by Pauline West
“No, dude, they’re long distance or something,” she said.
“But… if you knew he was married, why did you get so upset?” I said, instantly regretting it.
Hazel’s face closed off. “I already feel shitty about it. Let’s talk about something else.”
She looked around at my apartment as if seeing it for the first time. Her eyes seized on the photograph on my bookshelf.
It was one of my favorite pictures in the entire world.
Me and Steve running into the ocean. We’re holding hands and sun-drenched, laughing, and I’m looking over my shoulder at the camera. You can just make out the color of my eyes, and they match the brightest points in the splashing waves.
When I think of home, I think of that photograph. Home isn’t really about place, you know. Home is a feeling.
“Tell me about your dad,” Hazel said.
A couple years ago just that word, “Dad,” would have made me flinch. I’d never really had a dad until Steve came along. I was seventeen and a half by then, almost to the day. I still get the shivers when I think how long it took for me to warm up to him.
Because what usually happened for me in the foster system went something like this:
I’d get a placement somewhere. I’d do my best to fit in, but somehow I never could. And so I kept having to start over with one ‘family’ after another. One school after another. Like I said, I’d buried my heart deep, but it still stung every time I got cycled. What was so wrong with me that no one wanted to keep me?
I was three when I first got dumped into the foster system. The cops had found me on a raid, an unexpected Easter egg tucked out back of a drug den. My parents got busted; I got sent straight to hell.
See, most people want to adopt a baby as young as possible, so there’s less risk the kid has picked up “bad habits”, especially when siblings are involved. Which I can understand, I guess. It’s sort of the same theory that goes into adopting a puppy instead of a full-grown dog. (Although I’ve promised myself that if I ever get a dog, I’m going to march up to the desk and ask for the one who’s been locked up there the longest, and give her the best life a dog could have.)
Anyway, I wasn’t a baby. I was three, and I couldn’t bring my heart out for show and tell on command, like my pretend mommies and daddies wanted me to. Once or twice a wife even got weirdly jealous of the attention she thought her husband was giving me.
So they’d always end up recycling me back into the system, hoping for someone who was a little bit ‘easier’. A sweet little girl who’d let them braid her hair, maybe. Who giggled and came up with cute questions, and could say “I love you” back. Like a parrot.
Yeah. I was missing that piece.
But Steve was missing a piece, too. His wife had died young, from breast cancer. You know about swans and foxes, how they mate for life? Steve was like that. He had absolutely zero interest in other women after he lost his Charlotte.
But here’s the thing. Steve and Charlotte didn’t have kids. And he really, really wanted one. Steve always says that the first time he saw my photograph, he knew I was his daughter, and from that moment until I was standing on his porch with my bag in my hand he had his heart in his mouth.
Steve believes I’ve always been his daughter. That we were meant to find one another on earth. I don’t know. It’s pretty to think so.
Hazel was still waiting for her answer. “Tell me about your dad.”
“He likes hot dogs,” I said.
She almost spit her coffee out. “Wow- what! “He likes hot dogs,”- haha, well, my dad does, too. I’m just asking because, you know, Beren kind of said something, and I wondered what it was like for you. Before he came along and things got better, you know.”
“I was used to it,” I said, shrugging. “You want some breakfast?”
Hazel followed me into the kitchen. “Marilyn Monroe was in the foster system, too, right? When she was called Norma Jean.”
“Yeah,” I said, carefully, knowing Hazel meant well. “And people think that maybe that was maybe why she became so...Marilyn? You do hear about that happening to kids in the system. They get touched, or they’re trying their hardest to please their new parents however they know best. It wasn’t like that for me, though. I just kept my head down, you know? And Steve-” I looked at Hazel and realized she’d brought up Norma Jean to draw me out about him. I grinned at her. “Geez, you should be a therapist or something,” I said.
“Maybe.” She winked. “Maybe I already am.”
