Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“Come in,” Mr. Taylor says, stepping aside. “You must be tired.”
“That’s an understatement,” I answer, tugging my suitcase over the threshold. “But I’m excited to be here. Thank you for the opportunity.”
To say the foyer is gigantic would be an understatement—high ceilings stretch far above my head, dark beams exposed to give more of a rustic mountain feel, and the space is full of greenery resembling pines.
There’s a woody, smoky scent that lives in the air as I follow him through the giant entry hall, and he announces he’ll give me a quick tour.
“I won’t waste much of your time,” he says plainly, a step ahead of me. “But I imagine you would like to see where you’ll be working.”
“Yes please,” I say. “The more I can see now, the sooner I can get started.”
He inclines his head, then gestures toward a wide archway that opens into what I assume is the rest of the home. I leave my suitcase in the foyer and follow him into the first room.
The living room is even more expansive than the foyer, with a wall of windows facing out toward the forest, glass panes divided into tall vertical sections framing the snowfall like moving paintings.
There’s a stone fireplace dominating one wall, its hearth empty and dark but clean.
Two long, cushioned sofas in a deep charcoal gray face each other with a narrow table between them, the arrangement symmetrical and slightly impersonal, as if no one has ever curled up to fall asleep in front of a movie.
“You’ll primarily focus on this room,” he says. “It’s the space most visible from the foyer and the area we use for entertaining, when that occurs.”
“When does that occur?” I ask lightly. I’m being a little playful because the room looks more like a picture out of an architectural magazine than a space that has hosted actual guests.
He ignores the question or doesn’t hear it, moving instead toward the fireplace. “A tree here. Minimal clutter. Nothing garish. I dislike excess.”
“Oh right. Of course,” I say quickly. “Clean lines, subtle color palette, decor that feels seasonal but not saccharine. I can work with that. We can lean into texture. Metallics, warm whites, a hint of deep green—”
“As long as it doesn’t look like a shopping mall, I’ll be satisfied,” he interrupts, his tone dry and uninterested.
I bite back any other commentary. “Noted.”
He continues the tour in the kitchen.
It’s stainless steel with dark wooden cabinetry, appearing in near-mint condition. I’d be surprised if anyone’s ever cooked in here or used it at all with how pristine everything looks.
There’s no sign of crumbs or the lingering scent of food. No mug left in the sink to suggest a human was sipping on coffee or tea and then abandoned it to wash later.
“I don’t expect you to work in here,” he says. “Perhaps a centerpiece for the island. Something understated.”
“I can do that,” I reply, still determined to make a good first impression. “Simple is not the same as bare. You’ll still know it’s Christmas.”
He gives me a sidelong look that’s difficult to read. “We’ll see.”
He shows me other spaces on the ground floor like the formal dining room, the study and library, and even the terrace, which is currently dusted in snow.
Then we head upstairs where he skips most of the doors, only showing me what’s most vital—the linen closet and guest bathroom—and then he stops in front of a lone door at the end of the hall.
“This will be your space,” he announces. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable… within reason.”
I smile and repeat, “Within reason. I promise not to repaint.”
“That would be appreciated,” he says, once again missing the joke.
I wonder if he’s ever laughed at one in his life.
He opens the door to reveal a bedroom with a sloped ceiling and a large window overlooking the estate grounds and the surrounding forest.
The bed is large and crisply made up with white linens and a cascade of pillows. There’s a dresser with empty drawers, a small armchair near the window, and a nightstand with a lamp.
Mr. Taylor digs a hand into his blazer pocket and hands me a ring of keys and a small remote. “Keys to the premises. These should unlock almost every door in the house. The remote is for the garage and the front gate. Though I suspect you won’t need them much.”
“I don’t plan on driving… so no.”
“Mark is available at your convenience. When you do need to go into town to buy the decorations, you can have him take you. And this is my card,” he says, placing a third item in my hand. “My number is on there if anything urgent comes up while I’m gone.”
