by Elsa Kurt
“Is…everything all right, Miss Maxwell?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, Griff. And call me Jenna. It’s weird for staff to be so formal with each other, isn’t it?”
Griff coughed into his hand and Jenna could swear she saw that smirk again, but Griff merely nodded and said, “Of course…Jenna. Why don’t you get settled and freshen up? Tilly has lunch prepared in the main house. Come in through the French doors over there,” he pointed to a set of four doors, recessed beneath a grapevine twined pagoda, “and she’ll take care of you.”
“Thanks. Hey, Griff? You never answered my question. What’s the boss like? Nice? Or snooty?”
Griff looked up, tapped his chin, and said, “I would say that I find the boss to be delightful. Charming, as well.”
Griff strolled away and disappeared into the main house, leaving Jenna to ponder his assessment. Charming, hmm? I’m guessing somebody’s got a crush on the boss. Well, none of my business. Jenna strolled along the pool to her new digs. For the first time in a while, Jenna didn’t have to cast constant, furtive glances over her shoulder.
Griff
Griff watched Jenna from the kitchen. Phillip’s surveillance photos had shown that she was pretty. However, in person, she was striking. Griff had lied earlier when he said he’d fallen asleep against the tree. He’d been observing her as she exited the bus, noting every detail. She’d seemed colt-like, with her long legs and round brown eyes and skittish, halting gait. He cursed himself under his breath. You fool, she’s a woman, not one of your horses. He’d hesitated too long, and their introduction had been awkward, to say the very least. Griff had let her believe that he was a hired hand with only the smallest twinge of guilt. He needed her to be unguarded. If she knew he was the elusive ‘boss,’ then she’d censor her words and behavior.
From behind him came Tilly’s broken dialect. “Don’t know why you hire her if you going to watch her every move like a criminal. For what? She looks like a sweet girl. Your private investigator say so, no?”
Griff sighed and gave Tilly a caustic look. “Tilly, you do realize this house alone holds millions of dollars in art. Never mind the horses. Or the wine cellar. Everyone who works for me gets vetted. And yes, Phillip said she seems clean.”
“So why is that a problem? You think she will steal precious dogs? Maybe she takes your Picasso under her skinny chicken arm or put in her small bag.” Tilly laughed heartily and slapped her ample thigh.
“He also said there was nothing on her. Her paper trail leads to dead ends. No history. Her certificate is a fake. She paid her rent in cash.”
“Again, so why you hire this girl?” Tilly, a full head shorter than Griff, tried to peek out around him.
Because Grace would have wanted me to.
Everything about her was a red flag. Yet, when he pulled the glossy eight by ten photographs of Jenna Maxwell from the manila envelope, a small, familiar voice whispered in his brain, give her a chance. It was the voice of his wife, Grace—lover of strays and misfits, a heart of gold, gone from him and this world six years. Grace would’ve taken one look at that young woman in those pictures and seen someone in desperate need. He could see it. It was in the way her narrow shoulders hunched, her side glance and tight expression caught frozen in the camera’s eye. The baseball cap pulled low in another. Phillip said she was hard to photograph, her head was nearly always down. Why, Miss Maxwell? The photographs, of course, never answered. So, he did the most impractical and illogical thing he’d ever done and hired her. His mind drifted back to the evening he received her first email.
“Thank you, William. Please let Tilly know I’ll be dining in my office this evening.”
“Of course, Mr. Pierce. I’ve forwarded all the pre-screened charitable donation requests to Mrs. Pierce’s email address, as you requested.”
William—Griff’s assistant—hesitated briefly before saying Mrs. Pierce. Griff pretended not to notice. There was no hiding that it was a difficult day at Averly Estates for everyone but for him most of all. It marked what would have been Grace’s fifty-second birthday. It was some consolation to know how deeply she’d been loved by all who knew her, however, it did not entirely lesson the bitterness with which he marked this unfortunate anniversary.
“Very good, William. See that I’m not disturbed, please.”
After William had deferentially closed the heavy doors, Griff sighed. “Well, Gracie. Who shall we be donating to this year?”
