Chapter Six #2
“Funny. I don’t ever recall Finn being much of a friendly fellow.
Ever since he was younger, he was being made to run the company, and he was brooding and quiet even before that.
Good man, very good man, wickedly smart.
Too smart for his own good perhaps. He makes stock trades in the car and everything he does turns out right.
He’s a great man, actually. Just never had a chance to be a kid or even a normal adult. And not friendly.”
“What was he like as a child?” Flora asked.
“Shorter…”
Flora was waiting outside their studio at nine thirty with her camera bag and a small day pack when the car pulled up. She got inside, and the driver handed her a packet.
“Itinerary for the day,” he said briefly.
He rolled the dividing window up between them before Flora could ask why she would need an itinerary.
“Very detailed schedule,” she murmured, flipping through it. “Goodness. What a drag.”
She shut the packet and shoved it in her day pack, opened the most recent Vogue issue, and traced her hand over the first page.
Alexandre’s name was printed where all the featured photographers were listed.
She missed him sometimes and wished she could call him and chat, but she knew there was no chance of that ever happening.
Manon, Amandine, and Camille said he was pretty miserable still.
What a mess. And then there was this whole Roman debacle.
She wasn’t obsessed like she had been for years, but it was scratching an old itch to finally have some of his attention. He was engaged though. It wasn’t like she was trying to wreck it. That wasn’t who she was.
She sighed and looked out the window as the car drove to the airfield. She didn’t really have a solution to Alexandre or Roman and thought it best to leave everything as is until she decided if she’d move back to Paris or until Roman figured things out—whatever came first.
In a separate car, headed to the same place but coming from San Francisco, not Mill Valley, was Finn. He was just opening the file that Gina had slapped on his desk. It was stamped “Top Secret.”
“Funny, funny lady,” he muttered.
He was lucky that Mr. Fairchild wasn’t driving him today. He would have taken one look at the file and been suspicious.
“Alright, let’s see here,” Finn said to himself.
Flora Althea Fairchild
DOB: April 3
Height: 5’7
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Place of birth: Bath, Somerset, England
Finn paused. “I forget she was born there…”
Vegetarian.
“Heaven help me.”
Not on any registered government threat lists.
“Very funny, Gina.”
Social Media: None.
“Will be hard to figure out what she’s doing and when.”
Favorite food: Italian—pasta specifically, French, Thai, and general green leafy items like spinach, kale, and other lettuces.
New eye for design and clothing. Likes sparkly dresses, oversized blazers, vintage jeans, studded belts, red and black paired together, combat boots, and killer heels.
“Yes, she has become quite the fashionable woman since she got back.”
Favorite artists: Impressionism is her favorite. Van Gogh, Monet, Rembrandt.
Music: The Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac, The Police, Lord Huron, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Saint Ghost.
Books and Authors: Jane Austen, Sherlock Holmes, Moby Dick, and anything historical.
“Well, that I can get behind…”
IQ 137.
“Good Lord, that’s incredibly high…”
Likes nature.
All in all: avant-garde-bohemian-refined-taste-nature girl with plenty of hobbies, musical prowess, and probably smarter than you.
“Thank you, Gina, once again…”
Finn skimmed through other things Gina found. Blog posts for a school project, a newspaper article, her Vogue photos, pictures from her graduation, a photo of her with some guy at a club in France (he assumed it was Alexandre), her favorite nail polish brand, color, and bag designer…
She was, admittedly, an interesting person.
A color wheel.
Finn shut the file and shoved it under the seat as he arrived at the airfield.
Flora’s car was pulling up as well. He moved his sunglasses down to see better.
The door opened and Flora stepped out. He paused for a moment, watching her wave goodbye to the driver.
He liked that she was polite to everyone, friends with people who were usually overlooked.
“Thanks, Ellias,” he said, pushing his sunglasses back up. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“Sounds good, sir. Have a good trip.”
Flora didn’t look surprised to see him there, though he hadn’t told her that he was coming.
He knew if he’d sprung that on her she wouldn’t have agreed to the trip.
Her facial expressions made it no secret that he scared her, although why he couldn’t understand.
She’d known him forever, it’s not as if they were new acquaintances.
In fact, he’d known her longer than he’d known most people.
Yet she was still the deer-in-the-headlights when he was around. Was he really that scary?
For her part, Flora found out in the car that Finn would be coming with them after bribing the driver, Felipe, with a cookie she had stowed in her day pack.