“You should be.” I nudged her playfully. “I don’t know, Steve really went out of his way to make sure I knew his home was my home, too. I mean, he had clear rules and expectations, but he knew how to give me my space, and he just- when Steve decides he loves somebody, I mean, he would lie down in the road for them if he thought it would help.”
“So Steve sounds awesome.”
“Yeah. He is.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s a firefighter. It was great because he always had these long stretches of time off, and we’d go on long road trips together. Greasy spoons, hiking, campfires, you know. The whole thing, just wandering around, seeing stuff. It’s nice to be able to relax and be yourself around somebody, and know that they’ll love you no matter what you do. Even when they get upset about a bad grade or missing curfew, they just- care. They don’t stop caring when you disappoint them.” I smiled to myself. “He saved me in a lot of ways. I mean, he’s the kind of dad where you can go and sit on the porch together, and maybe he doesn’t even really say much at all, you know? But just being there with him and thinking out loud, all of a sudden you can figure all this stuff out you never would have been able to on your own. He brings out the best in people. Because he makes them feel safe. He’s my fucking hero.”
“He sounds hot. A firefighter, huh…?”
I laughed. “Right, I forgot you’re into older men. But he’s taken,” I said. I didn’t mention that Charlotte was dead, though.
“Too bad.” Hazel lay back again, twiddling with the bathrobe. “Dude, I don’t know if you even noticed, but all the good guys in Charleston? Married. Everybody who’s single has Peter Pan syndrome, or else they’re Major Malfunction. And to make things worse, it’s a 3:1 ratio, girls to guys.” She glanced at me sideways. “Remember what you said to me when we first met?”
“Uh, that I liked your hair?”
“No, dude, although that was quite awesome as well. I was slobbering over some rando dude, and you couldn’t see what I was so hot and bothered about. You said you just didn’t think that way- that it made everything so much easier, because you could get tons of stuff done?”
I didn’t remember saying that.
“Well, I thought it was the coolest,” Hazel said. She looked down at her phone. “Hey, Vanessa says for you to pick up your phone, she wants you to pick up a shift. Someone’s asking for you specifically.” She tipped her head thoughtfully. “Huh. Never heard of that happening before.”
“When?”
“Later today,” Hazel said, still studying her phone.
“Tell her I’ll do it,” I said, without thinking. That was something Steve taught me- never pass up a restroom, or a chance to make scrilla. “Scrilla,” that’s what he called money. “Always save up for a rainy day,” that was one of his corny Dad sayings. I loved them.
“Seriously, you sure?” Hazel said, even though she was already texting Vanessa back.
“I mean, why not…”
She shrugged elaborately. Too late, I noticed the sneaky grin that had threaded across her pretty face. “Oh, I dunno… because it’s at the Calhouns?”
========== Chapter 3 ==========================================
I went stiff as a board, light as a feather.
“What?” I said. “You’re kidding!”
“Too late, I already told her yes!” Hazel danced away, holding her phone high above
her head, laughing as I tried to gra
b it from her. “Haha, go on, Lily, just take the shift! What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Exactly!” I said. “What’s the worst that can happen- my life is ruined?”
“Oh, fft, that’s not true. You can handle anything. Hey, you got any cereal or anything? I’m dying here, practically wasting away. Feed me already, sheesh.”
Somehow, at Divine Catering everyone already knew about Hazel’s little misadventure. Later, Beren swore up and down that he hadn’t said anything, and I thought again about what he’d told me about Charleston being just a tiny town. News traveled fast.
Another reason I needed to be careful around Ry.
Chef was the most relaxed I’d ever seen him. He wasn’t even working, just hanging out in the kitchen while the baker put together a tray of frozen cookie dough for me.
“We got all kinds of flavors,” he said, ticking them off on his thick fingers, “snickerdoodles, chocolate chip, red velvet, macadamia nut… you listening, Lily? It’s okay, doesn’t matter, because this shit is so easy a robot could do it. You’re in, you’re out. Bake the cookies at 350 for 8-10 minutes, let them cool on the tray for a couple minutes more. Scrape em onto the serving platter their butler will have ready for you, and you’re good to go. Just do a couple rounds for them, pace it a little, and when you’re all done come back here. You can leave the dishes for the dish dogs, too.” He looked at me expectantly, and I knew I was supposed to thank him for paying me to do the easiest work ever.
