Only December

Chapter 1

MONA

“Desdemona Paulson! You said you were taking December off from work!”

Quince’s voice is loud and indignant on the phone through my car speakers, but dramatic reactions are her norm, so I’m not surprised.

I take an exit off the interstate, blowing out an exhale of relief at escaping the excessive morning traffic in Charlotte. It’s a four-lane state road from here to Green Valley, and I’m going in the opposite direction of most morning commuters, so it should be an easy drive from here.

“I know I did, but this is going to be a super-easy job. It’s just one old guy in the house except for the week of Christmas, and my June job next year fell through, so this will make up for it.”

“Don’t you always have a waiting list?”

“Sure, but I’ve decided not to fill June. Mom and Dad got a beach house for a week, and everyone will be there. I want to join them. I was just going to make do with less income, but then this new job came in a couple of days ago and it sounded perfect.”

“Okay.” Quince is less outraged but still dubious. “But you said you were getting burned out and needed the long holiday break.”

“I know. But I’m serious. This is going to feel like a break except when the guy’s family comes in. He lives alone in a big house and has a couple as live-in staff.”

“So why does he need extra help at all then?”

For ten years, ever since I graduated from college, I’ve run a business as a specialty freelance housekeeper, offering expert domestic help on a temporary basis.

I come into a home, assess what needs to happen to make the household run smoothly, and get the work done with skill and efficiency.

At first I took on weeklong assignments, but as my reputation grew among the wealthy in the greater Charlotte area, I started declining shorter jobs and required a monthlong commitment for my services.

My reputation spread through word of mouth, and now people pay me a lot to come into their homes and help organize spaces, systematize processes, or deal with temporary household upheaval.

“I guess the couple who keeps his house are older. They can handle normal duties, but he’s got eighteen guests for the week of Christmas, and it would be too much for them to do on their own. Colleen, his housekeeper, had heard of me and convinced the guy to ask if I was available.”

“It’s a huge chunk of money for basically a week’s worth of work.”

“Oh, I’m planning to work the whole month. That way Colleen and her husband can get a long break. And this guy isn’t normal rich. He’s Green Valley rich. What he’s paying me for the month, as much as it sounds to us, isn’t even a blip on his radar.”

“Who is he? What does he do?” Now that Quince’s concerns about my burnout have been assuaged, she’s as enthusiastically intrigued by my clients as ever.

“His name is Douglas Saxon-Barrington.” I use a crisp tone to enunciate each syllable.

“Oh my God!” Quince giggles as I knew she would. “Talk about an impressive name!”

“It sounds like he’s what used to be called a gentleman scholar.

He’s a philosopher. And I guess he has a pretty good reputation in the academic world, but he’s independent.

Not affiliated with a university or organization.

It sounds like he writes books and articles somewhat regularly but lives off family money.

I looked him up when I got the offer, and both sides of his family had fortunes, and he and his sister inherited both. They are rich rich.”

“Hmm.”

I shake my head as I pass a tractor trailer on the highway. “Hmm, what?”

“You know. Extra-rich old man. No wife. Probably won’t live long. Maybe he’d like a pretty young thing to take care of him.”

Sometimes when something surprises me as funny, I snort at the beginning of a laugh.

When I was younger, I tried my hardest to get out of the habit, but I’ve never had much luck at transitioning to a prettier sound of amusement.

I snort at Quince’s words. “If he wants a gorgeous young thing, I’m sure he could do better than a no-nonsense, type A, thirty-two-year-old freelance housekeeper with average looks and no patience for placating male egos. ”

“Mona.”

“I mean it. I’m not demeaning myself. I’m really proud of what I’ve accomplished. Who else have you met who’s managed to leverage nothing more than a talent for cleaning stuff up into a lucrative business like I have? But I’m not trophy wife material.”

“Maybe. But you’re not average-looking. You’re gorgeous.”

Quince has been my best friend since sixth grade, and she always sees me in the best light. I’m pretty enough—I’ve got long light brown hair, brown eyes, good legs, and regular features—but I’ve always been one of those people who fade into the background.

