“I would prefer you wear whatever you wish, Sara. I’m afraid I’m not very good at the Lord of the Manor business, probably because I wasn’t raised to it, and also because of my occupation. I do my best work as a member of an ensemble, and I wouldn’t mind the same rules to apply in my home.”
“Excellent. I’ll paint the scenery and design the costumes. As long as I don’t have to stand up in front of an audience,” she said with a mock shiver.
“Ah, just picture them all naked,” he said, his hand raised, fingers outspread.
“Oh, well, that’s what I do on a daily basis. I just don’t get any applause for it.”
“But I bet your patients love you,” he replied, his expression thoughtful.
“Well, I suppose that depends on what instrument of torture I have in my hands when I walk into the room,” she chuckled.
“You haven’t brought any large and sharp needles with you, have you?” he asked, backing up several inches.
“No. They confiscated them at the airport. You’re safe.” Sara laughed at his exaggerated sigh of relief.
She noticed that he was good at this easy patter, bordering on the flirtatious. Sara had always thought that men who had the inborn gift of flirting with humor were much more interesting and intelligent than the ones who had no clue.
Trying hard not to allow her face color to match her red blouse, she sat down at the table and took a bite of the sandwich he placed before her. “Excellent, Mr. Fleming,” she nodded.
“Please. My name is Alex. Don’t forget.”
“Yes, of course.” She lowered her eyelashes, keeping her guilty thoughts to herself. “I’ll try to remember.”
She washed up the few lunch dishes and made her way around the house, writing on a small pad of paper the things that she felt needed immediate attention, and other projects that could wait until later.
They had shared the lunch of his sandwiches, ham on rye with crisps on the side. He had laughed when offering her crisps, she had stared in confusion at the bag. “Oh, chips.”
“No, my dear. Chips are deep fried wedges of potatoes. These are crisps. You are going to have to learn to speak proper English while on holiday here, little Yankee girl.” He had raised his chin in a comical gesture and looked down his nose at her.
“And you will find yourself with a burnt dinner if you refer to me as a Yankee again, sir,” she’d sputtered, nearly spitting out her tea in laughter. “I am a southern girl, and those are fighting words!”
His elaborate eye roll had just made her laugh all the harder and she found herself poking his arm easily at his jokes as they shared their meal.
He had given her some basic instructions on the housework and the daily routine he was accustomed to, but she could tell that he was content to leave the details to her discretion, so now she concentrated on organizing her duties, and feeling out the lay of the house.
A few items of dirty laundry sat in the hamper by the washer and drier, and Sara sorted these and put a load in to start. As she searched for the detergent, she realized that it was on a high shelf over the white washing machine, and knew that her reach would never do it. Goodness, she wondered, how tall is Myrtle?
She looked for a footstool, but finding none, she decided that the only logical solution would be to hike her bottom onto the sturdy washer, with the hope of giving her hand a few more inches of reach. Sitting precariously on the appliance, tongue set between her teeth, she reached above her head and felt the bottle at her finger tips.
“Oh, bloody hell. I suppose I’ll have to rearrange the whole house while I have an elf living here,” he commented with a wry smile, arms crossed, peering at her from the laundry room doorway.
At six foot and two inches, he did tower over her own slight frame, as she had noticed hours earlier. She made a face at him to hide her embarrassment, and then gave a startled yelp as the washer kicked into agitation mode.
He roared in laughter. “My kingdom for a camera,” he sputtered, then ducked as she threatened to pitch the soap bottle in the direction of his head.
He stepped into the room, placed his hands on her sides, lifting her with ease off the appliance and onto the floor, then effortlessly reached up and took the remainder of the cleaning products from the shelf, placing them on a counter closer to her reach. The fact that she had been pressed up against him as he moved her didn’t escape Sara’s notice, and she smoothed the material of her crumpled blouse. For a split second she thought that his coloring too had darkened to just the lightest shade of crimson, so she turned her head away discreetly, and proceeded with her work.
