by D L Lane
I smirked. “Did you bother to step foot out of this house when you looked?”
Small blotches of pink spotted his high cheekbones.
Well, good, I thought. I was getting to the man, and the horrible part of me was as pleased as punch. I figured misery loves the company, and who better to join me? We’d make it a party of two. No reason to be angry by myself.
“Regardless of what I did or did not do,” he said. “I didn’t have time for hide and seek.”
What he was really saying, I wasn’t worth his time.
“So, you sent Ms. Bauman on the task you gave up on.” Dropping my arms, I glanced at my lap. “No reason to put any effort into finding me yourself,” I muttered under my breath.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Nothin’.” I met his gaze, blue on blue. “I get it. You called me in here to tell me you’ve been bus—”
He held up a hand. “No more arguing.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
He didn’t take the bait; instead, he straightened, saying, “There’s something important I would like to discuss with you.”
Chapter Nine
A business proposition
“I have some visitors coming soon,” Mr. King said, running his fingertips down the buttons on his charcoal-colored coat. “And I’m short-staffed at the moment.”
Earlier, I’d been so busy being mad; I hadn’t noticed yet another, pristine three-piece suit. “Who’s comin’?”
His eyes flicked to mine. “My father and a business acquaintance from California.”
“Oh.”
“I was wondering...” He tweaked his chin with his thumb and forefinger.
“What is it?”
“I have a business proposition.”
“For me?” Shock tinged my voice.
“Yes. Would you mind stepping in and helping out while they are here?”
Eyes going round, I couldn’t imagine what on earth I could do to help. “With what?”
“Like Ms. Bonny, you would tidy things around the house and assist Inga in the kitchen. I would pay you for your time, of course, and if you agree, Ms. Bauman would be able to show you everything you need to know.”
He cleared his throat. “This would only be temporary until I can fill the position, and would in no way mean you are to wait on me. Just help out when my guests arrive.”
“I’m a quick learner, Mr. King, so if Ms. Bauman will show me, then I would do my best not to embarrass you by fumblin’ around.”
“You couldn’t be an embarrassment to me, Mississippi. It’s just not possible.”
I seriously doubted that.
“And like I said,” he continued, “the ladies need the help, so you would be doing me a favor.”
“A favor isn’t paid for, and you offered to pay me.” I scratched a mosquito bite on my collarbone. “I haven’t had a paying job before.”
“You will be working hard and deserve fair compensation for the time you put in. But this isn’t a job.” One side of his mouth curved up. “Well, technically, it is a job, but not one I expect you to keep. You are my guest here, as well.”
“But I owe you. You’ve done a lot for me.” I pointed to the pretty shoes on my feet, and the pale blue dress I wore. “You bought me all these beautiful things.”
He shook his head. “Those were gifts. You do not owe me, nor will you ever owe me.”
“But—”
“No, buts.” He scooted forward in his chair, poised to get up. “Think over my request and let me know your answer by Friday.”
“I don’t need ’til Friday, Mr. King. I’ll do what I can to help out around here.”
He stood and extended his hand. “Thank you, Mississippi.”
I reached, thinking he wanted to shake on it, but he helped me up, then tugged me into his strong arms, hugging me the likes I’d never known.
Unsure of what to do, I stiffened.
His big palm made little circles between my shoulder blades, and I melted into his embrace, my cheek against his hard chest, breathing him in. He always smelled so good, but that close, the pure citrus-spiced scent was divine.
“I appreciate this,” he whispered, resting his chin on the top of my head, “more than you will ever know.”
***
August 10, 1936
“What y’all looking at?” I asked, walking into the kitchen, seeing all the ladies gathered in a circle, something in Ms. Bauman’s hand.
“An article about the Olympics,” she said, as they all three turned toward me.
“Can I see?”
“Sure.”
With a crackle of sound, Ms. Bauman handed over a newspaper.
Jessie Owens Wins Gold Medals in Front of Adolf Hitler & Reich
***
After way too many pancakes for breakfast, the lessons had begun. Ms. Bauman taught me how to make a proper bed with tightly tucked corners, the right way to fold and stack the towels, and the correct way to set the table for a dinner party. The following day we went over how to greet guests, where to put their coats and hats, and how to serve afternoon tea complete with macaroons arranged on a shiny silver tray.
By the end of the week, I thought I might pass as one of Mr. King’s staff, and was proud that he’d taken the time to come and check on my progress.
“Please, Mr. King,” I said, hand waving toward the settee in the formal sitting room, “have a seat.”
His brows pulled together. “What are you doing?”
“May I get you something to drink? Iced tea or perhaps something a bit stronger?”
“I told you already. You’re not to wait on me, Mississippi.”
Rolling my eyes, I stomped a foot. “Its practice, and you’re ruining it!”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Well, all right. For the sake of practice.” He took a seat, leaning back. “I’ll have an iced tea and maybe a few of those cookies Inga makes.”
I bowed, giving a slight curtsy. “Of course.”
“Stop!”
I popped my head up, worried. “Am I doing something wrong?”
