Chapter 3
MONA
The next morning, I wake up in a good mood.
I went to bed early the evening before. I always do when I’m working unless my clients schedule an evening event they need my help with. So at six o’clock, I wake without an alarm, feeling rested and looking forward to an easy day.
Colleen and I went over all the ins and outs of the household yesterday, and there’s almost nothing I need to work on today. Even with giving Colleen and Roy two full weeks off, all I need to cover today are Douglas’s meals and the monthly cleaning of the staircase.
Otherwise, I get to hang out in this perfect house on this beautiful piece of property and amuse myself.
Douglas is clearly not a friendly man, but he’s also not a rude, entitled, or demanding client. Colleen and Roy are lovely and appreciative.
This is going to be a good month.
After a trip to the bathroom and brushing my teeth, I open my curtains to look out at the lake. It’s still entirely dark outside, but there are lights on the patio and on the dock and boathouse. The moon is bright enough to reflect on the water.
Imagine having all this in your backyard and still hibernating all day in your library.
As if my thoughts summon him, Douglas appears outside on the patio. He’s dressed for running, and he’s obviously been exercising since he’s visibly out of breath. He stands at the rail around the patio, leaning forward slightly and stretching his back.
Evidently he does manage to haul himself away from his books occasionally. No wonder he’s so fit.
He stands there, occasionally stretching as he stares out at the lake for almost ten minutes. When he’s caught his breath and completed whatever meditation he was doing, he turns around to head back into the house.
His head tilts slightly as he glances up in the direction of my window.
I take a rapid step back so he won’t see me watching him.
Not that it matters. I could have just waved. But for some reason I’m self-conscious in a way that’s not really like me.
I haven’t quite figured it out, but I’m convinced it’s Douglas’s fault.
* * *
He eats breakfast at seven every morning on the dot. That’s what Colleen told me. So forty minutes later, I’m in the kitchen, blending up a smoothie.
The man has the most tightly regimented schedule I’ve seen in a long time. Smoothie and coffee for breakfast. Salad with soup or a sandwich for lunch. And dinner that varies on a rotation by day of the week. Always at the exact same time.
I’m all for routine. It’s the best way I’ve found to remain healthy and productive. But there’s routine and then there’s this.
Not my business.
If he wants a smoothie for breakfast in the morning, I have no issues with it. Yogurt, banana, frozen berries, kale, and protein powder. If that’s what he wants, that’s what he’ll get. I thin it out with a little coconut water so it will be more easily drinkable and pour it into a tall glass.
I add a couple of berries for garnish and then set it on a tray with a French press full of fresh coffee, a mug, and a tiny vase with a clipped purple hydrangea from the big arrangement in the entry hall.
Pleased with the aesthetic, I carry the tray upstairs and set it on a console table in the hallway to free a hand to knock on the library door.
“Come.”
Come. Typical.
I open the door and duck my head in to say, “Good morning, Mr. Saxon-Barrington! I have your breakfast.”
My voice is far too perky.
I’m pretty good at sensing the preferences of clients. Some like to chat. Some like to be left alone. Once I figure it out, I adapt my behavior to suit them.
I know—I knew even before I met the man—that Douglas would prefer me to come in quietly with a brief greeting, set the tray down, and then make a hasty retreat.
I know it.
So why I breezed into the library in a wave of bright cheer, I really couldn’t explain.
Except he seems to go through life half asleep, and I’m compelled to wake him up.
Even if that means annoying him.
“Morning,” he mumbles, in the same chair by the fireplace he was in yesterday. He’s reading this morning. There are two books open on the table beside him, and he’s got a marked-up printout of an article in his hands.
He doesn’t even glance up as I enter.
“Colleen is taking the time off you requested, so I’m handling the meals today and for the next two weeks.
She gave me detailed instructions, so hopefully the smoothie is up to your standards.
” As I talk, still in the nonsoft, perky voice, I carry the tray in and move stuff on the side table to his other side so I can set his breakfast within arm’s reach for him.
He glances away from his article for about two seconds to assess the tray. “Looks fine.”
“Oh good.”
I’m not sure where the perverse impulse comes from. It’s honestly not like me at all. But he’s sitting there at seven in the morning, buried in some sort of academic research, and he’s barely acknowledging me or anything else in the world.
