7. Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Kate
At 6:00 in the morning, I awake to a light tapping on my door. I throw on the terry cloth robe my mother had made for me, which was barely big enough to wrap around me. My flannel pajamas are comfy, but too threadbare to be decent.
I am completely unprepared to speak to anyone, let alone the ;ahem; vision that meets my gaze when I open the door. I feel heat rise from my navel to my hairline and possibly invade certain other regions.
Charles Emory stands there in home-office casual. Which is to say, he is wearing a button-down shirt and tie with red plaid pajama bottoms. I try to keep my eyes on his face. Those pj bottoms cling to him, not leaving much to imagination. And boy, is he built! I can see a manly bulge beginning below his flapping shirt tails.
I am suddenly terribly conscious of just how much my old terry robe doesn’t cover, and how thin and possibly revealing my old pajamas are. My face grows even hotter, and I know I’m blushing .
Mr. Emory’s hair is damp, the longish part sticking out in all directions, and he is not wearing a mask. Although from the waist up he looks professional, he also looks flustered and a bit harried.
He holds a pair of slacks away from him in one hand and carries a notebook that has what looked suspiciously like tooth marks in the corner. The incongruity has me speechless for a moment.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“That depends on how you define ‘all right’,” he replies. “Cece is still asleep, the cat anointed my favorite slacks, and the dog ate the phone book.”
I take in this lump of information with as much equanimity as I could manage. But three things come to mind. “You have a cat and a dog? And no other slacks? You are telling me this, why?”
Mr. Emory closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, “I’ve started this off badly. Manuela has called in. There is a novel coronavirus case in her apartment building, and it is on lockdown. Sherry called almost immediately after that and said that her mother has forbade her to leave the house for fear of illness. The front desk called up and let me know that a woman in the hotel portion of this building was taken to the emergency room this morning, so we could be next.” He pauses, then confesses, “I don’t know how to get the stain and odor out of my slacks, or even if they can be washed. I suppose they could be sent downstairs to the laundry, but there’s no one there right now, and I don’t know if they will show up for work.”
My mind blanks for a moment, unable to get past the realization that I am standing in the doorway of my room wearing threadbare pajamas and that my employer is wearing way too form fitting pajama bottoms. More than that, he emits an aroma of Irish Spring and Old Spice, an oddly heady combination that indicates a recent shower. He is what my friend Grace would call “sex on a stick” although I wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
But then his comment about the slacks lands, and I nearly giggle. That is the Charles Emory I remember: demanding and clueless. He is the head honcho of a billion dollar business but can’t figure out what to do about the cat pee on his pants.
Suppressing giggles gets me past the observation that he has broad shoulders, muscular arms, and narrow hips. Those red plaid pajamas do little to disguise the powerful muscles in his legs or the hint of growing tumescence behind the flapping tails of his shirt, or the red flush that is creeping up his neck. It seems that he is embarrassed, too.
I get myself together and go into emergency management mode. “Give me five minutes to get dressed. Do you know how to make coffee?” I use the voice that got part-time daycare workers moving in the right direction.
Mr. Emory blushes even brighter, like a kid caught unprepared for an exam. “No,” he admits. “At least not in a kitchen. I can make camp coffee.”
“I’ll make it,” I say. “Go find the coffee beans, grind, or instant — whatever you have. I’ll be right there.”
I close the door, not quite in his face. I grab my suitcase and pull out campus casual dress — a pair of khaki-colored Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt stenciled with ‘I love trees,’ and sandals. I run a brush through my hair and leave it loose. I could braid it up later.
Just as I am nearly ready to step out the door, my phone buzzed. It is a text from Grace.
Grace: Where are you? James says you won’t be home for a while.
Me: I’m in the penthouse at Agri-Oil.
Grace: The Penthouse? Really? Why ?
Me: Live-in nanny for Cece. Remember Cece? I told you about her.
Grace: The Emory kid? Live-in? Isn’t Mr. Emory recently a widower?
Me: Yeah, but I’m here for the girl. Gotta go. The housekeeper called, and Mr. Clueless doesn’t know how to make coffee.
Grace: Goggly eyed emoji. Ok. Laters
Me: Laters.
Grace always did have the best timing…not.
As an afterthought, I pull my favorite pen out of my book bag and my steno book for taking notes. This sounds like it might be a note-taking session, especially if the housekeeper isn’t going to be available.
I find Mr. Emory bemusedly looking into cabinets. “I can’t find the coffee,” he says. “I know there should be some. It was on the list Manuela ordered.”
