“I usually come in at eight o’clock.” The stranger’s mouth pinches as he eyes the key I’m still gripping. “I cook the meals for the day, and—oh damn—your bacon’s burning.”
He spins and darts down the stairs, sliding his hand along the rail as he goes. Here’s my chance. Releasing the door handle, I sprint across the bridge overlooking the living room, back into the west wing. I dart inside and lock the master bedroom door behind me, breathe a sigh of relief, and dial the number for Michael’s cell. He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey, sweetheart. Rest well?”
“Tell me you have a chef,” I blurt without thinking.
“Yeah, I probably should’ve mentioned him, but I thought a hot, home-cooked breakfast would be a nice surprise. Everything all right? You sound winded.”
“He scared me half to death.” Flopping onto the edge of the bed, I rub a protective hand over my belly. “He caught me in the—in the middle of the hall, and said something about a schedule, and bacon and—well, I thought a crazy ax-murderer had broken in or something.”
Michael laughs. “Ax-murderers don’t kill you with breakfast.”
“How would you know?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, sweetheart.” His tone is flat. “Dean Lewis is harmless. Best chef in the area.”
My heartbeat finally slows, now that I’m confident I won’t be hacked to pieces. “Any other help I should know about before I let you get back to work?”
“Someone comes by on Tuesdays and Thursdays to do landscaping. Dean and Samara, our housekeeper, are the only help we use daily, with the exception of Saturdays. I thought we’d like to keep that day quiet.”
We. Does he mean the two of us this time? I bet he and Joanna decided to keep Saturdays to themselves. I try to push away thoughts of how they’d spend their days together.
“So there are always people here,” I say.
“No, not always. Not if we don’t want them to be. We can always adjust the days they work. Do you have a problem with something?”
“No.” But it’s only Sunday, and I’m afraid to stare down the long barrel of the week. “I just wasn’t expecting such a large…operation.”
“I couldn’t keep Ravenwood up by myself.” More voices join the conversation in his office. I wish I was there with him all day, the way I used to be. “It takes a team of people to keep the house running so I can be here. Listen, Coll, I have to run. Love you.”
He ends the call. I sit for a moment, then pull myself together. Unlocking the door, I traipse downstairs into the kitchen.
“Let’s try this again,” I say sheepishly as I slide onto a stool at the massive island. “Good morning. I’m sorry about before, I didn’t know that you—”
“It’s fine.” Dean’s tone is clipped as he feverishly shifts from the stove to the counter and back again. “As long as you enjoy your bacon burned to a crisp.”
Folding my hands over the quartz, I take another look at him. I notice the seams on his linen pants are crisp, and he’s wearing a thick gold-chain bracelet. Not exactly daytime ax-murderer wear. He’s young too. Thirty, maybe.
“Bacon’s bacon,” I assure him. “I don’t think it’s possible to ruin it.”
“Coffee?” he asks, after removing the charred bacon from the grill. “I made you decaf.”
Before I can answer, he pulls a delicate china cup from a cabinet and adds two spoonfuls of sugar and a heap of vanilla creamer before passing it over. It’s not the way I like my coffee. Not even close—I prefer mine black with a shake of cinnamon. He didn’t even ask.
“Thank you.” I’m not about to correct him. Not when I’m pretty sure he’s still pissed over my freak-out that ruined his precious bacon. Who knew chefs could be so touchy? How did he expect me to react anyway, when I wake to find a strange man has been cooking while I slept upstairs? “When did you get here? I didn’t even hear you come in.”
“I told you, Miss Roper. I’m here every morning at eight.”
“But you weren’t here earlier, were you? When Michael was here? He didn’t leave until almost nine.”
“This morning was an exception, thanks to you. Every day—except for Saturdays, which are my days off—I’m here at eight. This morning, Mr. Harris requested I make you something special since you weren’t feeling well. That called for a late trip to the market.” He glances at the strips of burned bacon and makes a disgruntled sound. “Anyhow, I have a key. I always let myself in so I don’t wake Jo—anyone.”
“You can call me Colleen.” I pretend I didn’t hear the slip. “Miss Roper sounds way too formal. If you’re here every morning, we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”
“I prefer formality.” He’s still annoyed with me. Spinning to the sink, he scrubs his hands and gets back to work. “There’s nothing wrong with boundaries. They keep the water clear.”
Yet if I’m not mistaken, he was about to call Joanna by her first name a moment earlier.
The coffee he poured is so sweet it zings my teeth. Did he make it this way because this is how he used to make it for Joanna? Am I sitting where Joanna used to sit?
“Eat up,” he orders, sliding a plate in front of me.
