Chapter 18. Jade
Jade
I’ve clearly entered a ritzier part of town.
The houses on this hill are all mansions of one type or another, each perched precariously close to the steep drop-off as if jockeying for the best view.
The higher I ascend, the more impressive the homes become, but none match the grandeur of the Carmichael estate, which stands proudly at the top of the hill.
I arrive at a tall wrought-iron gate that resembles a prop for a movie about a school for magical children. Set into the gatepost is a weathered plaque engraved with the name MIRAMAR. It’s just like Holly wrote in her fictionalized tale of the family I now work for.
To my left, I have a stunning view of the Atlantic. The sea changes colors daily as though declaring its mood. Today it seems happy, light, and inviting, with countless drops of sunshine reflecting off its smooth surface.
If my mother could see me now … Girls like you don’t belong in a place like this.
I can hear her words as though she were right next to me.
And I know she’s right. My dyed hair, piercings, and scars—both inside and out—are like a black mark on this estate.
But I don’t need to fit in. I need to take the money they pay me and run.
I push a button on the intercom and hear a click, followed by a crackling, disembodied male voice.
“Welcome to Miramar. If you’re selling anything, believe me, we have it.”
“Um, it’s me, Jade, excited to start work today,” I say enthusiastically, trying to sound like the motivated go-getter Conrad believes he’s hired.
“I’m sorry,” says the voice, though I’m not sure if he’s apologizing for misidentifying me as a salesperson or advancing sympathy for what I’m about to endure.
A buzz sounds as the gate swings open. It groans on tired hinges, suggesting visitors are infrequent.
I traipse along a driveway as wide as a road, leading toward a sprawling stone estate that’s like something out of a fairy tale.
The gardens lining my path are full of colorful, lively new blooms, leafy trees of all varieties, and shrubs sculpted into perfect angles.
Miramar is everything I imagined and more.
It’s stately and noble, with towering chimneys and elongated arched windows set deeply into rough-cut stone walls that are weathered and veined like old bones.
In the center of a large circular driveway stands an ornate fountain featuring a bronze sculpture of a man and a woman holding a jug of cascading water.
The “castle meets country club” elegance is stunning, enhanced by the ocean backdrop, which takes my breath away. To my right is a manicured lawn that looks like it’s been tended with the precision of nail clippers.
The front of the home is grand and inviting, featuring three columned archways fit for a king or queen. But what catches my eye is the stone tower attached to the building, rising like a vigilant sentinel until it reaches the domed copper crown. It extends at least fifty feet into the sky.
A seagull has perched itself on one of the many gables adorning the steeply pitched roof, its beady black eyes watching as I approach the front stairs.
Part of me thinks it’s issuing some kind of warning, a message from Holly. Keep away …
Perhaps I should listen, but it’s too late—I’m already at the front door.
I reach for the doorbell, but don’t have to press it.
I should have realized someone would be ready to greet me.
After all, I was buzzed in at the gate. The door opens, revealing a tall, angular man who looks as though he were present when the first stones of Miramar were set into the ground.
He’s dressed in a black suit so crisply pressed I have the impression it’s never been worn, though it hangs a touch too loosely on his lean frame.
His thinning silver hair is carefully brushed back, suggesting age won’t overtake him without a fight.
His heavy-lidded, inscrutable eyes flick over me with practiced efficiency.
If he’s sizing me up, he keeps his conclusions carefully hidden.
I can only imagine what this sharply dressed man thinks of my hoodie and worn-out Converse shoes.
He says nothing while peering down his long aristocratic nose. Not unkind, but shrewd.
“Hi, I, uh … I’m here for Mr. Carmichael.” I hate the shake in my voice.
“Welcome to the jungle,” says the old man, gesturing for me to enter.
I guess he’s joking, trying to connect with a young person by using a Guns N’ Roses reference that’s ancient history to me.
But at least I know the song—my mom used to blast the tune on repeat. She was a big eighties hair band fan.
