by Renee Roszel
“That’s a cross I’ll have to bear,” he fired back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned to go.
Irate, but feeling a nagging guilt that she’d vowed to tell him something earlier and had not gotten around to it, she hurried after him, skirting around to block his path. Though her urge was to ring his neck, she compromised by merely poking violently at his tie. “Just one more thing!” She poked to emphasize every word. “Personally, I don’t like you or anything you stand for, but I swore I’d say this, so I’m going to. You’re a good judge of people, and I think you did the right thing in choosing Jack’s essay. What smart, sarcastic comeback do you have to that?” She poked one last time, then crossed her arms defiantly.
Lucas was clearly surprised by her compliment, no matter how angrily it had been shouted. One dark brow arched in wary reaction. After a brief hesitation, he growled, “Thank you.” Then, in a heartbeat, he was gone.
She stood motionless, staring at the closed door, as the sharp echo of his footsteps died away. She’d never before heard a “thank you” sound so much like “Eat dirt,” before.
“Jerk-face,” she snapped.
“Excuse me, madam?” came a bewildered reply from behind her. She twisted to see the austere butler, and grimaced. “I—Nothing. I was talking to myself.”
She might as well have been, she mused sadly. What lunacy for her to have entertained fantasies that Lucas Brand would become Mr. Niceguy in any real sense, or that a compliment would have a positive effect. He was a flawed, reluctant figurehead, and she was stuck with him. Sighing, she gave the servant a tired smile. “Don’t mind me, Maxim.” She motioned for him to lead the way. “I’d better get going. I’ve got a lot to do.”
“Yes, madam,” he intoned. “Here’s your case.”
She was startled, having forgotten all about it. Taking it mutely, she followed him to the door. When he’d opened it for her, he ventured almost hesitantly, “Madam? Mr. Brand isn’t so much of a jerk-face as you might think.” His long, seamed face opened in a bashful smile. “Give him time,” he suggested in a subdued rasp.
She scanned the tuxedo-clad gentleman quizzically. “Don’t tell me you’re fond of the man?”
The butler lifted a gray, triangular brow. “Mr. Brand may be a hard man, but he’s honorable.”
She shook her head in exasperation. “Well I’ll agree to the ‘hard’ part, anyway. Good night, Maxim.”
“Good night, madam,” he replied as she went out into the blustery night.
THE TWO VANS THAT PULLED up into Lucas’s circular drive, surrounded by well-manicured grounds, looked like something out of The Grapes of Wrath. They had ratty old suitcases, cardboard boxes and duffel bags tied haphazardly across their roofs as though they were a two-vehicle caravan of scraggly nomads headed out of state in search of a better life away from the dust bowl of Oklahoma. Of course that dreary image of the forty-sixth state ceased to be a fact long before these kids were born, so when Jess made the comment, she was met with blank stares.
Hopping off the first van, Jess loped up the wide front steps to the double doors and was greeted, before she could even knock, by Jerry Jones, the skinny, grinning chauffeur, dressed in his gray uniform and soft, billed cap. He took off the hat to expose wildly curly chocolate brown hair. Jess was startled by his friendly manner. She’d never been received half so kindly by his boss, so she hadn’t expected pleasantries from his employees.
“Hi, Mrs. Glen,” he said. “I see you’ve recovered from yesterday.”
When she smiled and nodded, he indicated that she follow him back down the steps. This didn’t surprise her. She assumed that being the chauffeur, he’d been instructed to help with the luggage. “Mr. Brand said you should take the vehicles around the back and unload,” he explained as he trotted ahead.
He hopped into the first van and led the way, then pointed to the stables and bunkhouse, which was partly masked by a stand of scrub oak. “There’s where you’ll be billeted. The bunkhouse hasn’t been used since Mr. Brand bought the property, but the maids are gathering up some bedding. Once the kids get their gear inside, they can come on up here.” He swung a gangly arm toward the house. “This door here goes into the back pantry and on to the kitchen. The bedding’ll be waiting in there.”
Jess was confused. “But, I thought we were to use guest rooms on the third floor.”
