by Tina Martin
What do I really know about this man?
I open my eyes. Panic sets in at the realization that this is actually happening. How can I sleep with a man I don’t know? How can I have a baby with him?
I stretch then get up to head downstairs where I explore the bottom level. I don’t know why I feel a strong urge to open the refrigerator but that’s where I go. It’s loaded like there’s a blizzard approaching. When I take the time to look at its contents, I see it’s stocked with a bunch of healthy crap – not that I’m a bad eater but I do like options outside of fruits and vegetables. All I see is lettuce, tomatoes, grapes (red and green), blueberries, avocados and oranges. Then there’s Greek yogurt, cottage cheese, eggs, turkey bacon and ham. In the freezer, I find steak, shrimp, salmon, chicken, bagged frozen veggies and low-fat ice cream. I’ll need to go grocery shopping for sure.
I test out the sofa. It’s huge, light blue and matches the hues in the abstract carpet beneath a natural, wooden coffee table. The sofa’s filled with pillows – beige, blue and brown. And when I stretch out on it, I feel how, like the bed, it’s comfortable too. I can picture myself falling asleep here with the TV playing softly in the background.
For now, I get up. I need to take a trip to the grocery store to buy what I want to eat. Need to familiarize myself with this side of town. But first, I need to talk to Magnus.
I walk down the driveway from the guesthouse toward the walkway that leads to his expansive back door. He has a doorbell on the back, too. How boujee…
I press it and wait.
Nothing but silence. I take the time to look out into the yard and off in the distance, I see a basketball and volleyball court. Near the back deck is a swimming pool that’s covered, closed for the winter.
Growing antsy, I press the doorbell again. This time, I hear his voice from a speaker say, “What do you want, Shiloh?”
“How do you know it’s me?”
“There’s a camera on the doorbell.”
“Oh, well anyway, can you answer the door?” I ask. I imagine he’s been looking at me the entire time via the video that accompanies this fancy schmancy doorbell thingamajig.
“What do you want, Shiloh?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About—” I pause. “Where are you? I would like to talk to you face-to-face, please.”
“I’m busy at the moment.”
“Too busy to answer the door?”
“Yes. I’m butt naked. I was about to take a shower before you disturbed me. What do you want?”
“We need to talk face-to-face, so when you get dressed, come see me.”
“We don’t need to talk, Shiloh. We’ve discussed everything we need to discuss.”
“Yeah, well I need to discuss a few more things with you.”
“Like what?”
“Just come see me later. I don’t like talking to your doorbell.”
I leave the door and go back to the guesthouse to grab my purse and the keys to the Porsche. Then I go venturing off to find some stores.
Chapter Twelve
Magnus
I’ll have to be firmer with her. Her head is as hard as her looks are good. Apparently, she didn’t grasp how serious I was when I told her she wouldn’t need to come to my house for anything. Told her she doesn’t quite understand the dynamic between us. I told her we wouldn’t be friends. I meant that. She wouldn’t need to come to my house for anything. I meant that. A few hours later, she was already breaking the rules. Ringing my doorbell. Interrupting me.
I went to the guesthouse a couple of hours ago to talk to her as she had requested. She wasn’t there. The Porsche, gone. Something about not knowing where she was at this precise moment was messing with my head. It’s the moment I realize I don’t have her number. I have no way of getting in contact with her. She had tried to get my number earlier. I told her she didn’t need it.
* * *
Hours later, close to nine o’clock, I see the headlights of her car as she drives toward the guesthouse. I leave out the back door and walk there to greet her at the car. As soon as she steps out, I ask, “Where have you been?”
“Oh, lookey, lookey…this is a surprise. You want to talk now,” she says.
“Where have you been, Shiloh?”
“I went to see my dad and get some items I needed from the store.”
She opens the back door on the driver’s side, grabs her bags and walks toward the front door of the guesthouse. I follow her inside after she unlocks the door.
“In the future, I need to know where you are.”
She glares at me after she places brown, plastic bags on the counter. “Say what?”
“You really need to pay attention when I talk to you. I don’t like repeating myself unnecessarily.”
“Oh, I heard what you said. I just don’t believe what I’m hearing. Why do you need to know where I’m going?”
“Because I need to.”
“Okay. Fine. Then I need some things too,” she says.
She unpacks Oreos, potato chips, chocolate-covered pretzels, Ritz crackers and cheese in a can. She’s not dressed for the cold. She has on an Old Navy sweater and a pair of jeans. Slip-on shoes. No socks.
I ask, “What things do you need?” I walk toward the counter where I grab all the junk she’s unpacked and stuff it back inside one of the grocery bags. Then I tie the handles into a knot.
She frowns. “What are you doing with my stuff?”
“This is garbage. I’m going to put it where it belongs.”
“Give me my stuff back!” She attempts to grab the bag. Fails.
“You’ll need to eat healthier than this for the baby and for yourself.”
Her glare sharpens. “My goodness. I’m in prison.”
Her cheeks redden like they do whenever she’s flustered. I’ve seen her this way many times at the bistro. Which reminds me…I need to find out if she had planned on quitting the job or if she would continue doing it to give her something to do with her time. I’m fine with either.
