by Zoey Castile
“This is so much space for one person and we haven’t even been upstairs yet,” I say.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Scarlett steps over a packing tube in the bedroom at the farthest end of the house. It might belong to an expensive art print or a rug and I’m curious enough that I want to find out. “And no, he didn’t get left at the altar.”
“That’s not what I was thinking at all, but I guess it’s good to know about the person I’ll be cleaning for. Uhm—the ad said I’d have to live here?”
The ad didn’t mention anything about a man living alone near the woods but then again, it’s Montana.
“I’ll show you where you’d stay around back,” she says, returning down the way we came. “It used to be a bunkhouse before the Donatello boys turned it into a place to work on their cars. Now it’s the pool house. And you have the option of living there or at my place. I live just two miles through the woods between our properties. Now, this is the kitchen.”
I nearly gasp. I’m not about to win an episode of Chopped but I love to cook. The oven is huge, with thick iron grills and more buttons than I know to push. There’s a red stand mixer, a microwave that looks more high-tech than the burnt-spaghetti-covered mess at the house I live in now.
“I wonder if this is what Ina Garten’s heaven looks like,” I say.
“She’d probably get halfway to heaven if she saw the lonely box of Old Bay in the pantry,” she says with a wink. “The microwave also heats up frozen dinners in thirty seconds flat.”
I make a face. “Frozen dinners when you have all of this?”
Scarlett shrugs dramatically. “Some men seem to be able to survive on it.”
“Not my dad,” I say jokingly, but the swell of emotion that comes at the memory is both wonderful and terrible. It’s been years since he passed and I still feel his absence. Talking about him makes it better, like a calming balm on a burn. “Are there more rooms?”
“Downstairs is the home gym.” Scarlett’s light-brown eyes flick up to the ceiling. “Upstairs is a little more lived in. Follow me.”
We get to the stairs that run up and down the center of the house. The moment we get to the top floor, there’s the slam of a door and something like a bear growling.
Scarlett puts on a tight smile. “Don’t mind the little lord of the house.”
I clear my throat and pace around the empty living room, from one of the glass walls to the other. When I was applying to schools, I remembered a brochure of a small art department at Bozeman University. The picture showed scenery like this—trees and green and the outline of mountains in the background. This sight still steals my breath. The sun is low in the sky, behind clouds that are big and fluffy enough to want to take a bite out of.
“Ain’t it something?” Scarlett asks beside me.
“It really is.”
“So that’s the house,” Scarlett says. She turns around and points to a dark hall with missing ceiling lightbulbs. “You wouldn’t have to do anything up here. Just the main level and kitchen. Now, tell me about yourself?”
I practiced this speech in my dinky shared house off campus filled with ten people just to keep the rent at under three hundred dollars a month. It is similar to every introduction I’ve uttered at the first day of my classes in January. Teachers looked me up and down and plastered a surprised smile on their faces before asking, “Magda-leeeeena, tell us about yourself.” I give Scarlett the same spiel I’ve given everyone, including the TSA guy at JFK.
“Well, I’m twenty-six. I’m enrolled at the university. Art major. I’m originally from New York City.” I pause for the usual and inevitable arch of her brow and wow, New York City? You’re a long way from home. “Yep. I have one little sister. She’s almost fifteen and a handful and a half, but she lives with my stepmom. I was working up at Higgins Cafe but—”
“Gosh, sorry to hear about it closing down. Things get quiet during the summer but never quite like this. Have you ever worked in housekeeping?”
I shake my head. “I’m a fast learner. I got my first job when I was fifteen, bagging groceries, then a year later I was a cashier at a clothing chain. I got promoted to manager by the time I was eighteen. My mother and my aunt worked in housekeeping all my life. I know it’s not the same, but—” This is where I get to the part where I start rambling about responsibility and how I’ve been entrusted at so many things.
As I take out the résumé letter from the inside of my jacket pocket, what I don’t say is that I have to pay for school by the end of the summer or else I can’t return in the fall. I don’t tell her that the loan I had was canceled because my stepmother has been stealing my identity for the past six months. There’s ten thousand dollars of unpaid credit cards with my name on them, and, while I could get her arrested, I wouldn’t be able to do that to my little sister’s mother. Who would give me guardianship over Ariana when I’m still paying off my dad’s hospital bills? I couldn’t let my little sister go to a stranger’s home knowing I put her mom in jail. My chest feels hot with humiliation, with fear and panic at the uncertainty of my future. Scarlett has no idea of the anxious thoughts racing through my mind. Her eyes scan my résumé, nodding while she bites her lower lip. I’m seconds from throwing myself at her feet, but Scarlett puts her hand up.
She isn’t shooing me out the door. She rests a hand on my shoulder. “Look, hon, I can tell you’re a hard worker. You’re also overqualified for this.”
I brace myself for the “but—you’re not right for the job.”
Part of me has never been right for something. The first time I was in college, my first art teacher told me I wasn’t quite right for the field and then didn’t elaborate. The time I applied for regional director after being the manager with the highest-grossing store in the tristate area, I was told I wasn’t right for the job.