“Gone? You’re leaving?”
“I have urgent business in Denver that requires my attention,” he says, as if obvious. “I’ll be away for a few days. I trust when I return, you’ll have completed the interior design job?”
A few days.
Alone. In this huge house that feels more like a ski lodge or museum than a home?
I hesitate only a second before nodding. “Sure, that’s fine. I work well by myself. I’ll text you progress photos.”
He makes a low, dismissive sound. “As long as the result is satisfactory, I don’t need to monitor every step. You’ll receive the second payment as agreed once the project is complete.”
“I appreciate the opportunity,” I say again.
“The housekeeper has already left for the holiday. So has the kitchen staff. But they’ve left the kitchen fully stocked for you. You won’t see anyone else on staff until after Christmas.”
My stomach roils at the realization I’m really doing this. I’m going to spend the next few days alone on this job. At least the pay’s worth it.
“I’ll take my leave now. I hope you’re able to settle in with no issues.”
His footsteps die down the hall, followed by the front doors thudding shut. The sound echoes in the large, empty home, prompting a cool shiver down my spine.
I shudder at the sensation and let out a sigh.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just three days. No problem. Be cool. You got this.”
Over the next half hour, I focus on unpacking. I haven’t brought much, only enough outfits to last me a week, my toiletries, my design sketchbook, and the small pouch of ornament samples I brought along so I could show Mr. Taylor some options in person.
It doesn’t take long for my things to make the room feel slightly less formal and untouched, but the air still carries a lonely, desolate vibe that’s hard to shake off.
Once my suitcase is tucked into the closet, I head back downstairs to take another pass at the main floor. I’m in the living room visualizing different options for the wall decor when suddenly there’s loud pounding on the front door.
The sound’s abrupt and jarring, making me jump. My heart flips inside my chest, and it takes me a second to process someone’s at the door and I have to answer it.
“Get a grip, Ivy,” I whisper. “You’re not in a slasher flick. You’re in a rich man’s house with two-hundred-dollar towels.”
Still, I check the side window before I open the door, peering through the narrow pane of glass. A man stands on the porch in what appears to be a law enforcement uniform, a gold badge pinned to his chest and a wide-brimmed hat perched on his head.
He’s maybe early forties with an olive complexion and angular, handsome features.
“Hi,” I say, easing the door slightly open. “Can I help you?”
“Afternoon, ma’am. Sheriff Colin Paloma. Figured I should stop by and introduce myself, seeing as you’ll be staying up here while Mr. Taylor’s gone.”
“Oh… yeah. That’s me. Ivy Davis.” I extend my hand to shake his freezing cold one.
“Pleasure to meet you. I wanted to make sure you were settling in alright. Storms up here get nasty fast, and newcomers can easily get overwhelmed. If you need any help or have any questions, feel free to call me.”
“That actually makes me feel better,” I admit, giving a small laugh. “I’ve only been here an hour, and this place already feels like a national park lodge swallowed by snow.”
He smiles. “It’s a lot of house for one person. But I’m sure Mr. Taylor wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you were up for the job.”
The wind whistles beyond the front steps, the snow falling down so fast now the flakes blur. Sheriff Paloma glances over his shoulder, then back at me, flashing an even wider smile.
“That’s my cue to head back before these roads get any icier. Here’s my business card with my office number and cell in case you need it. You have yourself a good evening.”
I nod gratefully, then wave goodbye as he turns to go.
But when I close the door and lean my back against it, the silence folds around me again—even heavier and louder than before, as though the house listened to every word we exchanged and is determined to make the place feel even more isolating.
At least I have Mr. Taylor’s number—and now Sheriff Paloma’s as well. Mark is available should I need him to drive me into town.
If I focus on tastefully decorating Mr. Taylor’s home, the time should go by fast. I’ve done jobs in huge houses like this before.
There’s nothing to worry about. Yet even as I tell myself this and step away from the door, I’m not sure I believe it…