“No. You have your execution down pat, but I don’t want you to do that.”
“But, it’s what Ms. Bonny does.”
“You won’t be bowing to me.” The muscle in his jaw ticked. “Or anyone,” he said under his breath.
I frowned. “So, I shouldn’t do it too?”
“Politeness is necessary, bowing is not.”
“So, no?”
“No,” he said firmly.
“Okay, I guess, if that’s what you want.”
He nodded once. “It is.”
Puffing up my cheeks, I blew out a breath.
Mr. King arched a brow. “What?”
“I forgot what I was going to do.”
He chuckled. “Serve iced tea, I believe.”
“Right!” I smiled, holding up a finger. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be back.”
Spinning on my heel, his low laughter pushed me out of the parlor doors.
***
Cabinet doors squeaked open, the scraping of plates shuffled about, and three nights before Mr. King’s guests were scheduled to arrive, I’d been fitted with a black and white uniform, just like Ms. Bonny wore. I’d also been doing the same duties as she, working alongside Inga in the kitchen, helping with the evening meal preparations.
“Ms. Polanski.” Mr. King came striding in. “I’ll be down for—”
Lips parted, his eyes shifted to me busily peeling cucumbers—their green skins piling up on the countertop.
“Ms. Singleton, what are you doing in here?” he asked as if he were blind.
I held up the sharp paring knife. “Working.”
“I see that, but why?”
“I’m supposed to be helping.”
He scanned me from head to toe. “You need to change your clothing.”
“Why?”
“It’s time to dress for dinner.” He waved an irritated
hand around. “Not in here doing whatever you are doing.”
Setting my chin, I said, “I’m peeling cucumbers,” as if he didn’t already know. “Besides, I don’t do that anymore.”
The outer edges of his eyes crinkled into displeasure. “Don’t do what?”
“Get all dressed up for dinner. I eat with the staff.”
He stepped up to me, took hold of my wrist, not hard but gave it a shake, making the knife clatter to the counter. “You do not eat with the staff. You eat with me.”
I yanked my hand free. “You haven’t been down for dinner in weeks. And eating in that huge room all by myself is just plain silly, so I’ve been eating in the kitchen with everyone.”
“Well, no more. I’m down here now.” His sky-blue eyes sparked. “Go on and get ready for dinner.”
Putting a hand on my hip, I shook my head. “No. I’m supposed to be helping out, and that’s what I’m gonna do.”
Ms. Bonny and Inga stopped what they were doing and stared at me as if I’d lost my ever-lovin’ mind.
“What you are supposed to be doing is getting ready for dinner,” he said, voice rising.
Straightening my spine, I took a breath. “You go get ready for dinner; I’m stayin’ here.”
Mr. King turned toward my two companions. “Ladies, will you give Ms. Singleton and me a moment?”
Without a single word, they nodded, then one-by-one, they scurried off.
“Now,” he said, stepping up and towering over me. “You are not going to argue with me over this.”
“Well, I believe I am.”
“You are going to march yourself upstairs, get dressed, and come back down and have dinner with me in the dining room.”
I poked him in the chest with my fingertip. “That’s what you think.”
“That’s what I know.” Even though he was angry, he smiled like the cat that swallowed the canary. “I’ll carry you upstairs if I have to, but one way or the other, you are eating with me tonight.”
I sniffed and crossed my arms.
“And, every night until my guests arrive. Then, and only then, will you take your meals with the staff, and only because you will be working, but once my company departs, you will be hanging up that uniform for good.”
“What if I don’t want to?” I set my chin. “What if I like my job?”
Back and forth, he shoved two fingers over his forehead. “This is not a job that you are going to keep.”
“Why not?”
“Why, why, why?” He tossed his hand up in the air. “This conversation is over. Are you going upstairs to change on your own, or am I carrying you up?”
Grinning, I said, “I suppose you better get to carrying then,” calling Mr. King’s bluff.
“Very well.”
The man scooped me up and flung me over his shoulder like an ol’ sack of taters, the doing dislodging a little scream from my throat.
“Put me down this instant!” I wiggled.
“You had your chance, Ms. Singleton.”
Out the door we went, me flailing for all I was worth, him toting me down the hall, past all of his staff who stood frozen, watching us with their mouths hanging open.
“This is crazy!” I complained as he carried me up the stairs, into my room, and plopped me without manner onto my backside—bottom bouncing on the bed.
“Change,” he ordered with white-hot flames in his eyes.
“I think you’ve lost your wits.”
“I would agree.”
Cheeks blazing fire, I stood my ground. “I’m not changing with you standing in here.”
“I’ll turn my back, but I’m not leaving until you are properly dressed for dinner, and then I’ll escort you down.”
“Escort.” I snorted. “You mean you’ll carry me back down if I refuse to go, don’t you?”
“Oh, you can bank on it, Ms. Singleton.”
“Mississippi,” I huffed.
Chapter Ten
Dinner
“How is your cucumber salad?” Mr. King asked from his seat at the head of the large dining room table. Me to his right.
“Fine.” I balled up the napkin in my fist, squeezing the life out of it.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
I stabbed a piece of onion with my fork.