“But tell me about you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you’re going to be here all summer and I’ll be seeing a lot of you. Besides, Pat’s not exactly a kitten. More like a grumpy old lion. Have you worked with kids at all?”
I laugh. “If my sister, Ariana, counts. When she was seven, my dad got sick. My stepmom—she really didn’t know how to deal with it—so I dropped out of school to take care of her full time. Most of the time I had no idea what I was doing, but I learned and she’s a good kid. Does, uh, Pat have children?”
Scarlett looks panicked at the thought. “No, but it’s how I measure the required level of patience. I think you’d be perfect for this job, Lena.”
“Really? It’s not because you feel sorry for me, is it?” I ask. Shut up, stupid, and take the job!
She laughs that infectious laugh of hers. “What I need is someone with life experience. Anyone can sweep and mop.”
“You’ve never lived with nine college kids,” I mumble.
“Nine?” Her eyes go even bigger. “Oh, honey, no. Now, this is the setup. If you’re comfortable, you can live on the grounds, but if not, I have a bunkhouse, too. We had it converted for an Airbnb. You’d have your own space there as well, you’d just be driving over for meals.”
I glance around the empty space and that chill returns. Who needs the air conditioner blasting like this when the day is perfect outside? I suppose, it wouldn’t matter if I have my own mini-house to keep myself company.
“I don’t think my car could take going up that hill three times a day,” I chuckle. “This almost seems too good to be true.”
“Well.” She tilts her head to the side, like she’s weighing the next thing she’s going to tell me. “Remember when you asked if the owner is an eccentric millionaire?”
“Is he like Jay Gatsby?”
“Sort of. Only without the parties and we’re in the middle of nowhere Montana instead of New York.”
“Okay . . .”
“Point is, there are some house rules. You have the run of the place except for times that will be listed. After today, the second floor is off limits. You can
clean this living area, but as there’s nothing but wooden floorboards to sweep, you’d just be in and out. Under no circumstance are you to enter the room at the end of the upstairs hall. That’s Pat’s space.”
“Okay,” I say, like this is the most reasonable thing I’ve ever heard. I desperately want to ask why everything is off limits. I’ve watched enough telenovelas to have a myriad of scenarios in my head. Everything from secret werewolf to rare disease that won’t let him be around people or the outdoors.
“You will have to sign a nondisclosure.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “As long as he’s not in there because he’s a serial killer, I’m fine.”
“Definitely not a serial killer. I’ll be the one cutting your checks and we like our privacy around here. Pat would sure appreciate it, too.”
I’m sure someone who built a house they never finished decorating appreciates privacy. Though I can feel there’s part of the story I’m not being told. I decide it isn’t my business as long as I get the work done and keep to the pool house.
When I just keep nodding, Scarlett follows up with, “Can you cook?”
“Yes,” I say. “But I’m going to need some salt and I always thought Old Bay was a kind of deodorant.”
She laughs. “I’ll make sure you have the groceries stipend in cash.”
“Wait, I got the job?”
“Of course, you got the job.” Scarlett is already walking ahead of me back downstairs. I start to follow when I see a shadow move at the end of the hall. The door I’m not supposed to enter closes quickly. He’s right behind that door. I almost wonder if he’s going to come out and meet me. I know that I’d want to see the person who’s going to be living in my house for the next three months.
Rich people are so weird.
Scarlett shows me the area around back complete with a babbling brook, a hot tub, and a long crystal-blue pool. She tells me she’s a romance writer and I tell her I’ve never read any before. She’s practically brimming with book suggestions for me, and for the first time in so long, I feel at ease. This job pays more than I’ve ever made an hour in my whole life.
I don’t know much about Pat Donatello. I don’t care if I can’t lay eyes on him. Recluse billionaire, secret werewolf, whatever he is, right now, he’s my guardian angel.
PAT
The minute that tiny red hunk of junk starts jostling up my driveway, I try to picture the woman that’s going to pop out of that front seat. Even from this distance, I know those aren’t Montana State license plates. Probably some college student who’s unfortunate enough to stay in town during summer break, fast food and receipts littering the seats and floor, and dozens of air-fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror. I stomp to the kitchen to face Scarlett West.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I say.
She’s on her laptop going through applications. This is our last interview. It hasn’t been a long process since there were only four people who want the job. The locals already know me. They know all about the accident, all about my name in the papers. If they’re not new to town, then they know about my family, too. The Donatellos. Even though we lived in a dilapidated ranch inherited from Grandpa Donatello, my dad made his trade as a steel worker and my brothers smoke jumpers. Rough hands and rougher attitudes—well—as far as I’m concerned. Ronan was the funny one, the one anyone could be friends with, and Jack was the kind one, the sweet one, the one everyone loved. I was the one you didn’t want your daughter bringing home. I can’t quite remember why I got that reputation, but it’s a small town. The reputation I have now? I suppose I deserve that one.
Those four applications on Scarlett’s computer know nothing about what I did to my little brother. My friends. Myself.
“Let’s forget it,” I say, this time breathless despite the hours of cardio I’ve put in this week.