Felipe had a soft spot for cookies apparently.
She’d never met him before but being a chauffeur’s daughter made her an easy talking partner.
Once he rolled the middle divider down that is…
“Is he coming? Do you know?”
“Who, Miss Fairchild?”
“Call me Flora. I’m not important enough to go by Miss.” She pulled the chocolate chip cookie out of her lunch bag. “Finn. Is he coming?”
“I’m not supposed to say anything, ma’am.”
“Oh gosh, ma’am is worse than Miss!” Flora exclaimed. “Here. A cookie for your information. A black-market trade.”
Felipe eyed the cookie. “Chocolate chip?”
“Yes,” Flora said, raising her eyebrows. “And made by the Woodhouse’s gourmet kitchen…”
Felipe snatched it at a stop sign. “He’s coming.”
“Dang it.”
She processed the unfortunate development and tried to stay positive. Carmel was a beautiful place, and she didn’t want to spoil a perfectly good day upset over the presence of Mr. Grumpy Pants himself, Finn.
Now she stood on the tarmac, cookie-less and confused.
“Hey,” she said, forcing cheer. “How are you?”
She was trying to read his mood. Angry? Bothered? Uppity? All three?
“Living the dream,” he replied dryly, following her up the steps to the jet.
The Woodhouses owned several private jets. Yet Flora noticed this was one of their smaller ones. The big ones were basically sky yachts.
Finn knocked on the pilot window and waved.
“Ay, George,” he said, “just land behind the house, I don’t want to bother with the Monterey airfield. We have air rights now, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
While Finn chatted with the pilot, Flora sat down in the corner and looked around.
She’d heard tales of the Woodhouse private jet fleet but had never been in one or even seen one in person before.
This appeared to be slightly smaller than the photos.
She noted with annoyance there wasn’t as much room in the cabin to get away from Finn.
It was still huge though, with the nicest seats she’d ever seen, tables, and a huge flat screen TV.
There were expensive headphones lying around like peanuts.
She couldn’t imagine leading this sort of lifestyle.
Was anything ever enough for these people?
Private jets, sculpture rooms, homes in Carmel that went unused.
What was rewarding when you had this much money?
She knew Finn worked hard, really hard, but at the same time, he had everything he’d ever want in the palm of his hand, so did he really work for anything?
She opened her well-worn copy of The Call of the Wild by Jack London and settled into her seat.
Finn was still in conversation with the pilot about something, and she thought it was best to pretend to be deeply engaged in reading so that he wouldn’t come over and talk to her.
Generally, she didn’t mind conversation but what in the world would there be to talk about with Finn?
He just seemed so… Finn.
Though sometimes she questioned if Finn really was Finn or if his persona wasn’t some grand act he put on.
During Flora’s early teenage years, there was another girl, Virginia Thomas, who lived on the estate.
Virginia was Finn’s age. She was the daughter of the ex-head chef, Jonas Thomas.
Jonas ended up leaving to open his own restaurant, much to the distress of Mrs. and Mr. Woodhouse.
Regardless, Virginia was never as “in” with the staff nor as cared for as Flora was, but she made sure she was known.
Virginia also hadn’t cared a snit for Roman, but followed Finn around like a crazed, rabid dog. She was out of her mind. She’d snuck into his room, stolen his boxers, and written her number in sharpie on all of them.
She’d gotten a tongue lashing from all the adults and her dad had forced her to pay for all of Finn’s new underwear. Finn was pretty creeped out, or so Flora heard. Despite this, Virginia claimed a few years later that she had kissed him.
“I did it, you know,” she said. “And no one believes me.”
Flora was in the kitchen making a mess of her algebra homework when Virginia announced this.
She remembered it being one of those biting cold fall days in Marin, gusts of wind sweeping down Mt.
Tamalpais, leaves piling up all over the estate, gardeners running everywhere.
She was bundled up in a sweater by the fireplace, eating pizza and trying a new tangerine soda.
She always minded her own business when Virginia was around.
It was Virginia who told her business to Flora.
“Sorry?” Flora asked, looking at Virginia with a wary eye.
She had never liked Virginia—mousy, vindictive, always looking for trouble, and she ate too much tofu.
“I accomplished the impossible on July Fourth.”
“Let me guess. You had a coherent thought?” Flora asked flatly.
“Haha, laugh it up,” Virginia replied, looking devilish and dreamy. “But I won the day, because I kissed Finn.”