“Ms. Evans!” She heard the girl’s voice in her head as she pictured the receptionist’s mouth set in a disapproving frown. “This certainly changes matters. Under no circumstances can we allow a wild-eyed fan to enter Mr. Fleming’s premises: Unacceptable!”
This thought made her break out in a giggle and a snort, and she drew in a deep breath.
“Not to worry,” she answered to the invisible Ann in the silent room. “I will do this job to the very best of my ability, and when Mr. Fleming returns to his home, I will be long gone.”
She ran the palm of her hand along the well worn leather chair that stood just next to the fireplace, the soft brown hide inviting to her fingers. She would not meet him, but already she could feel his presence all around her in this, his home.
She remembered how painful her life had been after Roger’s death. Sara had experienced profound emotional moments, and bouts of severe depression. It was the discovery of Alex Fleming and his amazing work that had touched and soothed her and guided her out of a dark abyss. Now she felt the same comfort standing here amongst his things.
Tired tears welled in her eyes.
‘Stop it Sara,’ she thought to herself. ‘It’s only the jet lag that is making you so emotional. He’s just another human being. Don’t let your weary mind trip out of control. You won’t even meet him, so now it’s time to focus on your job and your holiday plans.’
She sighed. But what were the chances? Things like this only occurred in daydreams.
She would have to call her friends. They wouldn’t believe her luck – would pester her to get them souvenirs before her stay was over. She could imagine the conversation: “Sara! Try and find a lock of his hair… there must be some strands of hair somewhere, maybe in a hairbrush in a drawer!”
Her face flushed at the thought. A gaggle of giggling girlfriends, watching films together and having silly wine-induced conversations seemed perfectly normal thousands of miles away. But now, standing here in the home of a person who was indeed very real… her eyes went to the gently worn patches on the arms of the recliner where his hands had softened the leather with use. A newspaper folded open to the cinema section sat on the small end table next to it, along with the pen that he had used to circle the name of a theater and playing times.
No. Sara vowed to herself that here in his home, she would do everything she could to protect his privacy. Perhaps once she returned to her world, she might share this charmed coincidence with her friends, but even then, she knew that she would preserve the sanctity of his home, and would not reveal any detailed accounting. In her profession as a nurse, she had always been committed to the protection and welfare of her patients. Even though her position here was in a slightly different capacity, she would still maintain her professional regard of his home and property, despite the absence of her “patient”.
“Well, let’s find your room and unpack your toothbrush,” she spoke out in a loud voice, as she often had done when faced with the echoes of an empty house. “Let’s fill this place up with some noise!”
As she walked back toward the foyer to grab the handle on her luggage, she came to a dead standstill.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, silent, looking to her with a quizzical expression on his face.
“OH!” she yelped. “You frightened me, Mr. Fleming!”
“Mr. Fleming? Ah, then I AM in the right house,” he said in a soft voice, his eyebrow still a question mark.
Sara turned a deep, crimson red as she took in the sight of the tall, silver-haired man, whose face she had seen so often on a large movie screen. Although he was not twenty feet tall, his countenance was just as striking in person. The mane of thick hair brushed his forehead and touched the collar of his jacket. His butterscotch eyes gazed directly into hers with warm amusement.
It was the most surreal moment of her life. Bits and pieces of the characters that she had seen in his films flashed through her mind as he turned his face toward her suitcase, scratched his forehead, and revealed his famous profile with a tilt of his chin.
“Yes. I’m Sara,” she finally blurted out, her rattled brain prompting her to take a quick breath before she fainted. “I’m the temp housekeeper they called you about, taking over for Marion, um, Marilyn… oh, darn, I d-don’t remember her name now,” she stammered.
“Myrtle?” he asked, his brow creasing in a slight frown.
“Yes. Thank you. I’m just off the plane and I’m afraid my mind isn’t working very well just yet.” Her hands shook as she lifted one to him in greeting.
“American?” He accepted it and held on for several moments before letting go.