Calm as calm could be, he took a sip of his water—the cut crystal sparkling in the light before he placed the long-stemmed glass down and tapped his finger on the table by me. “This one.”
“Huh?”
“This is a salad fork.” He plucked it up. “Use this one.”
With the tips of my ears red-hot, I took what he was holding out. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He pointed toward the other two. “That is the dinner fork, and the other is for desserts.”
I’d wondered what all those different sized forks were for, although I hadn’t asked. But I appreciated the way Mr. King had pointed out my error, doing so as if my blunder was no big deal.
It was quiet for a moment, all but for the tink, tink, tink of our utensils scraping against the china.
“Tell me about your day, Mississippi.”
“My day was just peachy ’til someone came in and demanded I have dinner with him.” I smiled as if I were as sweet as honey. “From there, it went downhill.”
“Shame,” he said, face serious, “I had a good day, and my evening is even better.”
“Better?” Gently, I dabbed the corners of my mouth with my napkin.
“Oh, yes. I’m having a lovely meal with a beautiful lady. It doesn’t get much better in my book.”
“Ha, ha,” I said, more than likely the sourpuss expression on my face matching the sour taste of my tone.
“Speaking of books,” he said.
“I didn’t know we were speaking of them.”
He chuckled. “Tell me what book you were reading this week out by the lake.”
Tilting my head, I stared at him. “How do you know ’bout that?”
“About you reading a new book every other week, or that you were out by the lake doing it?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“I have my ways.” He grinned.
I’d wondered if he’d somehow been watching me again. If he had, I’d been unaware.
“So, what were you reading?”
I scooted my salad bowl aside. “The title is Sense and Sensibility.”
“Ah... by the English author Jane Austen,” he said, straightening his shoulders.
My eyes went wide. “You know of her?”
“I do. Ms. Austen wrote many classic novels.”
“So you’ve read them?”
He nodded. “I have.”
“Then, you know the story of the Dashwood’s. No need for me to tell you.”
“Do it anyway,” he said with a lift of his palm.
Frowning, I asked, “Why?”
He gave me his crooked grin. “I want to hear your take.”
“What I think might not be right.”
“Why not?”
Heat overtook my cheeks. “Sometimes, I need to stop and look up words I don’t understand.”
“In that case”—he placed his warm palm over the top of my hand, putting an end to my fidgeting—“you will have a real grasp of the story.”
I lifted my gaze. “How do you figure?”
“By researching the meaning of what is said, you gain knowledge, putting an end to any confusion, right?”
“Sometimes, I guess, unless I have to search out more words to get the meaning of the first.” I exhaled. “It can take me a while to read a book.”
“But, you read it.” Mr. King squeezed my hand, sending tingles up my arm. “How long it takes doesn’t matter.”
***
It was a gloomy Saturday afternoon when Mr. King’s guests arrived, giving me a solid week in total of etiquette lessons with Ms. Bauman. Lessons I was going over and over—a loop inside my mind ’til Mr. King’s daddy broke in when he call
ed me “Girly” while giving orders disguised as instructions on how to brush off the brim of the hat he’d handed over—gray eyes slicing through me. And alongside him, another gentleman who appeared well-heeled and mannered tipped his graying-chestnut-haired head, but there was something that reminded me of ol’ Harlow Brown, his smile slimy as a slug.
“Charles,” Mr. King said. “Will you please take my father and Mr. Carrington’s bags up to their rooms?”
“Sure will.”
He turned to me. “Ms. Singleton, I need to speak with you in my office on an important matter, so Ms. Bonny will take care of Father’s hat.”
He looked at her, I assumed, for agreement.
“I’ll be happy to take care of it.” She reached for the item in my hands.
“Oh,” I said, handing it over.
“Father. Mr. Carrington.” He returned his attention to them. “I’m sure you are both tired from the long trip. Ms. Bauman will show you to your rooms. Rest up. We’ll meet in the parlor at three for drinks.”
“I am feeling a bit haggard,” his daddy said.
“I agree,” said his companion, “rest sounds good to me.”
“It’s settled.” Mr. King patted Mr. Carrington’s big shoulder. “I’ll see you then.”
“Yes, yes,” the man said, bobbing his head.
“Ms. Singleton?”
“Huh?” I blinked up at Mr. King, realizing my stupid mistake too late—my blush probably blazing. “I mean, yes, sir?”
“Shall we?” He swiped an arm out as if showing the way.
“Of course.” I momentarily took the lead, then trailed behind him—worry slapping me.
***
“Mississippi, I’m sorry,” Mr. King said the moment he shut the office door behind him.
“For what?” I asked, confusion tingeing my voice. “I’m the one who slipped-up.”
“You didn’t. You were perfectly polite.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t address you correctly when you called my name.”
“I’m not concerned about that.” The man waved a hand. “I’m more troubled about the way my father treated you.”
Allowing what he said to sink in for a moment, I finally asked, “You mean, like part of the staff?”
He cleared his throat. “I only wanted you to help the others out during his visit, not—”