Chapter 1 #2
“Yes, of course you are! Come in, come in. You have no idea how thrilled I am that you agreed to work with us on such short notice.”
“The timing was actually perfect because I just decided to take an extra month off next year. So grabbing an additional job now will be a big help.”
As I speak, I scan the entry hall with its gorgeous rosewood floors, beautiful central staircase, and tasteful art.
So far there’s not a single thing about this place that I would have done differently. It might have been built and styled exactly for me.
“The house and grounds are beautiful. You and your husband have taken care of them so well.”
Colleen looks as pleased as a girl at the compliment. “Thank you. We’ve been here since our early twenties. Doug was a boy when we came.”
“Should I call you Colleen?”
“Yes, please do. And my husband is Roy. He’s getting some groceries right now, but you’ll meet him later. He can help with your luggage this afternoon if that’s all right with you. Unless you’d rather settle into your room first?”
“Oh, no need. I’m up and running right this minute. I always like to get going without delay. I’d love a tour of the place if it’s not too much trouble. But I can always wander on my own if you’re busy.”
I clocked right away that Colleen is proud of this home, so I’m not surprised she’s delighted to give me the tour.
She doesn’t suggest I meet my employer, but I assume I’ll run into him eventually.
We start outside, admiring the garden, which isn’t at its most beautiful at the beginning of December, and then we walk around the house to a huge mosaic-tiled patio that leads out to a boathouse and dock on the lake.
Like many December days in this part of North Carolina, it’s cool and cloudy but fairly mild in temperature. Even with the brisk breeze off the lake, I’m not chilly in my red sweater-coat and tall leather boots.
I’m dressed in one of my normal work outfits. I always wear a dress on the first day until I get a sense of what kind of staff attire my clients prefer. Today I’m in a comfortable chocolate-brown wrap dress that looks classy but isn’t attention-getting.
Colleen, however, is dressed in jeans and a sweater, so obviously Douglas Saxon-Barrington doesn’t require a traditional dress code.
We end the tour outside with the huge garage, and she explains that once we’ve unloaded my stuff, I can pull my car in as well. There’s room for at least ten cars in the garage, but there’s only one currently parked there. A dark blue Mercedes SUV.
That fact makes me blink.
I have never once—in all the wealthy circles I’ve interacted with—known a rich man to have only one car.
It’s so astounding I ask, “Does Mr. Saxon-Barrington keep more cars somewhere else?”
“No, that’s his only one. His dad had a bunch, but Doug gradually sold them off. He’s never been a car person.”
“I see.” I file that information away to fit into a fuller picture of my client. “I noticed he has three boats.”
“Yes. He enjoys sailing, but he spends most of his time with his books.”
As we walk back into the house through the door in the garage, I’m briefly distracted by the stunning rosewood floors that appear to go through the entire house.
After gawking for too long at them, I say, “From what I noticed online, he seems to have a very good reputation in philosophy.”
“He does. He’s brilliant.” She smiles with such fondness that it’s obvious she loves her employer.
“Universities are still trying to get him, but he’s never wanted all the other responsibilities of university life.
He wants to read and think and write and occasionally attend conferences, so that’s what he does. ”
“Sounds like an amazing life for an academic. So who are the guests coming over Christmas?”
As she shows me a series of sitting rooms and guest bedrooms, she lists everyone expected to visit for the holiday.
Doug’s younger sister Greer with her husband and their four kids, ranging in age from seventeen to twenty-six.
Plus the oldest girl’s husband and two very young children.
In addition, three family friends will be coming, two with spouses and one with two teenage children.
Plus a stray cousin on his own and Douglas’s elderly aunt.
It’s a lot of guests, but for only a week it shouldn’t be any trouble to handle. I’ll have almost three weeks to prepare.
On the second floor of the house, Colleen shows me the pretty little suite with a bedroom, sitting area, bathroom, the same gorgeous hardwood floors as the rest of the house, and a view of the lake that she designated for me.
“Oh, I love it!” I’m genuinely thrilled as I look around at the muted rose-and-gold color scheme and simple, traditional furniture. “But I should move to a different room when the guests arrive. I can’t take this amazing room away from someone else.”
“Doug told me to give this room to you, so that’s what I’m doing. All the rooms in this house are equally nice, and this is one of the smaller ones. So this will be yours for the month.”
“Okay. Thank you very much.” I slide my hand across the surface of a beautiful mahogany dresser. “I appreciate the consideration.”
Colleen nods. “Let’s finish the tour so we can be done when Roy gets home.”
We check out every room off the upstairs hallway—mostly more guest bedrooms—until we reach the far end.
“These are Doug’s rooms. He’s a considerate person with a regular routine, so he’s easy to look after. This is his bedroom.” She opens a door so I can peek into the huge primary bedroom in the house. “And this is his library.”
She taps on the door across from the bedroom, and a male voice calls out a one-syllable response that doesn’t sound to me like a real word.
Opening the door, she says, “Is this a good time to meet Ms. Paulson?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Come on in.”
He’s got a nice voice now that I hear him speaking. It’s low and deeply resonant and incredibly pleasant to listen to. I have no idea what to expect when I step into the library and see the man himself.
The room is as delightful as the rest of the house, the walls lined with custom bookshelves, huge windows looking down on the garden, and expensive furniture in dark wood and soft leather that looks both traditional and comfortable.
There’s a big desk in front of one of the windows, but the man isn’t sitting at the desk.
He’s in a leather chair by the fireplace, writing in a book.
