Chapter Five #4
“You worked at Vogue. You could charge something steep.”
“Your mother got me that internship. It wasn’t from my own talent,” Flora countered. “I still have a lot to learn.”
“You made the cover shot…” he deadpanned.
Flora wondered how he knew that. He didn’t seem like the Vogue-reading type. His mother must have told him.
“How about three grand to take photos of the home in Carmel this weekend?” he asked. “You’ll fly in, fly out. Simple, clean. Three grand.”
Flora was tempted to ask if she’d be alone or if he would be coming with her. She had no desire to force conversation with him for a full day, even for three grand. She knew better than to turn down a Woodhouse though, especially after all they’d done for her growing up, so she agreed.
“You really don’t have to pay me though,” she said. “Call it a debt to your mother for the internship.”
Finn hadn’t spoken with many people who weren’t twisting his arm for money in a long time and was wondering if she was naive or just a good person. Or if that line had blurred.
“How about we work out the details later?” he asked, pausing at the path that led back to the house. Charles was still standing at the porch, watching for some reason. “I’ll have a driver—not your dad—pick you up at ten on Saturday.”
“Oh, I’ll walk,” Flora said, waiting to see what he’d say.
His brow furrowed for a moment. He shook his head, keeping a grin off his face.
“You’re just full of jokes, aren’t you?” he replied.
Flora didn’t say anything as he headed back toward the house.
She wondered why suddenly the Woodhouse Boys remembered she existed, and what it could possibly mean.
Finn was the real wonder, even more so than Roman.
Finn was so broody and emotionless that seeing him crack a joke was like passing the sphinx without being asked to answer a riddle.
“Charles, what are you still doing out here?” Finn asked, wiping the dirt off his shoes.
“I was wondering what you were doing up there with Miss Flora,” he said truthfully. “You don’t hike very much, sir.”
“I am aware,” he replied, taking his hat off and fixing his hair in the reflection of the window.
“Everybody’s talking about her and Roman at the party last night, saying she’s going to ruin the wedding.”
“Well, you make sure to spread it around that if that happens, it will be over my dead body,” he replied flatly.
“You need a shoe cleaner?” Charles asked.
Finn took off his shoes. Dirt was caked all over the sides.
“Just throw them away for me, would you? I think a bug crawled across the top while I was out there.”
“I’m going to sell them on eBay,” Charles replied. “Finn Woodhouse’s shoes. I’ll make a killing.”
“A businessman. I like it.”
Flora was outside for another three hours. Three!
Finn couldn’t believe the sight of her finally coming back through the gate at two in the afternoon. He thought he’d just missed her coming back, but no, she’d been out there, wandering! Who had the time for such nonsense?!
To be fair, the wandering habit predated Paris by years.
Finn had just forgotten while she was gone that she seemed to be a long-lost relative of the cows that frequented the hillside—how she always came back with handfuls of wildflowers, tangles in her headphones, leaves in her hair.
If nothing else, she had been aptly named.
He pressed the button on the intercom for his longtime secretary, Gina Ford. She worked out of the San Francisco office and was hardly ever in Marin.
“Gina, I am going to need something not business related done for me,” he said in a voice reserved for espionage. He wasn’t used to asking for anything like this. “And I need you to keep it on the down low. Like the lowest you possibly can. I’m tempted to make you sign something. An NDA, maybe.”
“What is it, Mr. Woodhouse?” she asked flatly.
She was a middle-aged woman with fiery red hair, a dry sense of humor, and was usually tired. She’d known Finn since he was nine, worked for his father, and didn’t let him get away with any nonsense. Usually.
“I need the house in Carmel to look like it’s going on the market. Don’t actually put it on the market. But I want a For Sale sign out front. Next Saturday. I also need the jet at Marin Ranch Airfield, ready for takeoff by ten. Next Saturday.”
“Anything else, sir?” she asked.
He cleared his throat and lowered his voice, looking around as if someone might be spying.
“I need you to do a search on Flora Fairchild, Robert’s daughter, to find what she likes.
Her favorite things, where she goes on the weekends, what music she listens to, food she eats, hobbies—other than wandering Kovac Hill and picking flowers—places she shops, books she’s read, classes she took, plays she would want to see, concerts she’d go to.
I want a file bigger than the US Government’s debt clock on my desk.
Check her social media accounts, anywhere you can find. ”
“Shall I try the FBI’s database? Perhaps the Department of Homeland Security?” Gina deadpanned.
“Everyone is so full of jokes today…” Finn muttered.