I could hardly nod.
Chef clapped a lobster red hand heavily on my shoulder and squeezed it. I could smell his cigarettes. “Kiddo, you’re all beat up, huh? Lemme tell you something I wish someone had told me. You are the sum of the five people you spend the most time with.” He waggled his finger in my face. “Hazel’s not a good influence, all right? I know, you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do.”
Finally I looked at him. “I think you’re wrong. Hazel’s great. She just feels things more deeply than most people do, and frankly, that’s something I admire.”
Chef gave me a weird look, tweezing me with his eyes. For a moment I wondered if he’d get angry. Suddenly, he threw his hands up, laughing. “All right, all right, whatever. Get your cute butt out of here. And take a smile with you!”
I loaded the van, thinking about what he’d said. I thought Hazel probably used sex as a way to understand people. But did that make her a bad person, a bad influence? It wasn’t as though being promiscuous was contagious.
I shook my head. Oh well. Hazel was good in my book.
As I closed the doors on the neatly stacked trays of frozen cookie balls, I shook my head, amazed at the expense the Calhouns were willing to pay just so they didn’t have to pour their own drinks or pop sweets into the oven. It seemed strange, almost less human somehow. Or maybe they believed they were spreading their wealth around. I could think of it like that instead.
Why couldn’t their butler do it?
Because the whole thing was fish-bait, I realized.
An excuse for a certain spoiled little rich boy to see me again.
I rolled my shoulders nervously, hoping I was wrong. Because if Ryland Calhoun was insistent on having me… I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to resist him.
The mansion was quiet when I pulled up. I couldn’t decide if that made me feel better or more nervous. I unloaded the trays, closing the van door with my hip, and went to the side entrance as I’d been instructed.
Their butler was a neat little man with a pink face and expensive shoes. He opened the door before I had figured out how to knock without putting down the trays of cookies.
“Perfect, you’re here,” the butler said, smoothly. It was the perfect butler voice. Were there boys who spent their lives dreaming how to become the perfect butler when they grew up? Maybe he’d been one of them.
Just then, a carriage full of tourists went by in the street, the horse’s hooves clopping merrily on the cobblestones. I smiled up at him sunnily, feeling for a moment like I’d stepped back in time.
“I’m Geordi,” he said, “Miss Lily, follow me please.”
I followed him into the hush of the house. I smelled fresh laundry and furniture wax, and the dim golden light through the lead glass of the windows calmed me down in spite of myself.
This was nice.
Geordi led me to a kitchen that was different from the one we’d used for the reception the night before. This one was on the second floor, not very big. Everything was industrial-chic and tasteful. And so clean it looked as if it had never been used.
“Does anyone ever cook in here?” I said, placing the cookies into the fridge. It was empty except for a magnum of champagne and an unopened jar of organic cherries.
Geordi looked surprised. “Of course. Occasionally Mrs. Calhoun amuses herself. Guest chefs come to the house. There are events… now, follow me please. This is the room where the guests will be served. This is the smoking room; tonight will be just the gentlemen. Their bourbon is here, cigars will be here, and you are to place the cookies here. All right?”
“Great,” I said.
“Very good.” Geordi escorted me back to the little kitchen, tapped on the door twice in farewell, and then was gone. I could tell he took pleasure in anticipating needs and being unobtrusive.
And, I thought, as I pre-heated the oven, the Calhouns probably paid him well enough that he could even have a butler of his own at home, if he wanted.
It was a funny thought. Russian nesting butlers.
