Maid for the Billionaire

by Abby Knox

  “Motherfucker, please. If you are a debt collector, what you’re doing is highly illegal.”

  Just then, I hear tires squeal as a car turns wildly into my driveway. I don’t look behind me but from the way it sounds, it seems that Luke has parked on the opposite end of the U driveway from my car, which will block in Mr. Meathead here. Good boy, I think. He’s going to get a special surprise later.

  “The man of the hour,” says my debt collector dude sarcastically.

  I don’t take my eyes off the big oaf, because I don’t trust him, not even when Luke is coming up the walk.

  Turns out, Luke is hopping mad because in the next moment Luke has debt collector guy pinned against my front door with the force of a freight train.

  “Luke, this isn’t necessary,” I say, pulling out my phone. Still, I don’t mind if he wants to rough the guy up a little bit to buy me some more time.

  The guy pushes Luke off him, and Luke stumbles back a couple of steps.

  Luke’s nostrils flare. The dude in the golf shirt looks unfazed as he straightens out his clothes that got rumpled in the minor dust-up.

  “Mr. Jeffries, why don’t you just ask your nice girlfriend here to pay up. We know who she is. I’m sure she’s got the money.”

  Luke’s hands squeeze at his sides, ready to throw a punch. Through gritted teeth he says, “Babe, this is not how I meant for you to find out.”

  “Find out what?” I ask. “You forget what I do for a living. I’ve already had you thoroughly checked out. There’s nothing you can say or do to make me upset.”

  “Stella, don't say that until you know the truth.”

  I gaze at him and wonder what he could possibly be talking about.

  “Out with it, then,” I say.

  He sucks in a breath and looks sheepishly at me—ashamed, even.

  He looks like he’s about to confess to murder. So if it’s anything less than violence, I don't care.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Luke

  I wish the meathead would shut the fuck up for a moment. He’s interrupted the flow of this conversation seventeen times now.

  “This is a very nice moment you’re having, sharing and feeling and growing, but if I don’t collect either the money or this car today, then I’m calling the police.”

  Stella holds my gaze steadily. Fearlessly.

  I take a deep breath in and let it out, knowing her opinion of me isn’t going to change.

  “OK, here’s the deal. I borrowed money against my car to afford head shots and acting classes. ”

  I wait for her to sigh, shake her head, shame me for my lack of judgment. But she doesn’t do any of that.

  “That’s it?” she asks.

  Incredulous, I reply, “Uh, yeah.”

  Stella’s shoulders hunch forward and she covers her eyes with one hand, crossing the other arm in front of her. At first I think maybe she’s going to cry but no. The sound she makes next is not crying but exasperated laughter. “Oh my god, this whole thing is about a loan for how much?”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars.”

  She looks at me tenderly. “How much interest are you paying on this?”

  “Forty percent.”

  The last time I saw that look on a woman’s face it was on Xena Warrior Princess. I think she might have enough fire in her to drop-kick the guy into next week.

  Instead, she walks right up to the guy and asks, “Who do you work for?”

  “None of your—” he retorts.

  “Golden State Finance,” I say.

  She takes out her phone and speed dials somebody without even having to look at her phone. She places it on speaker. “Maura, who is the parent company of Golden State Finance?”

  “Just a moment, Ms. Monroe.”

  We wait about thirty seconds while two of us wonder what’s going to happen next and the third calmly examines her nails.

  Maura clicks back on the line. “Bank of Cleveland, which is a subsidiary of Federal Credit Corp, which is a subsidiary of General—”

  “That’ll do. Thank you, Maura.”

  “My pleasure, Ms. Monroe.”

  She hangs up and informs us she has a few more calls to make, and suggests that we should go inside and make some tea.

  The oaf and I glance at each other with disdain, and look back at Stella, who’s now escorting Lucille from my car to her front door while making introductions.

  “That’s him!” Lucille points and shouts. “That’s the man who tricked me!”

  Stella pats Lucille on the shoulder and says, “If you would be so kind as to go inside and let Luke make you some tea, you can tell Mister Debt Collector how to make better life choices.”

  As the ladies approach, the polo-shirted thug and I part like the Red Sea to let them pass and I hold open the door.

  “I ain’t got time for this shit,” he complains. “I’m calling the tow truck so I can get this over with.”

  When the women are out of earshot, I mutter at the meathead through gritted teeth. “Watch your mouth around the ladies, and quit your whining. I gotta go in there and convince somebody named Laney to let me marry her best friend. You’re getting off easy.”

  It doesn’t take long before Stella joins us in the kitchen. By the time she does, the debt collector thug has been thoroughly chastised by an 85-year-old woman. Laney is looking cautiously optimistic about me, and I’m simply full of butterflies about what could happen next.

  “Welp,” Stella says. “That takes care of that. Sir, you’re free to go and don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out. Because, I actually own that ass now.”

  Meathead scoffs. “Not without finishing the job. Wait…” His shovel-like face now turns to a notification on his phone and he’s tuned out of the continuing conversation around him.

  I stand up out of pure nervous energy because I’m about to burst out of my skin. “Babe. What are you talking about? Do I gotta give up my Ford?”