So I do a little fussing in the room, brushing off the fireplace hearth and straightening up the stacks of books on a table and bringing the vase with the clipped hydrangea and setting it on an empty walnut plant stand in his line of sight.
I’m annoying him. I can see it. He shoots me a couple of quick, slanted looks over the rim of the smoothie glass as he sips it.
Hiding a smile, I ask, “What are you working on?”
“Excuse me?” He lowers the glass and blinks at me in confusion.
“Your work?” I gesture toward the open books beside him. “I assume you’re studying or researching something? Colleen said you’re a philosopher.”
“Ah. Yes. I’m doing some prep work for a new book.”
“Really? What’s the book about?” I’m genuinely interested now—not just being petty to annoy him—so I pause in front of him to meet his eyes.
“Joy.”
My eyes widen. “Joy? Wow.” It’s so far from what I might have expected I have no idea how to respond. “That’s a big topic. How do you go about prepping to write about it?”
“Ideally, I’ll read everything that’s ever been written on it.” He’s fully engaged in the conversation now. His expression is perfectly sober. I still have no proof that the man can smile.
“Um, wow.” That’s twice in less than a minute that I’ve said wow.
So very articulate of me.
“I don’t expect to actually accomplish this,” he adds.
He must not have shaved this morning. He’s got slight stubble on his jaw and neck. He’s dressed similarly to yesterday. Basic trousers and a button-up shirt.
I wonder if he rotates outfits by day of the week the way he does dinners.
The thought makes my lips twitch.
He clearly sees my amusement. His eyebrows arch. “Yes?”
“Yes, what?”
“You were laughing.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Your eyes were quite evidently laughing.”
“Oh. Just in a good mood.”
“Are you not always in a good mood?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You seem the sort.”
Those words, as neutral as they sound, are clearly not a compliment. I frown at him briefly until I decide that would be the wrong strategy. With another blithe smile, I straighten the hydrangea in the vase. “Well, I won’t bother you, Mr. Saxon-Barrington. Productive studies to you.”
Humming to myself, I saunter out of the room.
Next time I’ve got to remember to bring a feather duster.
* * *
The following morning, I wake up at six again. I look out the window, and in only a minute, Douglas appears after finishing his morning run.
The man functions like clockwork.
I restrained my impulses for most of yesterday, only showing up at mealtimes and keeping my chatter to only a few minutes each time.
He appeared faintly annoyed but no more than that.
I don’t want to go too far and get myself fired on the third day of this job.
I love it here. I took a long walk by the lake in the morning yesterday and curled up in a window seat to read and nap in the afternoon.
Today I want to explore the “art room”—where the most valuable pieces are kept.
I really want to take one of the sailboats out, but I’m not competent enough at sailing to feel comfortable handling even the smallest one by myself.
Even so, it feels like a vacation. I’m going to enjoy it and try not to sabotage myself because Douglas makes me inexplicably contrary.
I do bring up a feather duster with his breakfast tray. After setting the tray down, I go around the room with the duster, humming to myself.
I’m wearing slim black trousers, a thin green sweater, and ankle boots. My long hair is pulled back in a ponytail for no other reason than it feels like it might annoy him that way.
It’s ridiculous, but that is, in fact, why I chose my hairstyle this morning.
I glance over my shoulder as I dust the mantel to see that he’s watching me. I give him a bright smile.
He lets out a visible sigh.
“How’s the study on joy going?” I ask him.
“Fine.”
“Why do you print out articles instead of reading them on a computer or tablet?” I glance at a stack of new printouts that weren’t there yesterday.
“I think better when I read words on paper.”
“Really?” Once again, I’m genuinely interested rather than pestering him for effect.
“Yes. It’s a real thing. The mind works differently when reading words on a screen and when reading words on paper.”
“Interesting.”
“I use recycled paper and recycle the printouts when I’m done, lest you judge me for killing trees.”
I snort. “I wasn’t judging you.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that’s so. I’m interested. What kind of articles are you reading right now?”
“Currently I’m going through recent sociological studies on joy.”
“Is that something people study?”
“Of course.”
“And what do they find?”
“It depends on their purpose and scope. The only thing every study agrees on is that joy is inversely proportional to time spent on social media.”
I take a second to mentally work that out. “So the more social media, the less joy?”
“Precisely. The same holds true with studies of contentment and peace and life satisfaction. Social media always makes us feel worse.”