“Yes.”
“Well, that explains a lot,” he said with a playful grin, and with one hand, ushered her into the kitchen and sat her down at the heavy wooden table, pulling out a chair for himself across from hers. “Now tell me, where is Myrtle, why are you here, and who was it that supposedly called me?”
“Oh, no!” Sara’s face burned from embarrassment. “I was told that you would be informed of my assignment before I arrived. The lady at the agency, Ann I believe it was, called and left a message for you while I was there.” She all but stuttered with the explanation, now realizing that he had entered his home and confronted a total stranger.
He nodded, indicating his acquaintance with Ann of the overlapping teeth, which did little to relieve her anxiety.
“Your housekeeper is in the hospital having suffered a stroke last night. I flew in from America just this morning and stopped into the agency while waiting on my hotel room to be prepared.” Her hands were clutched together in a tight fist from her nervousness. “I had registered with them as a temporary housekeeper several months earlier. They sent me directly here to take her place. But if you didn’t know any of this then you must have thought I was… a burglar or something.” Her cheeks radiated color as the words spilled from her lips, like water gushing from a burst dam.
“Burglars don’t normally travel with luggage,” he remarked, a hint of humor in his voice, “or have their own set of keys.” He jangled the brass key chain that Sara had left on the table in the foyer. “I feel fairly certain that your story will check out.” He patted her hand in an effort to calm her. “Now, Sara, is it? Let me call the hospital to check on Myrtle, and then we’ll figure out what to do about you.”
He stood up and dialed his cell phone, walking over to the kitchen counter as he did so, and pressed the button on a large silver BUN coffee maker which at once started to hiss and sputter and deliver a dark brew into the pot below. As if in a trance, Sara watched him step over to the cabinet and retrieve two coffee mugs, fill them, and place one in front of her, while all the time speaking in brief sentences into the mobile he held to his left ear. He was wearing plain blue jeans and a heavy zippered sweater-jacket, which he shrugged off with some difficulty during the phone conversation and the coffee making process, revealing a caramel colored tee shirt beneath. His face, rather tan, belied the stark winter season that was revealed from the window over the kitchen sink.
“Yes, Kate. Please send flowers to the hospital; a nice arrangement, perhaps tropical. Myrtle is always talking about her parrot and wanting to visit Jamaica, so she might enjoy something colorful and warm.” Sara caught his last sentence, and guessed that he was giving directions to a secretary or assistant.
“Now then, Sara,” he turned to address her, “cream and sugar?”
Sara shook her head and smiled, her lips trembling a bit from her nervousness. “No, black is good. Thank you though.” Sara was impressed that she was conversing with him and not fainting. Must be a dream, she thought, her tired brain trying to provide an explanation for this bizarre experience.
“So,” he continued, sliding his tall frame into the chair once more, and spooning a generous heap of sugar into his coffee, “tell me your story again.” He narrowed his eyes, ready to take in the details.
Sara took a sip of the steaming brew he had set dow
n before her and squirmed in her coat, realizing that she was still fully dressed for the outdoors, and the heat of the kitchen was now turning her ears pink. Noticing her predicament, he stood up and held out his hands, motioning for her to remove the garment.
“Thank you,” she murmured, giving him her coat and fanning herself to lower her body temperature. Could this be more embarrassing, she thought, then shrugged it off, reminding herself that he was not privy to her thoughts. He may not even know that she was a fan – the fan - and she thought it best to perhaps keep it that way. Having come to this conclusion, she felt a bit more relaxed.
“You are very kind. I’m afraid we’ve both been put in an uncomfortable situation. You having to come home to a stranger in your house, and me… well… having to be that stranger,” she said, flashing a nervous smile. “I am here on a holiday. I enrolled with the agency several weeks ago desiring to obtain employment in London, a bit of extra spending money to stretch out my vacation.” She hoped her words sounded sincere and truthful, as she was eager to convince him that she had not indeed been breaking into his home.
