The Baby Scandal
Layla Valentine
Holly Rayner
Copyright 2019 by Layla Valentine & Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Contents
1. Grace
2. Grace
3. Grace
4. Grace
5. Grace
6. Grace
7. Grace
8. Grace
9. Grace
10. Grace
11. Grace
12. David
13. Grace
14. Grace
15. Grace
16. Grace
17. Grace
18. Grace
19. Grace
20. David
21. Grace
22. David
23. Grace
24. David
25. David
Epilogue
Also by Layla Valentine
Chapter 1
Grace
December 1
“Amelia Hornsby-Harris,” I said to myself as I drove. “What an important-sounding name. Amelia is nice, though. Brings to mind a friendly, bookish sort of girl. Not that I’m expecting her to be the girl next door or anything, not with a penthouse in New York and a castle or mansion or whatever somewhere else. I do hope it’s a castle. Castle-ish, at least. I’ve never worked on a castle.”
I was babbling and I knew it, but that was fine. I was hoping to get it all out of my system before meeting the woman herself. I bounced in my seat and tapped a beat on the steering wheel, whistling snippets of different tunes as I hit traffic. Patience was never one of my strong suits.
“Finally,” I said as I pulled into the parking garage, double-checking my GPS as I did so. “Yep, this is the place. Top-floor parking? That’s what she said. I guess she would know.”
Spiraling my way up past some of the most expensive cars I had ever seen, I finally reached the top floor. The words “Penthouse Guests” were painted along one entire wall, and every space was empty.
“She must throw some amazing parties here,” I mused aloud as I pulled into the space nearest the elevator. It was five floors down to the sheltered walk which connected to the lobby. A cheerful doorman greeted me.
“Visiting?” he asked.
“Yes. Well, sort of. I’m here to consult with Mrs. Hornsby-Harris.”
“Ah, yes. Your name?”
“Grace Baker.”
“One moment, Ms. Baker.”
He used the phone briefly and returned. “Mrs. Hornsby-Harris is expecting you. The elevators are to your left. Have a pleasant day.”
“Thank you.”
I hurried to the elevators, heart pounding. I’d done some great things in my career, but this could make or break it for good.
I pushed the thought out of my mind. To do my best work, I couldn’t be too aware of the pressure or I would crack under it.
There was an attendant in the elevator, which I found novel and charming. I told her where I was going, and she pushed the button for me.
“Do you like your job?” I asked her.
She stared, startled, as if no one had ever thought to ask before. “It’s a job,” she said vaguely.
An awkward silence fell for a moment, then she smiled. “Are you going to see the lady who lives up there?”
“I am. Can you tell me anything about her? What’s she like? I’m trying to get a job with her, but I’ve never met her in person.”
The girl looked nervous. “She’s nice. Quiet. Sort of…stern.”
“Do you like her?”
“Um…she’s pretty. She throws parties sometimes and I get to see senators and designers and pop stars and people like that. That’s fun.”
“You’re very diplomatic,” I said. Nerves were beginning to tie knots in my gut.
“All of her friends seem to like her,” the girl offered after some thought. “She seems nice when she’s talking to people.”
“Oh. That’s good.” I began to wonder if I was to be treated more like a friend or like the seemingly invisible elevator attendant.
“Here we are. Thank you,” the girl said.
“No, thank you! You were very helpful.”
Her face broke into a grin as the elevator doors closed. I found myself standing in a little foyer with the penthouse doors in front of me and the fire stairs to my left.
Stern, hm? I could handle stern. I had redesigned the interior of a Manhattan cocktail bar not too long ago, and the owner had been the sternest, most particular woman I had ever met. I’d made it through that job with flying colors. This one couldn’t be too different, could it?
I rang the bell and held my breath. Sharp heels clicked on the other side, then the door opened.
“Ms. Baker? Oh come in, darling, do come in.” Elegance positively dripped from the woman. Imposter syndrome slapped me in the face, and for a moment I felt like a grungy schoolgirl who had no business even talking to this woman. But her smile was friendly and she was holding the door open. I shook off the feeling before it could become awkward.
“Mrs. Hornsby-Harris?”
She shook my hand warmly and closed the door behind me. “Call me Amelia, darling. May I call you Grace? Wonderful. I say, when I saw what you had done to that little house upstate, I just knew I had to have you for my place in Kensington.”
I smiled at her, a bit blown away by the extent of her privilege. The little house she referred to was the sprawling mansion of a Wall Street banker and my largest undertaking to date.