Grace Averly Pierce was renowned and beloved for being an exceptionally kind soul, one who always saw their astronomical wealth as a means to help others. She had founded numerous charitable organizations; all which Griff still ran and had William oversee in her honor. There were plenty of ‘people-related’ charities she’d helped over the years, but the majority were animal welfare foundations, rescue organizations, and the like. In fact, several of their own horses were rescues. Grace had grown up an impoverished but fervent animal lover, and her too-large heart had always beat most strongly for any and all four-legged creatures.
He accessed Grace’s emails, alighting on one dead center of the screen. The Machi Foundation. For no particular reason, he opened it. It was as if Grace’s hand had guided his, for when he read the details, he was shaken by the similarities. This man—Simeon Breitenbach—had experienced a loss, not unlike his own and had chosen to honor his beloved’s memory with a charity in her name.
When Griff realized the fundraising event was occurring at that very moment, he quickly reached for his phone and called the number.
“Hello. This is Griff Pierce—yes, son, that Griff Pierce,” he chuckled, “and I’d like to donate five million dollars to the Machi Foundation. No, son, our connection is just fine. You’re quite welcome. My assistant will be in touch tomorrow.”
Griff hung up, feeling something of the satisfaction that he imagined Grace would’ve. No one loved giving more than she had. “Now, what’s next, Gracie? Forty-seven million to go. But to whom…”
An email notification popped up just then. It’s subject line, one word, all in cap-lock—INTERESTED—followed by several exclamation points.
“What on earth,” Griff muttered as he clicked on the message. Again, it had to be the spirit of Grace guiding him, because normally a subject line like that would grant the sender a trip to the trash or spam folders.
His bafflement switched to amusement. It was a response to the advertisement for the dog behaviorist position. The very first one, at that. The message volleyed between professional and, well, desperate. Griff made a mental note of each given resume bullet point, and the omissions. Several years’ experience—but no exact number. Her references all had different area codes. No mention of current address, other than New York City. At the end of her email, she included a grainy webcam photograph of herself. It was—in her words—so you could see that I’m normal. Griff clicked on the image. The young woman did indeed look…normal. At least as far as a grainy, web-cam taken photo can show. Even in such a poor-quality picture, there was something about her eyes. He was drawn to them. In the background was the unmistakable expanse of a public library.
Unsurprisingly, he found himself wondering what Grace would do. It was entirely opposite of what Griff would do. In the end, he compromised by deciding to give the girl a chance—as Grace would’ve—but he also put Phillip on her as well. A man of his position does not simply hire someone off the street, after all…
“I—here she comes.” Griff jumped away from the doors like a child caught stealing, bumping into the broad bosom of his cook. He ignored Tilly’s arched eyebrow and motioned her to hurry back into the kitchen. He followed behind her, shuffling and moving side to side in an attempt to go faster than what her thick ankles would permit.
“Hurry up,” he hissed uncharacteristically.
“What has gotten into—hello, Miss Jenna! Come here to kitchen. I feed you.” Tilly had switched gears so quickly that Griff blinked several times at her. She glan
ced at him, then looked away again, lifting a sparse grey eyebrow and thrusting her chin in Jenna’s direction.
“Yes, do come in Miss Max—Jenna.”
“Thanks, I’m starving,” said Jenna as she closed the French door behind her. Griff watched as she took in the vast kitchen. He looked around as well, attempting to see the room as she might. From the dark Macassar ebony floor to the ivory colored ten-foot island housing a deep copper sink and four burner gas stove top in its gleaming rainforest brown marble, to the matching ivory cabinets and their copper accents. His eyes fell on the armoire style refrigerator—La Cambusa, it was called—then the French stove. Then his ocean blue eyes returned to Jenna.
Her expression gave nothing. If Jenna was impressed or appalled by the grandeur, she gave away not an ounce of emotion. He continued to watch her, and Tilly continued to watch him. Then, no doubt feeling their eyes on her, Jenna smiled brightly at them both, waiting for…
“Ah, yes! I should formally introduce you. Jenna, this is Tilly—cook extraordinaire—and Tilly, this is Jenna, our new behaviorist.”
“Is nice to meet you, Miss Jenna. Come, now. You need meat for your bones, skinny girl.” Tilly tsked and motioned to a chair at the far end of the island, opposite to Griff. She eschewed that offering and sat beside him. She nudged him with her elbow.
