re in the middle of publishing your first book—good for you!—and that you need a quiet place to stay so you can relax and polish your manuscript in peace,” but she assigns an intense level of concentration to folding the kitchen towel she was using to mop up the area around the sink. When she continues to refuse to look me in the eye, I’m sure he said more than that. I can only imagine.
Eventually she does look up at me. “In any case… it’s good you came here, because no one else uses the house, and I’d much prefer to be here than in the city, where I live alone and only have Luke’s apartment to tend. Reminds me more of home when I can be close to the sea.”
With such a blatant subject change like that, it would seem obsessive and rude to continue to try to get information about Lucas from her. So I dutifully ask where she’s from (Dorset) and how she managed to find her way to the States (met and married a Bostonian when he was “on holiday” and stayed at her family’s bed and breakfast) and how long she’s worked for “Luke” (a vague “quite a while”).
I’m out of questions about her, but I still have plenty about Lucas. Feeling that it’s not too unnatural a loop back around to our earlier discussion, I ask, “But Lucas doesn’t stay here very often?”
She scrapes with her thumbnail at something on the granite counter. “Not much anymore. Used to, but… he’s so busy.�
�� She shrugs good-naturedly. “Well, you know how it is. Career before all else when you’re young. You always think there’ll be plenty of time for… other things… later.”
Ah. So Lucas has no social life. Big shocker. The guy’s about as personable as a porcupine.
Even though I’m a big proponent of hermitism, I egg her on with, “That’s too bad. You’re only young once, right? Plus, it’s a shame this big place is going to waste.”
She nods eagerly. “That’s what I tell him! He needs to fill it with children.” Abruptly, she stops talking. Her mouth takes on a shape resembling a purse that’s been zipped closed. After clearing her throat, she continues more moderately, “That is, I also understand where he’s coming from. And he’s a good boss. It’s not my place to criticize.”
Damn. I was getting into this topic, too. I was hoping she’d tell me something juicy. Maybe a story about a beautiful woman he drove away with his terrible temper and wearying workaholism. Now, heartbroken, he buries himself even more in his work, lashing out at poor, unsuspecting new authors who aren’t confident enough to tell him to go do something sexual to himself.
Or perhaps he’s secretly pining for the busty Blanche, but he knows she doesn’t return his feelings, so his love is unrequited and is eating him alive. That would at least explain his sour attitude.
Or maybe he made a pact with the devil that in exchange for his devastating good looks (at least, some people may call them that), he had to give up all vestiges of a personality, so he’s cursed to walk through life alone, never having any relationship more meaningful than a one-night stand, because as soon as they get to know him better, women run as fast and as far away as they can. Even though he’s physically perfect and a master of the sexual arts…
“Oh, dear!”
Paulette’s words register at the same time as the warm wetness in my lap. I startle, spilling even more coffee onto my favorite sundress. “Well, shit!” I scold myself. Paulette passes me the dishtowel that seems to be her constant companion as she goes about her day. I swab at the tan splotch on my cotton dress while trying to hide the red splotches on my cheeks.