“That’s…very kind of you,” I said, accepting the seat she offered. The couch was a buttery white leather which hugged my body as I sat. It went with the rich crimson carpet like cream on a red velvet cake. The chocolate-brown wood ceiling accentuated the dessert flavor of the room, and the glittering chandelier overhead was the sparkler in the middle of the cake.
“Not at all, darling. Do you mind if we get right down to it?”
“I would love to.”
Relief washed over me. I wasn’t invisible, and she didn’t strike me as too terribly stern. I could see how the elevator girl had come to that conclusion, though. Amelia was visually perfect from hair to heels, and her manicured eyebrows were permanently arched in a vaguely haughty expression. She can’t help her eyebrows, I told myself.
“Here we are.” She picked up the thick paper envelope which sat on the coffee table by my knees and tipped a stack of photographs out of it. I caught glimpses of turrets and stone balconies and could barely contain my excitement. I was going to work on a castle!
“Have you worked on many Victorian manors in your career?” she asked.
“Victorian manors? Is that what it is?” I forced myself to tear my greedy eyes away from the pictures and focus on her face.
“Yes, darling. It’s in a bit of a shambles, to tell the truth. Nothing major, just neglected over the past several years. Here, you can see what I mean.”
I studied the photos thoughtfully. The baseboards were scuffed, the floorboards were worn, and there appeared to be a creeping vine growing in through one window. Torn wallpaper marred one room and an unraveling tapestry another. The furniture was more “seventies chic” than Victorian, a contrast which
made me cringe internally. Plans began sketching themselves in my mind as I looked the pictures over.
“What is your vision for this house?” I asked her.
“Well, you see what I’ve done with my little pied-à-terre here,” she said, gesturing around at the penthouse. “I would like for the house to feel the same, but I also want it to be true to the period, but without all of the tiresome solemnity. Victorian houses always feel so heavy, don’t they? A bit lighter, but not carefree. A serious place, but only so serious as to accentuate the fun of a party, do you see?”
I did not.
“Of course, I understand exactly what you are saying,” I replied with a smile. “So for the running boards, would you say a lighter shade of wood?”
“Oh no, dear, you can’t change those. That’s all original wood! Why I believe the trees it was made from are extinct now. No, just polish those up and keep them, but try to make the rest of the house a little lighter.”
“Some lighter shades on the walls would help with that. This looks like a good-sized hall here. We could really open up the space if the wall was cream instead of cranberry.”
“Oh, I do hate cream-colored walls except as accents. Couldn’t you keep the cranberry and change the floor?”
I studied the picture more closely. “Do you have a photo of the opposite wall?”
“Oh, there isn’t one really. It’s more of a wall of windows. I believe that was a picture gallery once.”
“What do the windows overlook?”
“The lake and the gardens, a cluster of trees, and the road of course but very distantly.”
“Green, then. Not a solid green, maybe green lacework over a cream or lighter green. The ceiling could be painted a very subtle mottled blue, and the floor could be polished to a high shine. That way the view would seem to extend inside, making that whole hall an experience.”
She clapped her hands. “Oh, brilliant, brilliant! Yes, I love it. Now this room here, the ballroom, here are the photos. I love the gold mottling on the walls, but half of the tiles are cracked, and there are these ugly little cherubs over the doors, you see?”
“Those are a bit gaudy,” I said with a little laugh. “How many are there?”
“They infest the house,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t imagine why anybody would choose to have the little beasts climbing all over the walls.”
“I can certainly do something about those. So all you want done in this room is to replace the tiles and remove the cherubs, is that right?”
“I suppose so,” she said with a pretty sort of frown. “Do you think that would be good enough?”
“I would say that depends on what you intend to do with the space.”
“Why, host parties of course.”
“Would the guests be eating and drinking in the room, or would they be doing that elsewhere and dance and mingle in the ballroom?”
“Oh, I see. A bit of both, I imagine.”
“You have this raised area over here—”
“For the orchestra or a live band.”
“Has electricity been run to it?”
“I daresay it hasn’t,” she said, sounding surprised.
“That would be my first move before I even replace the tile. A modern orchestra and band will require it. Now, if you’re planning on eating and drinking, I think a bar in the opposite corner and little tables and chairs around the edges. Or benches, perhaps?”
“Could you do both? Sparingly, of course. We don’t want it looking like a café, do we?”
“Of course not,” I said with a smile. “Then extend the view into the gallery, set up the ballroom for a modern-day party, and…” I flipped through the pictures and came to the dining room with the peeling wallpaper. “This room?”
“Oh! Yes, I had some thoughts about that. I absolutely hate that wallpaper. All of the paper in the house, in fact. It’s all bubbling and peeling and curling in places. It makes the place feel dirty. I do not want a scrap of it left when you’ve finished.”