“Hey, Griff. Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Thought maybe you were heading out,” said Jenna. The moment Jenna had said his name, Tilly dropped a dish into the deep sink. “You okay, Tilly?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Miss Jenna. I never hear anyone call Mr.—”
“Tilly, could I have a cup of coffee?” Griff blurted. Both women stared at him a moment. He cleared his throat, then added, “Please.”
“Of course, Griff, Tilly said. “Is there anything else I get for you, Griff? Tilly wore an imperious grin, daring Griff to say something. He smiled pleasantly at her, then at Jenna. Tilly’s smile dropped, but her eyebrow did not. She turned away and prepared a French press for him with a snort.
He could see Jenna trying to puzzle out the strange exchange, but he offered no explanation. Griff wasn’t ready for her to know that he was the owner of the grand house and not just an employee. “I was going to leave, but then Tilly told me she was making some of her great Polish dishes. I couldn’t resist.”
“Cool. So, where’s the rest of the staff? A place this big must have at least a dozen people running around day and night making sure everything is perfect for the master. Let’s see, I’ll bet there are at least eight bedrooms, all—or at least most—with fireplaces. What, like, half a dozen bathrooms? Indoor pool?” She nodded, and answered her own question, “Yes, definitely an indoor pool. Sauna too. A solarium, no doubt.” She pronounced ‘solarium’ in a haughty English accent.
Griff studied Jenna a moment longer, took a sip of coffee, set his mug down carefully, then said, “Ten bedrooms, four with fireplaces. Seven bathrooms. A wave pool—for exercise—no sauna. There is indeed a solarium, as well as a greenhouse. Then there is the library, the den, the great room, the dining hall, the…master’s office. Am I forgetting anything, Tilly?” His eyes remained on Jenna, hers on him. Small smiles touched their lips. They were flirting, he realized with surprise.
“No, Mr. Griff. I think, no. Here is food. Eat now.” Tilly set the china down on the marble top with a sharp clank, ending the banter. They ate in silence, but for the sounds of running water in the sink as Tilly cleaned up. He felt Jenna’s eyes on him periodically but pretended to be unaware.
“How old are you, Griff? If you don’t mind my asking, that is,” asked Jenna guilelessly.
Griff took his time in answering, pausing to wipe his mouth with the French blue linen napkin that Tilly had set beside his plate. He looked at her then, wanting to see her expression when he told her, “I’m fifty-four, Jenna.”
Jenna’s gaze dropped from his eyes to his firm, unsmiling mouth, then up again to his cobalt blue eyes with their deep creases at the corners, to his hair—now with more grey and less black than ever before—and said, “Hmm. I’d have guessed forty-five.”
Griff wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He blinked at Jenna, suddenly realizing that he’d yet to say anything. He muttered a jumbled, “Ah, well, I—thank you, Jenna.”
She shrugged. “I’m twenty-five. I always looked younger than my age, though. I used to hate it when my moth—”
She stopped. Her face paled. He suspected she was about to say, ‘My mother would always say, enjoy it now, someday you’ll wish for it.’ His own mother used to say something similar about enjoying the freedom of youth because the burdens of adulthood—the burden of the Pierce name—would come soon enough.
A young, gangly man burst through the French doors. “Hey, Tilly, whatcha—oh! Mr. Pierce. I—I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t be silly, Michael, come in, eat your lunch. Jenna, this is Michael, our stable groom and resident horse whisperer. Michael, this is Jenna, behaviorist for the dogs.” Griff turned to Jenna and said, “Shall we see the dogs now?”
“I’d love to.” Then to Michael, “Hello, Michael, nice to meet you.” Michael’s slightly bulging, pale blue eyes flicked back and forth between Jenna and Griff. His mouth opened and closed, once, then again. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Michael, come. Wash hands and eat.” Tilly saved the young man from his almost painful awkwardness. He skittered past Griff and Jenna with a funny sidestep, looking down as he passed Jenna.
Once outside, Jenna laughed and asked Griff, “What was that all about?”