“Sara, I’m pretty useful around the house. You can ask for help, you know.” He gave her an easy smile that she recognized from a number of his films, and her heart lurched in her chest. She had gotten quite used to his presence, her nervousness dwindling by the hour. Then a sudden look or gesture from him would remind her where she was and who she was standing next to, and the reality of the moment would leave her weak in the knees.
“I saw you reading papers in your study and I didn’t want to disturb. But thank you,” she said in an even tone, hoping that her voice didn’t betray her emotions.
“Just so you don’t intend on swinging from the chandeliers to clean the light bulbs,” he muttered as he turned to walk away, “but perhaps I’d better get out the ladder in case you require further rescue.”
“Yes, well I’ll remember that remark when I’m cooking your dinner,” she volleyed the comment back at him, and fluttered her lashes in an expression of innocence when he spun around and met her gaze with an upturned eyebrow.
“Oh, not to worry; I’m known for serving up the finest grits and catfish in the south - just pour on a bottle of hot sauce, and you’ve got the best eatin’ in town.” The dimples in her cheeks deepened as she watched his eyes open wide in horror.
“Woman, I won’t be threatened in my own home,” he growled, and lifting a fencing iron from the hallway wall that she had recognized as a prop from one of his earlier films, raised his arms in a dueling stance and pointed it at her menacingly,
“Oh, well, if you prefer kabobs, why didn’t you just say so?” Sara plucked a large juicy grape from the cluster in the fruit bowl on the sideboard and stuck it onto the tip of the sword. “But if you want my personal opinion, I think it’s a bit too cold to fire up the grill.”
They both broke out in a fit of giggles as the grape drooped, then plopped on the ground at his feet.
Sometime later that afternoon, she stopped by his study and stood in the sunlit doorway, waiting until he looked up.
“You will have to coach me on this one,” she whispered after gaining his attention. “Am I correct in thinking that the English have a ritual called tea time? I don’t know anything about it, but of course, I am loathe to break tradition. Is there something special I should do to prepare for this event?”
He glanced up from his papers, not saying a word for several seconds, then clearing his throat, spoke in a tone of deadly seriousness. “Yes. Do not touch the tea until I’ve given you proper instruction. It’s a very complicated process and you have no clue.”
“Oh, I see. Well then, I await your tutelage.” She bit her lip and curtsied, and turned toward the kitchen.
In a flash he was behind her, hands on her shoulders, guiding her through the hallway and the kitchen until they reached the sink.
“Alright, girl, observe. And learn from the master.” He picked up the kettle from the stove, poured water into it from the sink, and turned on the stove top burner.
“And now we wait.”
He picked up a large potholder in readiness.
Sara blinked twice, and then spluttered, reducing them both to uncontrolled giggles.
“So that is the long held British secret to making good tea?” She hiccupped with laughter. “Filling a kettle and boiling the water?”
“Yes.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, still laughing along with her. “
A tradition carefully guarded from American eyes up until this very day.”
And so it went throughout the afternoon, their jokes, and laughter tinkling throughout the house, now made even cozier with the addition of a fire in the fireplace. Just as she had pictured in her mind earlier in the day, he was the master of the hearth, inserting a dry log, adding another that made the flames crackle and sputter and fill the room with a nostalgic scent. Sara was reminded of warm holidays past, spent with her grandparents in front of a roaring fire at their rustic, lake home in the northern woods of Michigan. Any thread of discomfort that might have been left in her had dissolved, as these distant memories were steeped in feelings of safety and happiness.
By prearrangement, Sara had thawed out four pork chops, and dinner was quite a success by her assessment, even though he had looked at her in mock, wide-eyed disbelief when she had served the chops with fresh baked cornbread.
“Will I be subjected to American cooking throughout your tenure here, Miss Evans?” he had teased.
“Nope.” And with that she had produced a pale and cold English muffin from the refrigerator and put it on a plate in front of him, breaking off a piece of hot, steaming, sweet cornbread for herself, and spreading it with fresh butter.