It used to bother me, but I actually like it now. I prefer to get things done rather than take center stage. It’s what I’m good at, and it’s a lot less pressure.

“Anyway,” I say, pivoting back to the original topic, “I don’t think the guy is that old. The only photos I could find were of when he was younger, but doing the math, he might just be in his fifties now.”

“Oh. Okay. Suffering through thirty years as a trophy wife before you inherit is probably not the best use of your time.”

Giggling, I say, “Exactly.”

“Well, there are a lot of other rich, single men in Green Valley.”

Quince isn’t exaggerating. We were born and raised in Charlotte, and Green Valley is less than an hour to the north.

It’s a small town that started as two affluent country clubs on a large boating lake, and now there are a ridiculously high number of extremely wealthy people living within the town limits.

I’ve had other clients in Green Valley, so I’m very familiar with the town both by reputation and experience.

I’ve known more than one woman who moved there with the sole objective of snagging a rich husband.

I’ve never had patience with that sort of thing.

Something in my nature always resisted being boy crazy in school and man-hunting as an adult.

It’s not that I don’t want a man. I do. I’ve had hundreds of crushes in my life, and I would love the chance to build a strong, intimate marriage like my parents’.

But flirting and playing relationship games that come so naturally to other women feel like interpreting a foreign language to me.

Men usually don’t pay me much attention anyway.

So other than a college boyfriend I held on to for almost a year, I’ve never had a serious romantic relationship in my life.

It’s fine. I’ve passed the stage where that reality makes me cry.

I’ve done well for myself, and I don’t need a man to validate that.

“You okay?” Quince asks in a different, softer tone.

“Yeah. Sorry. Just went off on one of my mental rambles.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.”

“I know you think you’re a flop in the relationship department, but one of the reasons that’s been true is your high standards.

You’ve never made bad decisions about men.

Just look at me. Falling for one asshole after another until I married one and got stuck with a guy who did nothing but hurt me until I was finally able to shake free of him.

Men have been interested in you. You were just smart enough to know right away it wasn’t going to work out. ”

“Maybe.” I hope that’s true. Maybe it is. But it feels more like I’ve never been any man’s first choice.

“No maybe about it. Remember Leon and his nine-page letter proposing to you?”

Quince can always make me laugh. I pitch my voice low to recite, “I know, Desdemona, that we’ve never dated, but I’m convinced we’re destined to be the love of each other’s life.”

Both of us laugh and recite more of the infamous letter until I pass a familiar horse farm that’s just outside Green Valley.

“Okay. I’m almost there, and I need to follow the directions. I’ll text you later to let you know what the old guy is like.”

“I thought you said he’s not that old.”

“I don’t know how old he is technically, but in my mind he’s the old guy. I’ll talk to you later.”

Quince says goodbye and disconnects the call, and I focus on finding the upcoming turn.

Douglas Saxon-Barrington doesn’t live right in town. He’s got a big house on the lake—one of the prime properties in the region.

I’m excited as I always am before a new job.

Another challenge. A mess to clean up. A new set of scattered puzzle pieces that I can fit together into a unified whole.

I love it. And ten years into this business, it’s never once gotten boring.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling through an impressive iron gate and into a long driveway that winds through a lot of wooded property before it reaches a lakeside mansion.

The architecture is traditional colonial, although the brick house is probably not more than fifty years old. I really like the look of it. Big and two stories with clean, balanced lines. It’s been kept in good condition, as have the grounds, including a large formal garden on one side.

I park in front of the closed garage and walk up the front steps to the columned entrance.

I’m not nervous, although I used to be with every new job.

I’m not a particularly outgoing person, but by now I’m so sought after that any client who manages to get a month with me is pleased and gratified.

I’m bringing the skill and the reputation and the favorable position to this professional relationship.

Yes, I still have some clients who only ever see me as “the help.” But I never take it personally.

These households sought me out and are paying a lot of money for what I bring to the table. I have nothing to be nervous about.

The doorbell chimes a series of bell-like notes, and almost immediately a smiling woman opens the door.

I’d place her in her late sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair and vivid blue eyes.

“Are you Colleen?” I ask with an answering smile. “I’m Mona Paulson.”