  Stella puts a hand on my beard. “Oh babe, do you think I’d let that happen?”

  I shake my head. “You’ve helped me enough. I couldn’t live with the guilt if you paid off my debt too.”

  For some reason, she laughs. “Honey. You’re adorable. I didn’t pay off your debt.”

  Meanwhile, Lucille and Laney are pouring more tea and watching us, open-mouthed and wide eyed.

  “Good,” I breathe.

  “I bought the company.”

  Laney shrieks. Lucille gasps.

  I throw up my hands, “What?”

  “Well, technically I bought the parent company and I’m liquidating all the assets of Golden State Finance.”

  Meathead curses, nearly turning over a chair as he bolts out the door while dialing up someone on his phone, muttering about shredding some paperwork.

  I’m incredulous. “You’re not in finance, Stella.”

  She shrugs. “Guess I am now. And I got your seed money for you. You earned it by being preyed upon by a shady company. No arguments.”

  Breath is not coming easily at the moment. I don’t feel pandered to, as I thought I would when I first suspected that Stella might try to erase my debt. I feel elated, looked after—for the first time in a very long time.

  I try to form words but there’s only one thing I can think to say.

  Lucille is here, Stella’s best friend Laney is here. It’s about as perfect a moment as there may ever be.

  I drop to my knee. “I’m sorry I don’t have much to give you. I’m sorry I don’t have a ring, I wasn’t expecting to do this today. But I can’t let you go on taking care of me like this unless I lock you down for good, do you understand me? Don’t answer that. Yet.”

  Stella’s face has gone white, her eyes are shining, and her hands are shaking. I’ve shocked the hell out of her. I take her hands in mine and continue.

  “Stella, I love you. I can’t think of anything else to say but thank you. Now will you marry me and let me love you?”

  Stel
la falls, sobbing, to her knees. I catch her before she hits the floor.

  Through her tears and exhausted sighs, I hear her answer.

  “I’ve only known you for three days, but I’m gonna love you forever, Luke.”

  Lucille claps her hands and nudges Laney. “Oh, don’t be such a party pooper and give ’em a smile. My Buster is getting married!”

  Epilogue

  One year later

  Luke

  I’m getting that odd sensation again. Three years ago when I first cleaned out Stella’s house, which is now our house, I had this feeling. Too much stuff.

  And now I’m getting that again. I only left Stella alone for two days while I built closets at a brand new cabin in the woods with no cell service, and I came home to a house full of boxes and clutter.

  There’s too much stuff in here.

  “Stella?”

  She doesn’t answer, but her car is in the driveway instead of the garage so I know she’s home.

  I find her in the nursery, and it’s not looking anything like it did when I left.

  Specifically, it now contains two toddler beds with guardrails, two dressers, an overflowing toy box, and a huge handmade dollhouse.

  When the foster care agency told us to have the house ready for a home visit to determine if the house was fit for a child, they just said to prepare one bedroom.

  And they said it would take a while if we really want to wait for a baby and not take an older child.

  Stella walks in and sees my face, but she’s looking triumphant.

  “I see you went to Ikea without me,” I say.

  She grins up at me and slides one arm around my waist. “Isn’t it cute?”

  “Babe, we don’t need a spare bed. Or any of the rest of this. Are you doing OK?”

  She quirks her lip and looks around. “I don’t know, I thought the room was too big and needed extra stuff.”

  But something about the way she’s looking around the room and not making eye contact with me tells me she’s up to something.

  “Stella, stop being coy. What’s up?”

  When she’s excited to tell me something, my wife’s hips shimmy slightly in a happy dance. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

  I can’t help myself. I have to grab the banging ass that’s making that shimmy. “I’m going to squeeze it out of you.”

  She peers up at me sheepishly. “The agency called. They’re bringing us siblings. Two girls.”

  My body can’t decide if my stomach wants to plummet off the edge of a cliff or my heart wants to soar into the clouds.

  “Two?”

  She nods, biting her lip. “Yes. They didn’t want to separate them. They don’t have any extended family and it’s an emergency situation. I got the call yesterday, I ordered the stuff yesterday, and they came to do the home visit this morning, and they’ll be here—”

  The ringing of the doorbell cuts off her words.

  “Now? They’ll be here now?” I ask, flabbergasted.

  Stella gasps, covers her mouth, and dashes out the bedroom door.

  I’m sort of feeling frozen in my spot.

  She turns back toward me and waves me toward the door. “Come on! What are you waiting for?”

  I open my mouth and the sound coming out is hoarse, like my throat has been scratched by a Brillo pad. “I don’t know. I just…need a minute.”

  I would not blame Stella if she was angry at me for this. Heck, I’m angry at myself right now.

  I don’t understand why my body won’t move.

  Like my brain is telling my body to stay put and process for a minute.

  So, I let it.

  When I start to make my way downstairs to join my wife and the social worker, a million thoughts go through my head. It’s not that I don’t want to do this. The question is, can I do this? Am I equipped for this? I never stopped to ask myself if I can be a good father. I always wanted children but I never stopped to think about it.

  And now I don’t know.