“We’ve been expecting you.”
I’m led into a grand foyer, with a ceiling so smooth and arched it feels like walking beneath a wave.
Although there’s undeniable elegance to the space, the interior echoes its former glory more than its current state, as if the house recalls its best days—sunset cocktail parties, linen suits, elegant swimwear, and glamorous dinners—all relegated to the past.
Stone walls in the entryway show their age, their mortar cracked and discolored.
The furniture is the sort you’d expect to see roped off in a museum—old and uncomfortable, with faded upholstery and uninviting cushions.
The wood throughout is sun-bleached and weathered, as if it made its way through ocean currents before washing up on the shoreline.
The banister lining the grand, curving staircase is worn to a dull sheen by generations of hands.
Area rugs that might have once added bright splashes of color are now faded and threadbare.
Large oil paintings in gilded frames fail to lift the mood. The nature scenes, even those with green hills, are painted in drab colors. Perhaps dust has settled on the canvases. If there’s a house cleaner here, they’re being overpaid. My allergies threaten again.
“My name is Sidney,” says the old man. “I’m the butler of Miramar.” He doesn’t extend his hand, so we don’t shake, but I notice that he keeps his nails impeccably clean and neat.
“Does the name mean ‘watcher of the sea’? I read that somewhere.” I don’t drop Holly’s name.
Sid’s eyebrows lift. “You’ve done your research. And yes, it does. Maeve Carmichael, whom you’ll meet momentarily, is obsessed with the ocean. She takes a swim every afternoon, often in weather I wouldn’t advise, but you’ll soon find out that she does as she pleases.”
I gulp, recognizing a warning when I hear one.
“If you have any questions about the house, its history, or how we do—or don’t do—things around here, please ask. It’s my duty to ensure you feel like one of the staff—which is to say, rarely seen and often blamed.”
I can’t say this is the best pep talk I’ve ever had, but at least I’ve got a job. Not long ago, I was hiding in the attic of a stranger’s home, and now I have the run of a castle. Life sure does throw curveballs.
“Mr. Carmichael is waiting for you in his private study.”
Old Sid gestures to a large door to my left.
I follow his loping strides into a gorgeously appointed office.
The ambiance is rich and warm, with an ornate area rug set in the center of a massive, airy room.
Mahogany bookshelves line the walls, filled with hardback books whose spines suggest antiquity.
I want to take down each volume, flip through the pages (gloves on, of course; I’m not a savage), and immerse myself in olden times and fantastical lands.
But I have to shelve that desire because my new boss is here, sitting at his spacious, decorative desk and sipping a steaming mug of coffee.
Light floods the room through a tall bank of windows behind his chair.
I imagine, during winter, logs in the large hearth will burn brightly, fighting the cold stone for warmth.
Conrad stands to greet me, his smile just as friendly as when he first offered me the chance at gainful employment.
“Jade,” he says, coming around from behind his desk to shake my hand. “So glad you’re here. Any trouble finding the place?”
He smiles as if it’s a joke he’s told hundreds of times, and it’s never been funny, but I give him an obligatory chuckle.
“Yeah, it kind of stands out,” I say.
“And has a good view, too.” Conrad points out the window to where the lawn drops off and the sea rises to meet it, creating a stunning ocean panorama.
I hope he wants me working in this room, surrounded by all these books and looking out over the water.
I take a peek out the window, and that’s when I notice a framed drawing of Miramar hanging on the adjacent wall.
It’s remarkably well done and captures both the grandeur and creepiness of this place. The signature says Conrad Carmichael.
“Wow, that’s really great.” I point to the drawing. “You did this?”
He looks wistful. “Yes, a very long time ago,” he says. “I don’t think I could find my pencils if I wanted to.”
Sid clears his throat. “Mr. Carmichael, Miss Jade … um,” he trails off, looking mildly abashed. “I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”
Conrad laughs. “I don’t know it either,” he admits. “Sometimes I make rash decisions, but I usually get my employee’s full name. My apologies.”