At least it looks like he was writing until Colleen and I walked in. Now he’s staring at us without smiling, the book in his lap and a pen in his hand.
“This is Mona Paulson,” Colleen says, beaming at the man as if he were a much-loved child. “She’s here to help us with the house for December. And, Mona, this is Douglas Saxon-Barrington.”
He sets down his pen and book and stands up, extending a hand toward me.
I shake his hand firmly with a practiced smile on my face, but I’m mentally scurrying to reorient my impression of my new client.
I’d mentally labeled him as “the old guy” because that was the impression I got from Colleen on the phone. The old photos I found of him online showed him to be a decent-looking man in younger years but nothing particularly impressive.
But the man—this man—isn’t anything I could have expected.
He’s definitely only in his fifties. His dark hair has a lot of gray in it, and there are small lines around his eyes and mouth. But they do nothing to diminish the power he exudes.
Physically, he’s probably no more than six feet.
He’s got good shoulders and a fit body, but he’s not bulky or particularly athletic-looking.
His features are as strong and pleasant and traditional as the decor of his house.
He’s clean-shaven, and his eyes are an interesting gold-green color.
He’s dressed in gray trousers and a long-sleeved black button-up.
He’s a nice-looking, mature man—no question—but that doesn’t explain the power and magnetism I sense from him.
Maybe it’s simply what Colleen indicated. He’s brilliant. And his mental gravitas is impressive enough to shape his entire person.
But I’m actually speechless for just a few seconds as I let go of his big, warm hand.
It’s not attraction, although I recognize this man as attractive. He’s much too old for me to see as a likely sexual partner. And it’s not simply surprise that he’s not the quiet, studious, elderly gentleman I was expecting to find in this room.
The truth is, I’m cowed.
Intimidated.
By whatever power I’m sensing from him.
I feel small. Not smart or accomplished or successful enough to match him.
I’m not used to it. It’s not me.
Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I experienced this, and I hate it. Hate it. And as irrational as it is, I blame him for making me feel this way.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I manage to say, holding on to my professional manner despite my inexplicable reaction. “I’m so pleased it worked out for me to take on this assignment. Colleen has been giving me the tour. Your home is beautiful.”
He gives a quick nod that seems to dismiss the compliment. His eyes miss nothing as they run up and down my body. “You’re not what I expected from Colleen’s description, Ms. Paulson.”
“Please call me Mona. I don’t think anyone really knows what to expect from me. Mine isn’t exactly a typical line of work.”
“No, it’s not.” He’s polite but unsmiling. He clearly takes himself and all of life seriously. “If you’re here to search for a dead body on my property, I do hope you’ll let me know right away so we can avoid fictional shenanigans.”
Colleen gasps, “Doug!” as if she’s disappointed in his manners.
I snort in surprised amusement. “No hunt for a dead body in a sarcophagus. Although honestly, Lucy Eyelesbarrow’s character in that book is what originally gave me the idea for my business.”
“I wondered. I researched you when Colleen first mentioned you, and you have quite the reputation. Everyone I spoke to raved about your skills and qualities. But you’re young to have been reading Agatha Christie ten years ago when you started your business.”
“I’m not as young as I look. I was twenty-two back then, but I read Agatha Christie books in high school because my mom was always a fan. We would watch all the movie and television adaptations together, and then I read the books. She’s still my favorite.”
He nods again, like he’s filing the information away somewhere in his brain. “I see. So how do you go about doing what you do?”
“I usually take the first day to figure out where I’m most needed, and then I just jump right in.
I don’t mind hard work. I enjoy cooking and cleaning.
Some clients need real organizational help with spaces or domestic processes, but this house is clearly run perfectly already.
And you don’t have any sort of dramatic domestic upheaval like a fire or a death in the family that needs extra support as some of my clients do.
So I thought I might take on all the daily tasks for the first couple of weeks to give Roy and Colleen a break, and then I’ll spend the rest of the time preparing for your guests.
Unless you’d rather I focus on something else. ”
“No. That sounds reasonable. I’ll be happy for Colleen and Roy to have some extra downtime.
I have to force them to take vacations and days off.
They work too hard.” When Colleen starts to object, he interjects, “You do. And both of you know you do. You deserve a rest. This will be your opportunity.”
Colleen flushes, but she looks pleased rather than upset by his sternness.
It’s clear to me that the relationship between them is not one-sided. He cares for her as much as she cares for him.
“All right. You may go now. I spend most of my time in the library, and I prefer not to be interrupted or distracted. But I appreciate that you’re here, and please let Colleen know if you need anything.”
Well then. That was quite a dismissal. A courteous one but a dismissal nonetheless.
“Of course. It was nice to meet you. I hope I didn’t keep you from your work.”
He glances down at the book and pen he set on the side table. “Sadly, I wasn’t working. I was attempting to journal.”
I know I’m supposed to be leaving the room, but I’m so intrigued by that comment that I ask, “Are you? You don’t strike me as the journaling type.”
That is entirely true, but it’s not really a professionally appropriate observation from an employee who has just been dismissed.
Douglas sits down with a sigh, reaching for the pen and journal. “I’m not. I’m under instructions from my therapist. I’d rather write a five-hundred-page book than do this.”
His dry, aggrieved tone amuses me so much I snort again. Damn. That’s two snorts in one short conversation.
He opens his journal and slants me a look from beneath his thick eyebrows.
If any look could speak, that one does.
I’m to leave him alone now.
“Thank you again, Mr. Saxon-Barrington.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Paulson.”
I can’t help it. As I follow Colleen to the door, I say, “It’s just Mona.”