The chauffeur’s expression clouded. Evidently he’d been given instructions and no explanation. “Sorry, ma’am. I don’t know about that. Want me to ask the boss?”
She shook her head, aware that Lucas was using his employee to insulate himself from his promise, while also getting the Mr. Niceguy project and its kids as far away from his exclusive domain as he could. She hadn’t actually specified the main house, but Mr. Roxbury had used his own home. Darn. Why must she always compare Lucas Brand’s behavior to Mr. Roxbury’s. They were hardly comparable! With a deflated grimace, she said, “Never mind. I’ll get the kids to start unloading. Thanks.”
Jerry looked unhappy. “I’ll ask. Maybe I misunderstood.”
She shook her head. “I doubt it. I’m sure Mr. Brand thought we’d be too noisy or too messy or something, for his house. We’ll be fine.” She turned away, but then, having had time to get irritated, she added, “Is Mr. Brand at home?”
Jerry nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He’s working in his computer room. Want me to—”
“Just tell him we’re here,” she interrupted, more sharply than she’d intended. Calming herself, she smiled with difficulty. “I’ll want to talk to him in about an hour.”
Jerry nodded and started for the back door, when she stopped him, calling out, “And please—call me Jess.”
He looked over his shoulder. “I’m Jerry to my friends.” He grinned at her. Jerry had a weakly handsome face. His chin was pointy, and his eyes too small for a man his height—just over six feet. But they were clear, blue eyes, alight with friendship and sympathy. “You’re doing a fine thing, ma’am—I mean, Jess. Good luck. And let me know if I can help. I got a police scanner, if you need it.”
She appreciated his offer. “Thanks, Jerry. I’ll keep it in mind. What do you use a police scanner for?”
He turned back to face her and shrugged his broad, thin shoulders. “Oh, I hear stuff about shootings, robberies, runaways.” He thudded his thumb into his uniform front. “I figure if I’m lucky, I’ll get on ‘Primetime Crime’ for catching a serial killer or something.” He must have seen a trace of doubt in her expression, for he added, “Honest. We got plenty of crime here in OK City.”
She had to agree with that. “Well—thanks for the offer. And if you hear of any serial killers in the area, let us know.”
He laughed. “You’re kiddin’, but I will. Also, I’m great with spaghetti sauce, if your kids need a good recipe. My day off’s Sunday.”
She grew vaguely hopeful. “Oh? You mean Mr. Brand doesn’t go to work on Sundays?”
Jerry shook his head, clapping his hat back on. “Naw. He goes. He’s got the ragin’ red Testarossa.”
She made a face. “Sounds painful.”
Jerry looked baffled, then laughed his high-pitched, staccato laugh. “The red Testarossa’s Mr. Brand’s Ferrari.” He took on the look of a lovesick pup. “Heck. If I had one of them, I’d fire me and drive that baby all the time.”
Light laughter bubbled in Jess’s throat. “I’d be glad he isn’t you, then. You’d be out of a job.” Secretly, she would have preferred that Lucas Brand was Jerry—at least his attitude toward the Mr. Niceguy project would be a trillion-percent better.
“Well—be seein’ ya. I’ll give that message to the boss,” Jerry promised as he jogged toward the door leading to the kitchen.
“Thanks,” she replied, then headed back to the van to direct the kids to the bunkhouse where they’d been banished. The volunteer couples, Howie and Reba Goodall, both retired teachers, and Bertha and Bernie Kornblum, who owned a small farm outside of town, cast each other
subtle glances of disappointment. They recognized the ostracism for what it was, just as Jess had. But as the kids scrambled around untying their stuff, laughing and shouting, nudging, teasing and generally horsing around, Jess silently prayed that they wouldn’t recognize the rejection. The six boys and four girls had already known enough of that in their young lives.
The bunkhouse was a long, one-story building with a wood-shingled roof and walls constructed of rough-cut pine treated with a reddish stain. Wooden shutters were closed across the windows, making it obvious that the place had been locked up for some time. Jess hoped it wouldn’t require much cleaning. The kids shouldn’t have to slave over their accommodations. This wasn’t a construction site or a prison camp. It was a retreat and supposedly a time to fish, to ride horses, to collect leaves or jump in them; a time to run, to learn how to work together as a team, be a family, be creative, see how life could be better, and basically, to enjoy a reward for having tried and succeeded at something.