“It’s Jensen,” I say brusquely. “Jade Jensen.” I leave it at that, hoping he doesn’t inquire about my long, sad history.
“Shall I go get your mother?” Sid asks Conrad.
He nods, and Sid departs to retrieve Maeve. I’m offered a seat in the cushy chair across from Conrad’s desk. Sunlight and comfortable furniture—I make myself at home.
I notice Conrad tugging at the sleeves of his shirt, and I catch a glimpse of an expensive-looking watch and his polished gold cuff links, which bear his initials, CC. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had stitched his name into his underwear with gold thread.
“So, Jade, I went over the plan with Mother and managed to get her approval,” he says, settling into his leather chair. “Her husband, Baxter Ward, passed away several months ago after an extended illness—”
I interrupt, my impulse control failing once again. “Oh, does your mother go by Maeve Ward now? I don’t want to call her the wrong name.”
“No, she kept the Carmichael name even after her second marriage. Legacy is important to my mother. She wanted to have the same name as her son and grandchildren, not that there are any…” His voice fades, leaving me with the impression he’s got his own sad story to tell, but he doesn’t elaborate.
“As I was saying, my stepfather passed away, and unfortunately, my mother’s health has also declined.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s still a very strong woman at seventy-eight, but she needs to take it easier these days.
She’s not up for going through his belongings and clearing everything out.
Of course she believes she is. It’s hard for her to admit that she can’t do everything she used to, but the work involves some heavy lifting—nothing too intense.
I think someone young like yourself would be better suited to the job.
My mother can give you instructions on what to do with specific items. Any questions? ”
Yeah, like a million. I knew I’d be helping around the house. But a strong-willed, reluctant widow overseeing a punk kid going through her dead husband’s belongings? Sounds like a recipe for disaster.
Before I can say, “Second thoughts,” Maeve appears in the doorway with Sidney.
She’s tall, but only comes up to Sid’s shoulders, and although she’s thin, her arms look strong.
Her posture is near perfect, head held high.
I’m certain she could sift through Baxter’s things without a problem, although I can’t picture a woman this fashionable getting her hands dirty.
Her makeup softens her strong features. She styles her shoulder-length white hair with care.
The ivory blazer and long skirt are crisp and crease-free.
She greets me with a tight downturned smile, as if the world always disappoints her. Her stony, gray-blue eyes pierce me like a javelin. Great. Two minutes on the job and I can tell the lady I’m hired to help doesn’t want me around. This should be fun.
From across the room, she says, “Jade, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her tone is so clipped and self-important that she might as well have said, “What do you think you’re doing in my house?”
As she crosses the rug to shake my hand (or slap me, can’t say which), I’m reminded again of Beach Thriller.
Old Sid might not have made it into Holly’s book, but I’ve no doubt Holly didn’t stray far from fact when she wrote Maeve Carmichael onto the page.
Though something tells me the real-life Maeve is even icier.
She takes my hand and, as expected, her skin is cold and clammy.
But then, without warning, I see her teeter on her feet.
Her color turns gray. Her eyes widen as her knees buckle.
I don’t have time to think—I extend my arms as she falls into them.
Christ, she smells like potpourri. I strain to support her, my tiny frame overwhelmed by this woman’s stature, but somehow I manage to keep us both upright.
Conrad rushes to my side. “Mother!” he exclaims, taking her from me and guiding her with care to a nearby sofa.
Maeve’s head rolls back. She groans but doesn’t speak.
“Sidney, call the doctor immediately,” Conrad orders.
I grab a pillow to support Maeve, trying to make myself useful. Conrad’s hands tremble as he loosens her shirt collar to ensure her airflow isn’t obstructed. I check her breathing and elevate her feet.
It’s crazy how thirty seconds can feel like an eternity during a crisis. As full panic sets in, I hear Maeve speak. I can’t understand her, but I’m flooded with relief.
Thank God I haven’t inadvertently killed my employer on my first day at the job.