7. I Know Those Bluebell Eyes
I KNOW THOSE BLUEBELL EYES
Six years later
I stand among other staff in the mansion’s prep kitchen, listening to Margo, the head housekeeper, assign tasks for the day.
I’ve only been here for a month, but so far it’s going well—as in no one knows I’m lying about my identity and how I got this job.
I’d hate for Haven, the tall woman to my right, to get in trouble because of my lie, but no one can know the truth. I’ve been pulling off this charade since before I lost Mom.
Like always, tears fill my eyes at the thought of her. I blink them back quickly. It’s been three years, and I still can’t control my emotions. The tears aren’t as hard to deal with as the anger or the nightmares.
Haven bends to my ear. “I have some concealer you can borrow in my locker. It’s a lifesaver for when I’m tired.”
I tense and force a sweet smile. “Thank you,” I whisper back.
I can’t believe I forgot to cover my dark circles before I left.
If I weren’t running late, I would have.
And if the pharmacy that honored the coupon the vet gave me wasn’t out of the way, I wouldn’t have been late.
But if I had slept for more than three hours a night, I wouldn’t need the concealer.
I learned a long time ago how to function on only five hours of sleep, but storms always do me in. The lightning, the thunder, the memories. It’s like I’m there again in that farmhouse. It was raining on the day Mom was murdered too.
I shiver and realize the meeting is over. Everyone is gone, except for Haven.
She’s facing me, her hands on my upper arms, a look of concern in her hazel eyes. “Do you need to go home?”
“No.” I snap to attention. “I’m sorry. I had a late night at the shelter. It’s no excuse, and it won’t happen again.”
It’s not a complete lie. I volunteer a few nights a week at the shelter, cleaning the kennels and giving the animals love and attention.
I just wasn’t working there last night. I was at my second job, but I don’t want Haven to know about that one.
She might think I’m not taking this job seriously.
A pet lover herself, she doesn’t mind that I help animals in need.
“If you need to talk…” Haven offers, but the concern in her eyes tells me she’s worried I’ll become a problem.
As her assistant, I can’t become a housekeeper or even be given the chance to get hired full-time until I’ve proven myself.
No matter how many years I’ve done this job, even her job, and more, my resume is always the same.
Assistant helper with a longstanding industry background and great references, thanks to Amara and her huge family, who work all throughout New England and vouch for me every time I have to move and get a new job.
I straighten my spine and look her directly in the eyes. “I’m good. I promise. I won’t let you down.”
If I fail, it will reflect poorly on her. I became an assistant to a family like the Ashfords only because Haven vouched for me. She’s friends with Amara’s uncle, and he asked her for this favor.
“Okay then.” She nods and digs into her pocket. “Here’s the key to my locker.”
“I have concealer,” I blurt, though I’m not certain. “I’ll put it on before heading upstairs.”
“Margo wants us to start in Mr. Ashford’s office before he returns from his morning meeting.
Then we’re to set up the breakfast room for a brunch the chef has prepared.
Mr. Ashford will have two guests with him.
His brother and his closest business associate.
They are quite the attractive bunch, so be mindful not to stare if you catch sight of them. ”
I nod. “I know the drill. You don’t have to worry.” I’ve mastered the art of keeping my head down. “I’ll be right up,” I assure her.
She smiles and walks away, leaving me to gather my thoughts, my emotions, and whatever else I need to pull together.
I can’t lose this job. I have no other options. Amara has exhausted her resources helping me, and I like it here. I like working under Haven, and I like how Margo gives the staff different tasks each week so we don’t get bored.
I like the owners too. Mrs. Ashford seems nice. She’s beautiful, and her husband is equally attractive and has an English accent that reminds me of someone else I once knew, long ago. I don’t like to think about that time or about Wesley—the traitor who I saved just so he could stab me in the back.
I tamper a groan and race to my locker, applying concealer to the horrible shadows under my eyes. With that fixed, I shove my long braid behind my back and hurry to join Haven in the office. We make a good team, even though we haven’t worked together for long.