“I didn’t expect that they would put me to work the first day, first hour of my arrival. But they told me the unfortunate circumstances of your housekeeper, and convinced me to fill in until she could return.” Sara paused in her brief tale and took a small sip of the coffee, her mouth now dry as cardboard, but hoping that in her nervousness she wouldn’t choke on it. “Six weeks was the estimate.”
He continued to observe her speech, eyes serious.
“They insisted that it could be a live-in assignment, and that made it all the more attractive, since I haven’t as yet found permanent residence.”
She now wondered what had made her accept the position with so little guarantee, and frowned at her own words. “I’ve worked for temp agencies a great deal and I know that they often make promises when they are desperate for help. I took them at their word, that this situation was cleared with you. Now I see that obviously it wasn’t.”
She drew in a deep breath and closing her eyes released it, her side of the story now finished. “So if you would be so kind to call a taxi for me, I’ll be on my way. I hope you won’t be too upset with the agency. I’m certain that it was an honest mistake.”
Honest mistake or not, Sara was well aware that the rules in this country regarding positions of home service were much more clearly defined than she was used to in the states. Granted, by way of his successful career, Alex Fleming spent much of his time traveling the world and was perhaps therefore more relaxed in his attitudes, but nevertheless, placing a stranger in his home without his prior consent was in her opinion, a huge blunder on any continent. Their blunder and hers as well, she surmised. She wanted to kick herself for not waiting for proper authorization.
He pursed his lips and took another sip of his coffee.
Sara remained silent not knowing what else to say.
“You must be exhausted. When did your plane arrive from America?” he questioned.
“Oh,” she sighed, the weariness now sinking into her with his words, “about three hours ago. I’ve run from pillar to post, yes,” she said with a small laugh, “and maybe now I should try to find a place to light.”
“I did hear you saying something about your toothbrush,” he said, nodding toward the hallway where they had first confronted each other. “That’s always what I want to do first after a long flight. Brush my teeth.”
“Yes,” she groaned as tired tears filled her eyes. “How on earth do people get used to flying all the time?”
“It helps if you have a private plane. Not much, but it helps some.” He finished the last sip of his coffee and stood up from the table. “Come on, Sara - let me show you to your room. I will wake you in two hours. That’s the only way to do it. A shower and a nice nap, and then get yourself acclimated to the time change.” He took the coffee mug from her hands. “And no more of this right now. You can finish a fresh cup after you awaken.” His tone was firm and experienced.
“Oh…, well…” Sara started.
“Come on girl. Off to bed with you. I don’t want to ruin my live-in house keeper on her first day here.” He took her by the arm and helped her out of the chair. “Your eyes look like two pee holes in the snow, and I’m not certain I can carry you up the stairs if you nod off here at the table.” His almond shaped eyes crinkled at the corners.
“But… ”
“Not one more word!” he raised his voice, and held his finger to her nose.
As they entered the foyer he lifted her suitcase and made his way up the steps. “UGH! I may have been better off carrying YOU, with what you have packed in here!” he laughed.
“Oh, Mr. Fleming, I wish you’d let me do that,” she said, trying to protest, although in her present state, she was having more than enough trouble lifting her own feet.
“Follow me Sara. And you’d better start to call me Alex, because we will be sharing this house for the next six weeks. The location of our set, it seems, has been temporarily blocked from fires raging in the nearby forest, so I am on hiatus from The Beekeeper’s Tale.” He gave her a brief glance. “Are you familiar with the Beekeeper films, Sara?” he questioned, but did not wait for an answer.
The Beekeeper’s Tale was a sequel in a series of films that he starred in, and Sara had seen every one to date. She thought that it might not be the time nor place to tell him that she had memorized much of the dialogue that had applied to his character. Not just yet. His amazing generosity might only go so far, she reckoned - no reason to give him pause regarding her sanity.