“Well, if I must. I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings early on then.” He had reached over and snatched the piece out of her hand and wolfed it down greedily, picking up another and adding butter. “Not that I’m enjoying this, mind you,” he stated with an air of nonchalance, taking another large bite. “It’s just a simple act of politeness on my part.”
Dinner dishes finished, kitchen tidied, Sara checked the cleaning products she would need to start her project the coming day. The pantry needed a good scrub, and she prepared a tentative shopping list at that time to pick up ingredients at the market for the few decent specialty dishes that she was good at cooking. She had included her recipe file in her suitcase and felt comfortable enough to consider serving a few meals that she had become rather proficient at over the years.
“Um, Alex, before I retire to my room, would you mind telling me where the nearest food market is located from here? I have a few items I’d like to stock up on sometime this week.” She stood in the inviting warmth of the living room, kitchen towel in hand.
He looked up from the book he was reading, legs crossed in the large reclining chair.
“Oh, yes, I suppose you are ready to retire - long day for you. But I was going to ask you to share a glass of wine with me before you head upstairs. The fire is so nice and cozy, and a little toddy might help you to sleep better.”
“Well, that would be lovely.” She felt her pulse quicken, aware that he was inviting her to spend some off duty time with him. “No, I’m not too awfully tired. The shower and the nap were just the ticket.”
“Excellent!” His smile was wide as he rose from his chair and removed two crystal wine goblets from the tall, oak cabinet in the corner of the spacious living room. “Being as it is your first evening in London, and you haven’t had any down time since you arrived, not to mention the delicious dinner that you prepared tonight, all jokes aside, I thought you might like to just wind down a bit first.”
He approached her and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Myrtle and I often sneak a nip or two in the evenings. Don’t worry; the boss is a nice fellow. He won’t mind,” he grinned.
“Alright, you talked me into it,” she sighed and gave him back the grin. “Would the nice boss mind if I put on my comfy, warm robe and slippers? I’m still trying to get used to this arctic weather of yours.”
“No, not at all. It is colder tonight. The weatherman is predicting an especially cold week. Maybe you will even get to see some of our rare London snow. Perhaps I’d better stoke up the fire good and toasty, and toss on another log or two while you’re changing your clothes.”
She noticed that he pronounced clothes in the proper English way, enunciating the th in the middle of the word. She thought it quaint and lovely and wondered why in America this charming pronunciation had been replaced with the bastardized cloze, a rather lazy and ugly substitute.
Sara climbed the stairs and soon was back, dressed in a pretty new pink robe she had bought just for such evenings. It was leisurely, yet dressy enough for the occasion. Her feet, though, were wrapped in large, fuzzy matching slippers, and he laughed at the sight of her.
“Is that what the modern American girl wears for an evening of good wine and conversation?” He pointed to the pink, cotton-candy fluffed objects on her feet.
“Yes. Victoria’s Secret. Her Deep Dark Secret,” she said with a happy grin, then slipped one off, holding it high in the air, at the same time wiggling the coral painted toes gracing her petite foot. “I wear a small shoe, so I’m not taking any chances. If I lose this slipper at midnight, Prince Charming will have an easier time finding its match.”
“No question there.” His lips parted in his trademark, million dollar smile, and he handed her a glass of ruby red wine.
She curled up on the couch where he indicated that she should sit, and breathed in the scent of the wine.
“Mm. A nice cabernet. This should hit my tired brain hard in about… oh, two and a half minutes.” She stretched her free arm in the air, and stifled a yawn. She was certain now that she was dreaming, since never in a million years would she ever have thought herself capable of yawning in his presence.
They traded quips and banter, and soon settled into easy conversation.
“So tell me about your home. I’ve never been to that part of Florida. Is it true that it is inhabited by alligators and scorpions, and all sorts of wild creatures?” he asked, sipping on his wine, a small, smug smile playing on his lips.