“My time is valuable, Shiloh. What do you need to know?”
“It’s a Saturday freakin’ night. You’re not working. Your time is only valuable when you’re making your billions.”
“You don’t know what I do on a Saturday night.”
“Exactly. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I need to know more about you.”
“You don’t.”
“I do. You’ll be inside me soon enough, trying to make a baby and I don’t even know your middle name.”
Her hands are splayed on the counter. She thinks she’s made a point. “You know my middle name. It’s on the marriage certificate.”
She hisses. “Oh, puh-leese. I tossed that thing somewhere. What significance does it have? Hunh? Answer me that. It has no more value than the paper it was printed on.”
“It’s Jude,” I respond curtly. “My middle name is Jude. Anything else?”
She stops unpacking her groceries. The remaining items she takes out I deem acceptable – sour cream, baby carrots, peanut butter, jelly, ham and hummus.
“Yes. There is something else. What’s your favorite color?”
Why she wants to know elementary things about me is puzzling, but I decide to concede. “Black,” I respond, although I’ve never had a favorite color.
“Black—like the color of death,” she says. “That’s your favorite color?”
The mere mention of the word death has me thinking about Nicoletta and MJ. “What else do you want to know before I go because we’re never having another one of these get-to-know-me sessions.”
“So you don’t want to know anything about me?”
“No, and this is the last chance I’m giving you to ask me something.”
“Why are you so mean?” she asks.
I’m grinning before I realize I’m doing it. “I’m not mean. I’m—”
“You are mean. And stiff. The only time you s
mile is when you know you’ve pissed me off. Otherwise, you walk around tight-lipped looking like you’ve lost your best friend.”
Her words are like a dagger to my heart, but I can’t let it show. She doesn’t need to know about Nicoletta. Doesn’t need to know I really had lost my best friend. I respond, “I’m not mean. Mean is the way you describe people you don’t know how to get along with. I’m not mean. That’s how you perceive me. I’m direct, and perhaps you can’t handle that with your lack of experience with men and people in general.”
“I have experience with people.”
“You don’t have experience with a man like me, girl. I’m not one of those men who flirt with you at the bistro. I’m on another level with mine. Now understand something, Shiloh. You’re here to serve a specific purpose. Once that purpose has come to fruition, your job is done. I told you earlier today that you have no reason to come to the main house. No reason whatsoever. Yet you showed up anyway, ringing my doorbell. Disturbing me. Never do that again.”
She frowns. “What?”
“You heard what I said. Don’t do it again. I like peace and quiet. No interruptions.”
“Then maybe you should get rid of your stupid video-chat doorbell.”
“Stay away from my house.”
She rolls her pretty eyes and mumbles something under her breath. I see her lips move, but I don’t make out what she said.
“And I’m giving you another rule—whenever you leave to go anywhere, send me a text message and let me know where you’re going to be. Not a phone call. A text.”
“That’ll be hard to do considering I don’t have your phone number.”
I take out my phone and instruct her to give me her number. Then I dial her phone. I hear it ringing from her purse.
“Now, you have my number. No excuses. Do you understand my ask of you or do you need me to write certain things down?”
“Yeah. Write it down,” she says, her gaze challenging. Voice firm.
I’m sure she’s testing me to see if I’ll follow through with writing it down and so I walk near the refrigerator, find a small notepad in one of the drawers, take a pen from my pocket and write two rules:
Rule 1 – Do NOT come to the main house. Ever.
Rule 2 – Always TEXT me where you’re going to be when you leave
“Here you are,” I say handing her the piece of paper I ripped out of the notebook. “No more excuses.”
“No more excuses,” she mouths silently, mocking me. “You should’ve written it on a bigger piece of paper. I’m sure they’ll be more rules to follow. You seem like the kind of guy who wants to control somebody’s every move.”
“Not everybody. Yours. Oh, and before I leave, is it in your plans to quit working at the bistro?”
“No, I’m not quitting. I have to do something normal to keep myself sane. It may as well be that.”
I turn to exit with her bag of junk food. When I’m back at my house, I toss it in the garbage. I’m hoping now she gets it – that she knows how serious this is for me. After two failed attempts at trying to have a baby, I don’t want this one to be a waste of time. The third time really needs to be my charm.
Chapter Thirteen
Shiloh
On Sunday, I’m bored out of my mind, laying on the couch in and out of sleep trying to watch TV. I’m so jaded, I briefly entertain the thought of blowing up Magnus’ phone with a flurry of text messages to piss him off. All this extra downtime has forced me to realize I have no life outside of work which is probably why I never quit the bistro. It’s where I feel alive and needed for something. Up until Magnus St. Claire happened, my life was standard.
My dad wallows in his misery. He’s been grieving mom’s death for years.
I haven’t seen Selah in months. She’s still strung out, I’m sure.
Shelby has practically disowned us and gravitated toward her Caucasian side of the family. She’s got money, living the good life in New York.