  I’m doubting myself, and if Stella could see inside my mind right now she would be kicking my ass.

  As soon as I see them, however, everything changes.

  I step into the kitchen where my wife is sitting at the table with the social worker. Two strawberry-blonde girls are perched on her lap, as if they are already bonded to her. The older one, who looks about four years old, has her arms around my wife’s arm and the other girl, maybe age two, is sucking her thumb.

  Stella is signing paperwork and asking questions, alternating questions with little jokes and lighthearted questions for the two kids about what kinds of things they like.

  When they see me, Stella looks at me warily. I communicate to her with my eyes that everything is OK with me now. She smiles warmly up at me.

  God, I love her more than I thought I could love anybody.

  “Cynthia, Cameron, this is Luke,” Stella says, a smile in her voice as she pats their heads to indicate who is who.

  “You guys hungry?” I blurt out, as if on instinct.

  I’m suddenly flooded with the need to take care of everyone. My wife, the kids, even the social worker.

  The younger of the girls looks a little apprehensive and remains on Stella’s lap, her curly, matted hair partially covering one of her wide green eyes. The older one, Cameron, climbs down and walks over to me while I work at the stove.

  I pull over a chair and she lets me hold her steady while we cook together. Her eyes are big and curious; she looks at me like I’m an alien being and she’s Elliott in E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. Carefully, she leans over the stove and scrunches up her freckled nose. She points one thin finger at the cheesy mixture.

  “That’s not how I make mac and cheese,” she says.

  I have the urge to laugh, but I stifle it, careful not to let her think I’m laughing at her. “Oh really? How do you make mac and cheese, Cameron?”

  She looks up at me as I stir, her dirt-smudged forehead wrinkling at me. She thinks I’m certifiable. “In the microwave!” she exclaims.

  I nod thoughtfully. “That’s a pretty good way to do it. I don’t have the stuff to make it that way but maybe you can show me what to buy tomorrow at the store?”

  She nods slowly.

  “For now, if it’s OK with you, I’m gonna make it my way and see if you like it?” I say, posing it as more of a question.

  Cameron looks at me skeptically. “I guess.” It’s clear, though, that she’s going to be keeping an eye on the crazy chef. She does not approve of my methods.

  After we slide the homemade mac and cheese into the oven, I cut up some fruit for everyone to tide them over.

  The five of us sit together at the table and eat cut up bananas and strawberries, but the social worker doesn’t stay for the mac and cheese.

  After she leaves, the girls are quiet and hesitant around us, but also curious. Their eyes stay trained on us. Later, we show them their room and Stella helps them take a bath together before getting ready for bed. I worry about bathtime. We've been warned, through our foster parent training, that sometimes kids will refuse a bath for a variety of reasons. Baths, and other mundane activities, could be a trigger for any kind of trauma that the kids have been through.

  This first night alone with our new foster family is a struggle, I’m not going to lie.

  The girls cry out in the middle of the night, and they only want Stella. She ends up sleeping in their room, all three of them together on a tiny bed. I go to check on them in the middle of the night, and the little one’s too-thin body is nestled in the crook of Stella’s arm, her dimpled cheek resting on my wife’s shoulder. Cameron, who I have a feeling is going to be labeled the contrary one, lies with her head on my wife’s shin and her delicate feet close to making contact with Stella’s nostrils. I know my wife, and she hates sleeping flat on her back. Maternal sacrifice is already taking hold, I see. I just hope the girls will let me take some of that burden, eventually.

  Even if we on
ly have the girls for a short time, I’ll cherish this mental picture for the rest of my life.

  The next day, I take it easy and let the girls bond with Stella while I cook, shop for clothes, and clean up after their play time. I dutifully take Cameron’s request to pick up some microwave Easy Mac.

  Other than snack requests, the two little girls don’t appear at all interested in me. I don’t feel hurt by it. By the end of the second day, Cameron is cooking all the meals with me.

  By the end of the week, we’re teaching them how to swim in the pool in their brand new swimsuits and Disney character floaties.

  I don’t know what the future is going to look like or if either of the girls will ever warm up to me. But whatever happens, I know it’s all going to be fine.

  All I need to do is my best, take care of Stella and be the best substitute parent and friend I can be.

  Any thought of trying not to get emotionally attached to these girls—due to the fact that they could one day be reunited with their biological family—goes out the window. In a matter of days, I’m a completely smitten puppy. Nothing makes me happier than watching my three girls play Chutes & Ladders together, or reading Fancy Nancy at bedtime.

  By the end of the month, Cameron allows me to give her and her sister nicknames: Cameron is now “Freckles” and Cynthia becomes “Dimples.”

  It’s impossible not to get attached, no matter what the social workers say. I know full well they could go away someday. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a year. And that would hurt. It would probably wreck me.

  But I’ll be OK with whatever happens, knowing we’re doing the right thing. Together.

  Epilogue

  Three years later

  Stella

  My back hurts, and I’m skeptical about this bikini that’s been laid out on the bed for me.

  But it’s beautiful and sparkly and I put it on anyway.

  Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I try to see what Luke sees.

  It’s not hard. I smile at my reflection. I look like a sensuous pregnant mermaid.