I dawdled around the kitchen, unable to resist pretending it was mine. I ran my hands along the beautiful counters, over the stove top. But my mind had turned inward. I was remembering the rooms Geordi had led me through on the way to the sitting room. The antiques everywhere were fabulous, and just a little bit shabby, which one of my fake moms had told me was the sign of real money. For people with real money, she said to me seriously, as if it were a mathematical rule, it is more important for things to be of the very best quality and to have a long personal history, a patina of heritage-
Her voice in my head was like a mosquito’s whine. I tuned it out, arranging cookies on the baking tray. What I really wanted to think about was the huge oil painting I’d seen on the wall.
A family portrait. Two kids, a mom and a dad. It had probably been painted ten years ago, and it was the very formal, old fashioned kind of painting, but you could already see how beautiful the little girl was going to grow up to be. They looked like the pieces to a Stepford family chess set, everyone wearing sweaters and matching side parts in their smooth, wavy brown hair. And the little boy. Of course, the little boy…
Apparently, even when Ry was just a kid there was something magic about his eyes, that way he had of holding himself.
How could anyone not fall in love with him, that was the question? It would almost be an art… learning to resist Ryland Calhoun...
I opened the oven and slid the cookies in, clicked on the timer. And then I began to feel a curious awareness tickling all along my body. As if I’d been magnetized.
I turned, knowing instinctively who I’d see standing in the doorway.
Ry leaned there, watching me. He was completely still. Then that maddening one-sided smile flicked upwards at the edge of his lips. He wore a simple, threadworn white tee shirt that looked soft and invitingly snug against his sexy body.
I wanted to rip his pants off.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Ry said, in a low voice. The sound of his voice was electric- my breasts sharpened instantly. I turned away, embarrassed already at my lack of control around him. My lingerie stroked me teasingly, making things even worse.
I ached for him to touch me.
“We aren’t meeting. I’m working,” I said, trying to sound cool and indifferent, even as the X- rated images began to flash up on the screen in my mind. “Listen, it’s sweet, whatever it is you’re trying to do, giving me some extra hours or whatever. But I’m not interested in you
, ok?”
But I still couldn’t meet his eyes for fear that I’d give myself away.
“You know something, Lily?” Ry said, striding across the kitchen. He slid easily between me and the kitchen counter. “Anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar?” he whispered, propping his hand behind him on the counter so that his muscles bulged erotically. For the first time, I noticed the edge of a black tattoo on his bicep.
“I’m not lying…”
A thrill lit through me at Ry’s closeness even as I flinched away from him. My breasts ached for his touch so much that I actually gave a startled cry as I butted up against the kitchen island behind me.
My panties were drenched wet as I looked at him. The heavy strength in his arms. I thought about what he was capable of doing to me, how he could throw me around like a doll, and I could smell my own desire for him.
I realized suddenly he could probably smell me too. Like a dog in heat.
Ry took a step closer, trapping me once more. “You can say all the words you want, but your eyes and your mouth and… the rest of you… are telling me another story.”
Silence cupped around us like the captured roar of a seashell.
He wet his lips and then bit his tongue gently between his teeth, gazing at me hotly. I couldn’t take my eyes off the wet tip of his tongue caught there between his teeth.
“Be honest,” he murmured. “Neither of us has been able to stop thinking about the other since the moment we met.” He raked his hand through his hair, flustered, his face reddening slightly. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m going crazy.”
I shook my head. “Look, let’s get something straight. I had a weak moment the night I met you. But you and I, we don’t live in the same stratosphere, okay? And- you have a girlfriend!”
There. I’d said it. Mostly to remind myself. For a moment the words hung in the air between us like a scarlet banner.
Ry looked confused. “No, I don’t,” he said, finally.
“That blonde girl, last night…?” I prompted.
“Oh. Madison,” he said. “Christ, not you, too.” Ry leaned back against the counter, catching hold of its edge with his hands. He swung forwards slightly, exasperated. “My whole life I’ve been hearing about Madison, how she and I should hook up, get married, blah blah blah. My family loves her, her family loves me. Shit, Madison loves me. She acts like we’re already married! But,” Ry cut one of his hands through the air, “there is no me and Madison. I promise you, Lily.”