Scarlett finally takes her warm light-brown eyes off the screen and levels them with mine. She’s about the only person other than my old boss Rick who can get me to shut the hell up. When they mean business, they show it.
“You sit your ass down, Patrick Halloran. You and I both know that you’re not going to get these boxes unpacked and you’re not going to clean out the mess of spider webs infesting every corner of this house. I’m too short to reach your confounded high ceilings and I’ve got a book to finish, so I can’t be making sure you feed yourself and keep this place livable.”
This house. This house that I had built on the foundation of my family’s old ranch. Jack hated the idea of it, but I always thought he’d come around to it when he returned home. The second my check cleared from the agency last summer, I had bulldozers turn the ranch to splinters. Some of the neighbors who knew my family didn’t voice their disapproval of my design, but back then, I didn’t care what they thought anyway. I was thinking I could give my brother something to be proud of, something our parents couldn’t provide no matter how hard they tried. Now, it just feels like a giant container made of glass and steel and wood. Sometimes, when I walk past the boxes of designer fucking pillows and unbuilt furniture, the only thing I want to do is carry everything out the damn door and set it on fire. And every day I can’t. So, I settled for breaking one of the tables yesterday.
It didn’t help.
“This will just be like the others,” I say, and hear how ungrateful I sound.
Shaking her head as she pinches the bridge of her nose, Scarlett asks, “How do you know that? Did you suddenly develop psychic powers from staring at the same five walls every day?”
“Because. There’s no one in this town during the summer and I don’t need someone coming in here to gawk at me like the fucking freak show I am.”
I don’t look at her, but I know she’s staring at me. She does this when she doesn’t want me to feel self-conscious about the angry red scars zigzagging across my palm, up my forearm, my face. She looks at me like she’s trying to prove a point and that makes it worse.
“You’re not a freak show and no one is gawking at you, Pat.”
I grip the edge of the kitchen island, a strange pressure building at the center of my chest. Am I really that nervous? Of course, I should be. Scarlett’s the only person, other than the nurses and doctors, who has seen the rest of the scars on my torso and my legs. I rub a hand across my face. The thought of a stranger looking at me now makes the nerves in my chest fritz even worse. “You’re gawking right now.”
“I’m looking at you, Pat,” she says softly. “We’re having a conversation and I’m looking at you. I thought you agreed with me that this was for the best.”
I wish I had something to throw on the floor, but if I make a mess of her paperwork she’ll kill me. “Maybe I’m changing my mind.”
Scarlett shuts her laptop and pulls her auburn hair into a messy bun. I go to the living room window and keep an eye on the car. Whoever is in there must be gunning that thing, but it’s barely making it up the hill while going about ten miles per hour. At this rate it’ll be sunset before the interview starts, which is fine by me.
“Let’s talk about this,” she says, and continues despite my groaning and moaning. “You need help around here. We agreed it would be my gift to you. We agreed on an NDA. She can’t take pictures or go into your rooms. What has you changing your mind?”
I take a deep breath. Ball my hands into fists. “The first guy who walked in here was stoned out of his mind and I wouldn’t trust him to take care of my goldfish—”
“You don’t have a goldfish.”
“If I had a goldfish, I wouldn’t trust him to remember to change the water. The second was my math teacher from junior high and I hated that bastard. He failed me for taking his daughter to the movies even though we didn’t even make out.”
“I’m sure you called that nice girl back.”
I sidestepped that verbal land mine. “The third one was a sixty-five-year-old woman who worked with my mother and wouldn’t stop asking questions about Jack, and Ronan like he�
��s still alive. I don’t want people in my space. I don’t want people turning me into a fucking joke—or worse. Another fucking tragedy.”
“Okay, honey,” she says, stretching to place her palms on my shoulders and rubbing slow circles. Scarlett’s only five years older than me, and though she looks youthful, she’s got the kind of motherly presence that calms me down. She takes care of me. She’s the only person allowed in here because I trust her. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you take a moment to think about it, really think about it, you have to know that you need some help around here. Whoever we end up hiring is going to have a schedule. They can stay with me if you really want that. But you won’t even notice she’s here. I mean, look at this place. It’s big enough for a dozen and then some. You’ll barely know anyone’s here.”
I shake my head and peer out the window. The car finally pulls up out front. I start to turn to Scarlett. I want to tell her that I don’t deserve anyone’s help. I don’t even deserve Scarlett.
But I can’t say anything because when she steps out of the car, she is nothing like the person I had thought of. Even from here, I can see her high cheekbones, her full lips. Long brown hair whips in the early summer breeze. She shoves her hands in her jeans as she turns to look at the trees out back. Something inside of me rips the breath from my chest. She is heart-stoppingly stunning.
“I’ll go greet her,” Scarlett says, with a curious glint in her eye. “You’d better make yourself scarce so you don’t have anyone gawking at you.”
I growl at that, but even as she leaves me for the front door, I find myself following. A part of me says to keep going. To take a step over the threshold where there is nothing but ten acres of my land, filled with green hills and woods. It would just be me, Scarlett, and her. I try to think of the names of the applications but can’t. Why didn’t I look at them when Scarlett forwarded them to me?