Jess took a suitcase in each hand and struggled to join Annie Smith and Suzy Clark, who were loaded down with bags. Moses Booker raced past Jess and the two girls, each with a duffel bag under one arm and a suitcase grasped in the other hand. “I’m gonna check this place out. You comin’, Spitball?”
Jess had to smile. The Asian boy, Noriko Sakata, had been given the nickname Spitball, and she had no idea why. She supposed it was best that she didn’t. Noriko was a native of Oklahoma City. His dad, an immigrant, had died several years before, and his mother, not proficient in English, was having a hard time making ends meet for herself and her three sons. Spitball was a good kid, worked two part-time jobs after school, and had done well on the essay. He was slight, with spiky black hair and a bighearted grin.
“I’m coming, dude,” Spitball puffed, dragging the biggest suitcase of the bunch. Jess shook her head at him. For a kid of fourteen who was just under five feet tall and couldn’t possibly weigh one hundred pounds yet, Spitball had no idea he wasn’t as strong and big as an ox.
Jack lagged behind, not speaking, but doing his share. He had single-handedly lifted a cooker off the top of van number two. It had to weigh eighty pounds, but Jack was carrying it stoically and uncomplainingly. The teen was big for fourteen. Jess was five-seven, and Jack was about an inch taller, but he outweighed her by fifty pounds of muscle.
She dropped back so he could catch up. “Now that’s what I call helping,” she said to him. “I have this recipe for hamburger patties that’ll curl your hair. It has jalapeño peppers in it. Sound good?”
He peered suspiciously at her. “Sounds gross.”
She stopped to adjust her grip on one suitcase. “I knew you’d love the idea.”
“Hey,” shouted Annie, the black girl who looked remarkably like Janet Jackson, but whose shiny black hair was done Medusa-style. “Door’s stuck or something!” she called.
“They didn’t give me a key, so it shouldn’t be locked.” Jess hurried through the thick stand of trees that partly hid the bunkhouse. “Just a second.”
When she got there, Moses, the other black essay winner, was tugging hard. “Don’t mess wif me, man,” he was grumbling at the door. One more hard tug, and there was a skin-crawling rasping sound as the swollen wood scraped against the concrete porch and the door swung open.
Since the windows were shuttered, it was dark inside. Moses was the first to venture in, searching the nearby wall for a light switch. When he found it, several naked bulbs that hung from the peaked ceiling flashed on to reveal a sitting room/kitchen combination. Farther back, behind half-wall planters, long empty of anything green and living, there were several sets of bunk beds, each with a bare mattress.
As Moses looked around, he was joined by Larry Tenkiller, Annie and Suzy. Jess stepped forward to get a better look.
“Cool,” said Larry.
“Are we all sleeping together?” Suzy, a chubby, pink-cheeked blonde breathed nervously.
“Radical!” Larry piped up, with a bawdy laugh. “Let’s scope this place out.”
“I’m not sleeping in the same room with these butt-heads!” Suzy griped.
“Chill, girl,” Moses rebuked, nudging Spitball. “You ain’t all that fine that I’d mess with you.”
Jess stared at the accommodations—certainly not suitable for both boys and girls. “We’ll figure out something,” she mumbled, her irritation flaring again. How could Lucas Brand have been so insensitive? “I can tell you right now,” she added, “there will be no coed sleeping on this retreat.”
Howie had come in. “Let’s get the windows open, boys,” he suggested. “And you girls look for the broom closet.”
“Good idea,” Jess said, glad to have something for the kids to do while the adults put their heads together to figure out how to arrange the place to separate the boys from the girls. She had an unruly urge to smack Lucas’s arrogant face for his thoughtlessness.
The kids scurried about, their footsteps thudding heavily on the plank floor. Windows were unlatched and sunshine poured in to display the thick layer of dust that had settled over everything. It was just as Jess had feared. The kids would have no fun today. Darn you, Lucas Brand!