I think about the midnight snack he had given me. All easy stuff, mostly from the refrigerator or from a cabinet set up to provide nibbles for a four-year-old. That meant there had to be storage for staples either in or near the kitchen. I look around the layout of the ultra-modern cooking area.
Yes, there. A narrow door beside the refrigerator. I open it and discover a compartment well filled with dry goods. It is spotlessly clean. Each container is labeled and stowed in an order that would group like staples together.
I find sugar, creamer, an electric coffee grinder, three different kinds of gourmet coffee beans, and a can of ground coffee. There is a neat card detailing how to use the grinder, the espresso machine, the drip coffee maker, the cold press, and four more devices that do not sound familiar to me.
“Do you know what kind of coffee you want?” I ask, noticing that there was hazelnut, raspberry, Arabic, and Folger pre-grind .
“Folger,” he says. “That would be easiest, wouldn’t it?” His voice has an apologetic little boy quality to it that touches my heart even though I was prepared to dislike him greatly.
“Yes,” I say. “I saw a drip coffee maker on the counter. We just need to find the filters.”
A quick inspection reveals the coffee filters next to the paper towels, an assortment of boxed tea bags, loose tea, and tea strainers. There are also two whistling tea kettles and four tea sets.
“Who drinks tea?” I ask. Then wished I had not, for Mr. Emory winces as if I’d kicked him in the delicates.
“My wife used to have tea parties with Cece,” he says. “There is a set for each of Cece’s birthdays. I suppose I should get rid of them.”
“No, don’t,” I say quickly. “We can pack them away if you wish, but I think Cece would like to have them when she gets older.”
Mr. Emory leans against the door frame of the pantry. “I suppose you are right. There are some non-caffeinated fruit and flower teas in there that Em would get just for Cece. We should at least keep those out, and a tea strainer and cup.”
“I like tea sometimes,” I say. “Maybe we could get a pot that wouldn’t remind Cece of her mother. Or maybe she would like to keep one set out to use.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says. Then he moves away from the door and looks out the kitchen window. “Maybe we should ask her,” he adds.
This is a side of Charles Emory I’d never seen before. His motto had been more like “Often wrong, but never in doubt.” This man is far less certain of himself. This morning, I can almost feel sympathy for him. He is certainly out of his depth and has no servants and no wife to guide him through troubled domestic waters.
I gather up the filters and pre-ground coffee and soon have the drip percolator going. While it is chugging away, I rummage in the refrigerator, find a large box of frozen waffles, and pop four of them in the large toaster that stands on the counter beside the coffee maker.
After opening and closing a few cupboards, I find a large mug labeled “Boss Fuel,” fill it and set it on the table along with a condiment holder containing sugar packets, creamer packets, and napkins. I follow that up with a plate containing two waffles.
“What do you take on your waffles?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies. “I like them plain.”
I find a smaller, plain coffee mug that I fill for myself. I sit down at the table with the other two waffles.
“Now, tell me what really caused you to get me up before sunrise,” I say.
“I’m going to need your help,” he explains. “I hired you because I need to call employees and clients to talk with them about how the lockdown is affecting them. It upsets Cece to hear me talking with them.”
“I get that part,” I say. “But why so early? Cece isn’t even up yet.”
He runs his hand through his hair. The longish part on top is sticking straight up like a cartoon character. I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing. He is going to have a hard time combing it into order.
“Welllll,” he draws the word out, “As you can see, I’m not very handy in the kitchen. Someone will need to prepare meals, do laundry, and take care of the general cleaning.”
“Whoa, there, cowboy,” I protest. “I signed on to look after your daughter, not to run your household. Even if I wanted to, I’ve got one week of my last semester before starting my practicum still to finish. I need to reserve some time to attend classes online and to complete my coursework. ”
He looks bleak and a little desperate, but I don’t like the way things are shaping up here. It is just like James to strand me without taking time to make sure it all works out. Being a housekeeper and maid in addition to taking care of Cece isn’t something I had anticipated.
He takes a big swallow of his coffee and seems to think about what I had just said. I brace myself for the worse.
But he surprises me. “All right. Let’s start this over. James didn’t mention that you were still taking classes, just that you needed a job and a place to stay that had good Internet.”
“James doesn’t approve of my major. He thinks early childhood psychology is a waste of time.”