And then there’s me…
I have no life outside of work. All I have now is a million dollars and an uptight, future baby daddy barking orders at me every time he gets the chance. Yet, I like him. Don’t know why. I just do.
I wonder if he’s home right now…
While he made it clear that I’m supposed to let him know whenever I leave the house, I don’t get the same courtesy – not that I want to keep tabs on him. Still, it would be nice to know I’m not alone – that someone is close by.
The knock at the door scares the bejesus out of me. I sit up, then stand and catch my balance. I better catch it now because I’m sure Magnus’ presence will throw it off again. Why is he here, anyway? Did I unknowingly break another one of his precious rules?
I open the door to find it’s not him. It’s a woman – a black lady who looks like she’s old enough to be my grandma. Favors the lady on that Honey Bunches of Oats commercial. She’s about my height but a little stout. Her hair is gray, but it doesn’t make her look old. It gives her a look of sophistication. A woman who could tell you a thing or two. She’s wearing an apron and holding a shiny, silver pot – a big pot – like the one mama used to cook collard greens and ham hocks in.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. St. Claire.”
Ugh. I stop myself from rolling my eyes. I forgot I had dude’s last name.
“Please, call me Shiloh,” I tell her. Please!
“Hi, Shiloh, I’m Lucille Chapman. I’m Magnus’ housekeeper. I brought sustenance in the form of soup for us to share…figured you could use some company back here, all by your lonely.”
“Sure. Yes, please, come on in,” I say eagerly.
She hurries in with the pot and heads straight for the kitchen where she opens the cabinet, retrieve bowls. The spoons, she takes from a drawer. She knows where everything is. She’s probably in charge of taking care of this house as well.
“What’s in the pot?” I ask.
“Potato soup,” she says. “It’s one of Magnus’ favorites. Have a seat, honey. I’ll bring you a hot bowl of it.”
“Oh. Okay,” I say, surprised. I’m not used to having someone wait on me. It’s usually the other way around – me breaking my neck to make someone else comfortable and well-fed. This is a treat.
She brings over the bowls – one for me and one for herself. It smells glorious like creamed potatoes, onions, pepper and a hint of bacon. Steam floats up from the bowl and makes my mouth water. I didn’t even realize I was hungry. You know the food is going to be delicious when it makes you hungry.
She sits down with me, prays over her food then looks up at me. Smiles. “So, you’re the one he picked.”
“Um…yeah. I guess I am.” I taste the soup. It’s everything. And when I say everything, I mean e-ve-ry-thang! “My goodness…this is delicious,” I tell her.
She smiles again. Like every other cook, she takes pleasure in people commenting on how good her food is. “Thanks. Now you understand why it’s Magnus’ favorite. I make all kinds of soups, especially in the winter, but he enjoys this one the most.”
“How long have you been working for him?”
“It’ll be ten years on Wednesday.”
“Wow! You’ve been working with him for ten whole years? How did you survive it?”
She laughs a little. She catches my drift. “Magnus is a good employer. He compensates me above what society thinks I should be paid. He’s always kind—never been the type to walk around with his head above the clouds.”
My eyebrows raise. “That’s news to me. He looks at me like I’m the scourge of the earth.”
“No, no, no, honey. Magnus is a good man. Don’t get me wrong—he’s very particular if you know what I mean. He likes what he likes and he can’t function without order, but once you learn him, you’ll know who he really is. I’ve seen him evolve over the years. I’ve seen circumstances in his life that would normally break people.”
“What kind of circumstances?”
She takes a spoonful o
f soup to her mouth. “That, I can’t get into, but he’s been through a lot and he’s still standing. He’s a strong man.”
I nod and eat. “Are you the only housekeeper he has?”
“I am.”
“In that great-big house, you’re the only housekeeper?”
“Yes. Magnus doesn’t like people in and out of his house. It’s just me and the chefs who come by occasionally.”
“Oh. So that’s why he told me I wasn’t allowed in his house.”
“Don’t take it personally, honey. Besides me, no woman has ever stepped a foot inside his house since—”
She pauses.
“Since what?” I ask, hoping she’d continue and tell me something about the man.
“It’s nothing. I was thinking about the past. The past is the past for a reason, you know. I’ll leave it at that. I just came over here to introduce myself to you and give you some advice.”
“Advice for what?”
“For your situation and for dealing with Magnus.”
“Okay. What do you have for me?”
“As I was saying a lil’ bit ago, he’s very meticulous. That’s number one. Two, he doesn’t handle disobedience very well.”
My whole face contorts. “Disobedience? Who does he think I am? I’m a grown woman.”
“I understand that and so does he, but he wants a woman who’s willing to play by his rules.”
“So he’s told you about this? You’re aware of the reason I’m here? The money? The baby? Everything.”
“Yes, Shiloh. I know everything. It’s my duty to see that you’re eating healthy and being safe in preparation for the baby.”
Her answer reveals a lot. One, this isn’t her first rodeo. Magnus has done this before with other women, something I had suspected when I first walked into that bedroom yesterday. But how many? Now, it was starting to bother me. “Lucille, how many were there before me?”