“I’ll make it happen,” I said as I jotted a note down. “Scrap the paper. Any other thoughts?”
“Well, I will be dining with some very important people, as well as hosting dinner parties for my friends, so the space will need to be very posh of course but not off-putting, very serious but also fun. Do you see what I’m saying?”
I was beginning to. “What if we strip this wall entirely and leave the stone exposed? Then the short wall on this end could be done in the same mottled gold as the ballroom, and we’ll keep the dark wood on the other end. Then this side will be a soft powder pink, nothing overwhelming, just a bit of a blush.”
I was scribbling as I spoke and made a mental note to get a voice recorder as soon as I left. These brainstorming sessions were one of my favorite parts of the job, but I inevitably forgot something afterward.
“Then we can match the table to all of this. We’ll get a long formal dining table with high-backed chairs. A little gilding maybe, nothing overwhelming. Cushions to match the pink wall. White marble accents to reflect the gold wall.”
“It sounds busy,” she said doubtfully.
“In a smaller room, I would agree with you. This room is so long and large that if we make it uniform, it could very easily lead to that dark, heavy feeling you were trying to avoid.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “Yes, when you put it like that…but rather than marble accents on the dining table itself, let’s have a running table with a marble top opposite the gold wall.”
“Perfect, I love it. Now, curtains. Something simple?”
“Oh, yes. Nearly invisible except when needed.”
“A light blue, tan, or gray then. It depends entirely on the shade of the stone behind that paper.”
We went over the rest of the rooms on the ground floor one by one, plotting out a subtle and intricate design scheme from front to back and side to side. Many of the rooms needed very little done, which was a relief in light of how much there was to be done on the main areas. I estimated that the project would take three or four months to complete. I had just opened my mouth to tell her so when she dropped a little bombshell.
“And you can get it done by Christmas, can’t you? It is so very important that the house be presentable for my Christmas party.”
I blinked at her for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you say Christmas? This coming Christmas?”
“Yes, of course.” She seemed surprised that I was taken aback. “Surely you can get this done in a month? I’ll have you fly out next week, and I will pay for your travel if that is your concern. You will have your pick of decorators and contractors. My name carries weight, darling.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but I knew if I could pull it off, it would do wonderful things for my reputation. Better than the mansion, even. Besides, when was the last time I had turned a job down? Never, that’s when.
“If I can get in touch with the decorators and contractors, I can get started on it before I fly out,” I said out loud. “I’m really not used to working on a place I haven’t walked in, but these pictures are enough to get me started. Finished by Christmas. Twenty-five…twenty-four days.”
“Twenty-three, darling,” she said. “I couldn’t have you working on the place during the party, could I?”
“Oh! You’re right, of course.”
Twenty-three days. What on earth had I gotten myself into?
Come on, Grace. You’ve always bitten off more than you thought you could chew, and you rocked it every time.
Grinning with the rush of my own recklessness, I shook her hand.
“I’ll do it.”
Chapter 2
Grace
Night had fallen and a thick snowfall had started by the time I left my meeting with Mrs. Hornsby-Harris. I glanced at the sky and hoped that the storm system would blow itself out by the time I had to get on a plane the following week. My arms were full of pictures, blueprints, contact informatio
n for decorators and contractors, and my itinerary, and I was struggling to balance it all and my purse as I unlocked my car door.
Of course everything fell as I got the door open. My phone popped out of my purse and skittered away across the concrete.
Sighing, I shoved everything into the passenger seat, then chased after my phone. As I picked it up, I saw that I had missed a call from my mother during the meeting. After settling myself behind the wheel, I called her back.
“Grace, how are you?”
“Doing great, Mom. I just landed a big job, actually. How are you?”
“That’s great dear. I’m fine, just fine.” Her tired voice belied her words, and I frowned.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, of course. I’m always fine you know that. It’s the trees.”
“The…trees?”
“In the backyard. That last storm wreaked havoc with my trees, loose branches, fractures. They’re shedding like mangy dogs and are just going to do more damage to themselves if they don’t get pruned properly. I was going to do it myself, but—”
“Mom, no! You can’t be climbing around in trees at your age, especially not in all this ice and snow.”
“If you had let me finish,” she said pertly, “I was going to say that I was going to do it myself, but I knew you would yell at me. Now Grace, these trees are hazards to themselves and my roof and anybody walking in the alley. If you have the time, I could use your help. If you don’t have the time, that’s fine.”
I sighed. It wasn’t fine. If I didn’t show up, she was stubborn enough to get out there and do it herself and break a hip in the process.
The Baby Scandal Page 1