Sara smiled to herself as she watched him negotiate the steps with her heavy baggage. She was no longer nervous, feeling quite confident that this entire morning must certainly be a dream. She did have the strangest dreams on airplanes. They weren’t always this nice and she wished that she could stretch it out just a bit longer, but most of all she hoped that she would remember this one when the plane taxied in for a landing.
“Sara. Sara,” a voice of the deepest, most sensuous and luxurious velvet stroked her consciousness. It made her think of mocha coffee with cream – loads and loads of fresh, thick cream, swirling spirals in the warm, brown liquid pool.
“Mm,” she moaned, her eyes still closed, marveling at the glorious dream. It had been of him, but it had been so real. She had even heard his voice.
A light but persistent knocking kept her from drifting back into a deeper sleep. So annoying - was some rude passenger rapping on the seat behind her?
“I know you want to keep sleeping, but the trick is to wake up now, and then your inner clock will be adjusted.” The voice was louder now.
Sara’s eyes flew open and she swallowed hard as she saw him standing in her doorway, his hand tapping a gentle rhythm on the frame.
It had not been a dream.
“I’ve made sandwiches for lunch. That’s the extent of my cooking, I’m afraid, so I’ll hand the chore over to you for the next six weeks,” he said with a grin. “Meet you in the kitchen.”
Sara took a quick mental inventory of her dishevelment, trying as inconspicuously as possible to fluff her hair with her fingertips, hoping at the same time that she hadn’t been snoring or drooling when he had come to awaken her. “Be right there,” she answered in a small, shy voice, although he displayed no discomfiture whatsoever.
She’d showered and crawled into her felt pajamas, certain that for all the excitement, she would not be able to sleep, and that had been the last thought she had remembered. She hadn’t really expected his personal wake up call, quite convinced that he was the leading man in her airplane dream. But true to his word, he had given her two hours of sleep, before his rich, deep voice had seeped into her ears.
She grinned at herself in the bathroom mirror, remembering that in her tiredness, she had almost pulled on her Beekeeper shirt. Large and roomy, she had adopted it as her favorite pajama top. That outfit might have landed her on the front doorstep as Mr.
Fle… Alex (Alex!)… might not have seen the humor in it.
She now pulled on a pair of jeans and a red empire waist-cut blouse with peasant sleeves, brushed her shiny hair to a glow, and applied a touch of mascara and lip gloss. He was used to Hollywood beauties, so there was no sense for her to make an attempt at any lofty goals. But she thought that she didn’t look as bad as she should have, just having awakened from a hard nap.
“Morning.” She blinked and stretched as she reached the kitchen door. “I was waiting for breakfast in bed. At least that’s how the staff in America get treated,” she said with an impish grin on her face, wanting to start off their conversation with a light note to squelch her nervousness.
“Oh,” he laughed and put his thumb to his nose, wiggling his fingers. “I know better! Once the film is finished and the limousines go away, then it’s a boot in your behind and ‘Hit the road Charlie!’”
“Alright,” Sara laughed back. “No pulling the wool over your eyes then.” She walked over to him and held out her hand. “May we try this again, this time with me a bit more composed? Hello. I’m Sara.”
He took her small hand in both of his large ones. “Sara, it is my pleasure. I thank you for cutting your holiday short and coming in to give me a hand. I’ve spoken to the agency, and they filled me in on the particulars.”
His handshake was warm and firm, and tingled to her elbow.
She cocked her head to one side and looked in his eyes. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t tasted my cooking. I’m a full time nurse by occupation, and most of my experience with fine cuisine has been off the plastic trays in the hospital cafeteria.”
“Ah, but on the other hand, you’ll know just what to do if I choke on your food,” he said with a wink.
“Yes, alright,” she laughed, “but while we’re on the subject, perhaps you could fill me in on your other expectations. I was in a fog this morning and wasn’t given any instruction on whether I would be required to wear a uniform during working hours. If so, my apologies - until I have a chance to find a shop, I haven’t anything to wear but my personal clothing.”
Don't Tell the Moon Page 2