“Oh,” Griff chuckled low, “Michael gets tongue-tied around pretty girls, is all.” He realized the inappropriateness of what he’d said a moment too late. He rushed over it with, “Let’s go introduce you to the dogs.” He led the way to the kennels, feeling Jenna’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, and cursing himself under his breath.
A moment later, Griff was sliding open a tall barn door and waving Jenna inside. The moment they stepped in, four immense dogs trotted over to greet them. Griff’s face broke into a huge smile as he clapped and called out, “There are my boys! C’mon and say hello to your new friend. From left to right—this big fella is John Wayne, next in line is—sit down, boy—is William Powell, then there’s Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart.” Seeing Jenna’s amused expression, he shrugged and added, “The boss is an old movie buff, what can I say? The females and their pups are separate for now. We’ll say hello to them after we spend a little time with the boys.”
Griff watched Jenna’s reaction to the boys. Even the most dog-friendly tended to take a step back when the dogs approached—each weighing at least one hundred and twenty pounds—but Jenna stepped forward, a grin as wide as Griff’s on her face, and greeted each Irish Wolfhound by name.
“Well, hello, John Wayne. I’m guessing you’re the oldest, huh, boy?” Jenna looked to Griff for confirmation, and he nodded, a sad look in his eyes. She gave him a sympathetic nod in return. Cary Grant’s wet black nose nuzzled insistently into Jenna’s hand, and she chuckled as she gave in to his demand for affection, stroking his tan pate and scratching behind his floppy ears. “Oh, and you are the needy one, aren’t you, Mr. Grant?” She leaned in close and stage-whispered, “Well, don’t tell your brothers, but you just may be my favorite.” Cary Grant licked her face in response.
William Powell and Jimmy Stewart waited impatiently for their turns, their long, whip-like tails wagging with wide sweeps. All but Cary Grant were variations of black and tan, although John Wayne—much like their owner—had turned more grey than black in his advanced years. They were all nearly the same height and weight, with William Powell being the largest, weighing in at one hundred and forty-five pounds of pure love.
After a few minutes of watching Jenna with the dogs, he cleared his throat and said, “Now that you’ve met the boys, shall we say hello to the girls and their pups?”
“I’d love to. The emails hadn’t mentioned puppies. How
old are they?”
“Ah, yes. The litters weren’t born at the time. They are one week and twelve days, respectively. Come along.” Griff sent the boys outside and led Jenna to the far end of the kennel to two spacious, climate-controlled stalls. Classical music played softly through wireless speakers tucked discreetly in the ceiling corner. He introduced her first to Kate Hepburn and her litter of three males and one female. After that, she could meet Myrna Loy and her litter of two males and two females.
“So, the boss named all the dogs for famous movie actors? I can imagine why.” Jenna smirked and knelt to where Kate Hepburn lay with her pups, letting the huge, docile dog check her out before she reached out a hand to stroke a puppy.
“Indeed, they are,” he replied stiffly. He had no idea what she meant by that, but Griff was not accustomed to teasing tones from anyone other than Tilly. And his wife, of course. When she was alive to do so.
It seemed Jenna was astute enough to realize she’d caused offense, and quickly said, “Oh, I’m not making fun of the names—I love them, actually. I’ve seen every Cary Grant movie ever made, I think. It’s just, well, you look like a—” Jenna blushed then her brow furrowed. “Wait. What are you exactly? I mean, like, what’s your job title?”
Here was the moment. Griff could either confess that he was G. Pierce, her erroneously assumed female ‘boss,’ or continue the charade a bit longer. He was saved by Michael, who stamped in on his big heavy feet. He was whistling an unrecognizable tune, and the four dogs trotted and wagged around him, nearly tripping him.
“C’mon now, you guys. Sometimes I think you’re trying to trip me on pur—oh! Sorry, sir, I didn’t, I mean, I thought—”
“Quite all right, Michael. We’ll be gone shortly, then the kennels are all yours for the day. Unless Miss Maxwell would like to stay on after I’ve left.” He deferred to Jenna, but she seemed to have forgotten all about Griff and was lying down beside Kate Hepburn and her litter, stroking the large dog’s pointy dome and murmuring soft words to her. “Miss Maxwell? Jenna?”