She and the other volunteers tried to hide their disgust with smiles and hearty facades as the kids began the cleanup campaign to ready the grubby, musty bunkhouse for the week’s activities ahead.
Jess was sweeping between a couple of sets of bunk beds when she stopped suddenly and looked around, wrinkling her nose. Something smelled….
“Aaargh! Lorda-mercy!” squealed Annie, who stood stock still with her broom in midair a few yards away from Jess. “A polecat’s shot his stink off in here!”
The smell was strong, almost debilitating. Jess’s eyes began to burn and it was hard to breathe.
There were other cries and curses flying around, as youngsters and volunteers alike dropped whatever they were doing and raced for the door. Jess was shoved against a bunk, and fell sideways on it, coughing and wiping her eyes.
The crawl space had apparently become the home of one or more skunks—angry, vengeance-seeking skunks.
Jess got to her feet and stumbled to the door, scrambling out with the rest of the victims.
Her eyes were watering like leaky hoses as she looked around. Some of the kids had taken off for the main house, running as if their clothes were on fire.
Well, it wasn’t as life-threatening as fire, but the experience was as horrible in its own way. The rest of the kids were standing around, some wailing, some choking from the stench they were giving off. Annie had to be forcibly restrained from peeling out of her putrid-smelling clothes right there on the lawn.
Jess wiped at her eyes, glaring at the main residence with complete and utter contempt.
“Come on, kids,” she announced loudly, beckoning toward Lucas Brand’s precious, nice-smelling house. “We have to get out of these clothes and get de-skunked.” Heading across the lawn, she muttered, “It’s time to inform Mr. Niceguy he’s about to have some very ripe company.”
6
Jess tramped through the kitchen, where several teenagers huddled, sniveling and grumbling. Members of the Brand staff peered out from around corners, their noses pinched tightly to stave off the foul odor.
Maxim hurried to catch up as Jess trekked across the carpeted grand room. The butler hid his nose behind a white handkerchief. “Perhaps I should announce you, Mrs. Glen,” he suggested through the linen as he rushed to catch up with her enraged pace.
“I don’t imagine I’ll need to be announced, Maxim,” she called back. “He’ll detect me soon enough. Where is he?” She paused long enough in the middle of the great room to glance back over her shoulder. Maxim cast a worried look toward the entrance hall.
“That way?” she asked, heading for it.
“Yes ma’am,” he rasped, pursuing her like a protective mother hen determined to defend her chick. “I really should tell him—”
“Oh, please,” she cut in. “Le
t me surprise him.” She ran a hand, quivering with fury, through her reeking hair. “You said he wasn’t so bad, Maxim. Let’s find out, shall we?”
The butler’s forehead creased with uncertainty but after a few seconds, he indicated the direction with a reluctant nod. “At the head of the hall,” he told her gloomily, “instead of turning right into the foyer toward the main entrance, you turn left. There’s a circular staircase to the second floor. Over the garage there’s a big room—”
“I’ll find it.” She dashed down the hallway toward the mirrored entranceway, then hung a quick left through another set of double doors. Inside was a small carpeted area with a corkscrew staircase that wound tightly up to another level. She took the steps two at a time, in part out of pent-up fury, in part to escape her own stench.
The second landing was simply that. A landing. One window with beige miniblinds looked out over the side yard. A pair of beige upholstered chairs on either side of the window were there no doubt for people stuck cooling their heels, waiting to see Mr. Wonderful, cloistered in his hallowed computer room.
Jess didn’t intend to wait one single second for Lucas Brand. She burst through the door into a long, simply furnished, open room. The walls were white, with white window shades raised to allow the sun in. The pinewood floor gleamed in the spots where it could be seen between the piles and streamers of crumpled computer printouts that were strewn about. This startled her, for it was so uncharacteristic of Lucas.
A man sat at the far end of the room. Jess couldn’t be one-hundred-percent sure it was Lucas because his head was almost completely hidden by an oversize helmet of some sort with a protuberance at the front. A Donald Duck space helmet came to mind. Wires connected to the back of the headgear led to computer equipment that was beeping, flashing and purring in a semicircle about him.