Most of the rooms in the 15,000 sq ft home aren’t used, so we do a version of cleaning we refer to as freshening up and a lot of dusting. This is the first estate I’ve worked at that has its own island and a private causeway lined with trees, the summer leaves lush and vibrant.
Margo comes in and says something to Haven on the other side of the office. She nods and turns to me as Margo leaves.
“They’re running late, no need to rush. Shelly is sick and had to go home. I’m going to help prep the brunch. Finish in here and then come join me.” She smiles.
I nod and continue dusting the row of bookcases.
A moment later, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I dig it out and read the message. Either it’s the vet letting me know my cat’s prescription is ready for pickup after work, or it’s Noah, Amara’s daughter. No one other than those two women and Haven has this number.
Noah: We need another housekeeper/server for the weekend. Please say yes. I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t stuck. You can’t offer a job like this to just anyone. Only people you trust.
I sigh, and before I can reply, she texts again.
Noah: It’ll be good for you. Put you around people in their twenties instead of the geriatric crowd.
I work with people from ages thirty to fifty-five, not nursing home residents. She knows this, but I’m an exception. Households like this prefer a more seasoned employee, but Amara’s connections always get me in. That makes me want to help Noah. Her family has done so much for me.
Noah: You could explore the mansion and get some good pics and videos for your Insta.
The girl knows how to tempt me. Greenwich doesn’t have anything overgrown or in ruins from what I can tell. My social media page is lacking new content.
The thought of exploring a Gilded Age mansion that sat abandoned for decades is a huge turn-on. It’s so big, only part of it is renovated. An entire section is still in ruins. I could drool.
It could have a neglected garden. My favorite kind. But the owners seem shady—five men, or ‘Lords,’ as they call themselves, who own a mansion named Hellfire. Three are from the UK, and two are American.
The staff live there alone during the week, and the men come out to party on the weekends.
Not every weekend and not every Lord. The parties are exclusive and for elites who like to hook up anonymously and in private.
Phones are confiscated. Masks are mandatory.
Apparently, it’s similar to a club in Boston called Masquerade. One of the Lords owns it.
Noah says the masks are to hide the identities of the guests, who could be famous actors, athletes, or politicians.
I think it’s because rich people are freaks.
If you can have anything, life gets boring.
They can’t catch a natural high off the simple things the way I do every time I enter an abandoned garden or place.
They need drugs and orgies to appease them.
Me: Thanks, but no.
It’s the same reply I always give her.
Noah: You’re only saying that because you think people have sex on tables.
Me: Don’t they?
Noah: It isn’t a P-Diddy party. I’d never work in a place like that. There are strict rules. Participation is optional. Everything is done in private rooms—PER THE RULES. If you come, you can see for yourself. Then you’ll never go back to cleaning for families again.
The fact that the staff has a mansion to themselves most of the time is a nice perk.
She says they don’t expect or pressure employees to participate in the parties if a guest shows interest. No means no.
No one pushes because there are plenty of people willing to indulge.
I don’t know how you can be attracted to someone in disguise and want to hook up with them if you don’t know what they look like.
Noah has been propositioned, but she always turns the guest down—until two weeks ago, when one of the Lord’s took interest in her.
She only knew it was a Lord because they wear red velvet jackets to set them apart.
Everyone else has to wear black or white.
She ended up sleeping with him and said it was the kinkiest, best sex of her life.
She also isn’t sure which Lord she hooked up with since he didn’t remove his mask, and three of them look the same.
“Does he know who you are?” I asked her on the phone when she told me this.
“He didn’t see my face. But I’m the only half-black/half-Hispanic, five-nine woman on his staff, so I’m sure he can guess.”
“How did he not see your face? I mean, how did you kiss with a mask on?” She wore a peacock jeweled mask, and his was a lion. “Wouldn’t you bump noses? Your beak to his snout?”
She laughed. “You switch to flat masks in the room or opt to wear blindfolds.”
“You can’t both be blindfolded. How would that work?”
“Only one wears the blindfold, leaving the other to see and therefore direct.”
“Oh.” That sent my thoughts spinning.