“Child psychology? How could he . . . ?” My new employer is diplomatic enough not to say “that idiot” but I can hear it in his tone. Maybe he had grown up a little since he’d dissed on Greg all those years ago. “I think I just lucked out in my choice of workers. Losing her mom is hard on Cece, and I’d thought about hiring a counselor. . . .”
“Cece is a resilient, intelligent little girl,” I say, trying to make my voice warm and comforting. No matter what I thought of him, this is a man shoved into the deep end of parenting. “Of course, she misses her mother. But time and distraction will take care of most of her needs. I think I can talk my instructors into letting me listen to recorded lectures and attend class asynchronously. But I still have to do the work and complete it on time to get credit. It can take several hours a day – at least for the next week.”
Charles taps one long finger on the table, his brows drawn together in thought. “I understand. But I have a multibillion-dollar corporation to run. I can’t spare the time to cook, clean, and take care of the pets.”
Now it is my turn to think. He does have a point. If he had been able to take care of Cece and do his job at the same time, he wouldn’t have called James in the first place. And he had to be desperate, given our past history, to ask me to come look after his daughter.
“How about this,” I say, “Let’s compromise. You pay me a little extra for the added duties. But let’s limit them to preparing simple meals, keeping Cece’s areas, my room, and the living room clean, and looking after the pets — providing the dog walker doesn’t show.”
“I forgot about him,” Mr. Emory admits. “He called while you were getting dressed. But I don’t want you or Cece out of the penthouse. It’s too risky. People are going to start acting crazy, and I’ve gotten several threatening letters.”
“Your dog is going to need a place to go, and so is your cat,” I point out. “You don’t want to deal with a cat that is angry about litter box problems.”
“We have a rooftop garden,” he says. “It’s pretty big, and fully enclosed so nothing and no one can fall off the edge. We should be able to set something up for the animals. I’m willing to work with you to schedule study times, if you are willing to take on the extra duties.”
“All right,” I say. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You take care of your spaces — your office, your bedroom, your bathroom. If you don’t mind eating easy prep foods, I can make meals for all of us. But I’m not anyone’s personal maid.”
“I think I can handle that,” he says. “Could you do one more thing?”
“It depends,” I say, not wanting to sign on for a mystery job.
“Take care of the garden. Just basic care. Keep it watered, that kind of thing.”
“I like gardens,” I say cautiously. “I know more about vegetables and herbs than ornamentals.”
“Then you are going to love this,” he says with the most enthusiasm I’ve seen from him so far. “Come on, I’ll show you before Cece wakes up.”
I leave my cup and notebook on the table and follow Charles through a spacious living room. The carpet has pile so deep, my feet sink into it as if I’m walking across a meadow. The furniture is puffy, overstuffed couches and chairs arranged in conversation nooks. The effect is comfortable and warm, not stiff, and formal like so many luxury apartments.
One corner contains a low-pile carpet printed with a design of roads and farms. I realized with a start that it is a Google map of the City and surrounding topography. Several large toy chests stood along one wall. Along the other wall is a child-friendly bookshelf, filled with picture books and plush picture book characters.
Mr. Emory sees me looking and smiles. “Cece’s play corner,” he says. “The carpet is easy to clean, and it keeps the gum and candy out of the regular carpet. Less embarrassing if I’m hosting a business dinner — fewer diplomats or potential customers with gum on their shoes.”
I giggle at that. “Did it happen?”
“Oh, yes,” he says. “Fortunately, the fellow was a family man. I think it might even have helped land the contract.” Reaching a curtain, he pushes it aside, twirls a plastic rod, opening vertical slat blinds, and slides a glass door open wide enough to allow us access to the outside.
And I forget about everything else. The city is spread out before us. There is an unobstructed view all the way to the horizon. A golden mesh dome arches overhead — completely adequate to keep anyone or anything from going off the edge or even climbing up and falling over a barrier.
I have to text Grace about this and send pictures.
Pathways meander through lush beds of lavender, basil, jonquils, hostas, and plants I can’t identify. Bees buzz in and out of various blooming plants, including a trellised tunnel of sugar snap peas. A bank of kale in all sorts of colors and shapes wraps around the central house.
“I’ll pay you double if you can at least keep this watered,” he was saying.
This is a garden paradise. A lovely blend of ornamentals, herbs, and even vegetables. It is what I would have designed for myself, if I’d had the money and imagination to plan it.
Without stopping to think, I fling my arms around Mr. Emory and kiss him on the cheek, just as I might my brother. “To work with this, I would almost do it for free.”
Then I drop back from him, both of us shocked by the contact.