“My home?” she asked, her eyes dancing with a devilish glint. “Well, alright, if you’re certain.” She turned her face to the glowing flames in the fireplace. Clearing her throat, she slipped into an exaggerated southern drawl. “It’s a wild and dangerous land. In the mornings, as I leave my shanty in the Everglades, I have to wrastle a gator or two just to get to my canoe. But it’s not the gators or the snakes that bother me. Mostly it’s the buzzing and the biting of the insects.” She stared up at him in the glow of the firelight. “The insects will drive you mad. That and the Injuns that come around at night and stare into my windows. Thank goodness for the pistol I keep under my pillow. It is the only thing that gives me peace.”
She sniffed and took another sip of the wine. “One thing for certain – it is not a place for soft bellied Englishmen,” she stated firmly, and tossed her head to the side.
“Oh, is that so? Well, it does sound challenging, but rather a bit on the boring side. We Eeeenglish prefer a bit more excitement. I noticed that you had brought along a brochure of the Tower of London.” He was now on his feet, pacing back and forth in front of her, his hands splayed out in readiness to tell his story.
“Alligators? We have no need for alligators. We prefer to entice our ladies into rooms covered with fine, embroidered, damask cloths and rich furs. And then at the end of the day…” he lowered himself to one knee in front of her, and put his hand to her throat, “we put their silky necks onto a stone, and with one great CHOP… ” He shouted the last word as he stared into her eyes.
Sara let out a shriek and a laugh, as he threw his arms around her shoulders and hugged her, then sank into the couch next to her.
His story at once reminded Sara of her nervous approach, entering the temp agency many hours earlier. Had so much really happened to her in the course of one day?
As people do who have found common interests and enjoyable company, they talked without pause, excited to share information, one with the other. Soon the talk turned to music, then art, until Sara realized that he was now about to pour her a third glass of wine.
“No, no!” she protested, holding her hand over the goblet and shaking her head. “This will do for tonight, I’m afraid. My head is swirling a bit already, and I really have to
go to bed. My nice boss won’t be so nice if I oversleep and miss fixing his breakfast in the morning.”
“No need to worry about breakfast. I have rehearsals and other Beekeeper work at the studio very early the next two days, so you won’t see much of me until the evening. They will try to shoot around the Switzerland scenes as much as possible. I’ll eat my breakfast there, after the sun comes up.”
“Ok, but no more wine for me, I’m afraid. One more glass and I’ll be snoring on your shoulder,” she giggled, already feeling the headiness of the alcohol.
“Yes, of course. Selfish of me to keep you up so late, but I was really enjoying the company.”
“In spite of your surprise at finding a bedraggled stranger standing in your house?” she asked, dimple deepening.
“Perhaps because of it,” he nodded, returning her smile.
She awoke to an empty house and the opportunity to think over the events of the past day and night.
The shock of seeing him standing in the doorway of the foyer had been so physically startling, that Sara had felt as though she had grabbed on to a live wire. It was only the fogginess of the jet lag and the lack of sleep that had kept her from a fight or flight response.
“That would have been amusing,” she said, thinking out loud. “Oh no, Judge. I wasn’t on the premises to burgle Mr. Fleming’s home. I was merely screaming and running in panic because… well… because I’m just plain crazy.” She giggled to herself and wondered if ‘burgle’ was a real word.
She unpacked her things, showered, and made a mental list of today’s chores.
She had been surprised to see that her room was spacious and tidy, expecting the much smaller downstairs space that Ann from the agency had described to her. Seeing her confusion, Alex had explained, with almost a look of apology, that this bedroom was reserved for infrequent guests, all the other available rooms in the house being at the present occupied for storage. Myrtle had never required the onsite unit, and he had filled it with a vast variety of theater paraphernalia: scripts, props, costumes, assorted trunks filled with whatever, assorted cameras, binoculars, and boxes upon boxes of books, large and small.
Don't Tell the Moon Page 3