It’s a tower of eggs sprinkled with something red on top—maybe bell pepper—and parsley for decoration. The only time I’ve seen meals this artistic is when I’ve gone out in the city with Michael. If he employed a chef in his home who could cook the same way, why didn’t we save the money and come here instead?
There’s only one answer: he didn’t want me here, in his personal space. In Joanna’s space, I correct, feeling tears sting. And Chef Dean doesn’t seem too happy to see me here, either.
“What is this?” I ask, stabbing a chunk of egg.
“Artichoke-scrambled eggs Benedict on an overturned English muffin. It’s one of her favorites.”
The ache in my chest grows stronger. One of her favorites. Joanna might as well be sitting on the stool beside me.
Dean’s breakfast is fit for a king—or, I suppose, a queen. Joanna, the former Queen of Ravenwood, with her perfect home and personal gourmet chef.
“You can leave the plate there when you’re through with it,” he says. “I usually cook all the meals for the day first, pack them in the fridge, and then wash the dishes before leaving. I’m out by eleven most days, unless Mr. Harris requests something really special.”
Mr. Harris. So he’s not on an informal first-name basis with Michael either. Only Joanna. I don’t know whether to be offended or curious. Maybe I’m both. I push the coffee aside and dive into breakfast as he removes duck from the refrigerator and begins prepping a second meal.
“How long have you worked for Michael?” I ask, picking out the artichokes and pushing them to the side of my plate.
“I’ve been employed at Ravenwood for the last two years.” He frowns. “Do you not like artichokes?”
“They’re fine, it’s just—I don’t think they’d go the best with eggs.”
His left eye twitches, as if I’ve tried to stab him in the face with a fork.
“It’s the pregnancy,” I cover up hastily. “My tastes are out of whack. It’s delicious.” And then I shove a heap into my mouth and choke down the artichoke before it makes me gag.
“You’re one of those picky ones, aren’t you?” he remarks, spinning on his heel and burying his head back in the fridge. “This is going to be a harder transition than I thought.”
Had he meant to say that more softly so I didn’t hear?
“Do you have any food allergies?” he demands.
“Not that I know of.” I bite off the end of a charred piece of bacon, simply to prove I won’t make a fuss if something isn’t perfection. “What are you making now?”
He slams a bunch of endive o
n the cutting board and slowly slides a butcher knife out of the block. “Miss Roper, I know you’re new here, and unaccustomed to the way this household is run, but allow me to enlighten you.”
I feel slapped. As if I’m a child being scolded for not finishing my dinner. “I was only trying to make small talk,” I grumble, setting down my fork.
Raising an eyebrow in distaste, he lifts the butcher knife high. Then he slams it down, severing the leafy vegetable in half.
“Most days Mr. Harris has left for work by the time I show up. I let myself in and start on breakfast. You stay in your room, asleep, until the coffee finishes brewing. When you make your way out, I serve you wherever you choose to sit, and then you eat in silence. This allows me to finish my work. Lunch today is a summer citrus salad with red Belgian endive, microgreens, candied walnuts, and raspberry vinaigrette. Dinner will be a baby arugula salad with dried figs and duck prosciutto, paired with rack of lamb, haricot verts, and fresh figs. Unless Mr. Harris changes his mind and wants something simpler, like seared Alaskan halibut over stir-fry vegetables. Do those sound suitable for your delicate pregnancy tastes?”
I stay in my room until the coffee’s done?
I eat in silence?
That was their routine, and how Joanna started her mornings. He expects me to slip right into her shoes—designer, I’m sure—and dance the same step.
Rather than wait for me to answer, he dives back into the fridge for more ingredients. How do I respond? I couldn’t understand most of what he said. He was speaking a foreign language. Culinary-ese. Did he say ‘verts’? What on earth are those?
“That all sounds wonderful.” I force a smile. “But I’d hate to see you overwork. Food from a can is good enough for me.”
He rises from his crouched position and stares, his jaw dropping in horror.
“I’m kidding.” My smile falters. “I’m sure whatever you cook will be fine.”
“Fine,” he whispers, parroting me. “I’m sure.”
I eat in silence as I was told to and listen to the music filling Ravenwood. I try to focus on the emotion in Hozier’s voice, but I can’t stop thinking about Joanna in this immaculate space, eating his food.
“How are the menus decided?” I wonder aloud when the silence becomes unbearable.
“When Joanna and Mr. Harris lived here together, she and I would pick the menu every morning. I shopped and prepped based on what she preferred. After she—well, when Mr. Harris found himself alone, I’d email the menu to his offices. Since August, he’s been dining out most of the time—I’m assuming that has something to do with you—so the food would rot in the containers. Awful waste of time.”
“I’m sure he appreciated your work,” I offer, stabbing a chunk of artichoke. “And he had to have eaten some of the food you cooked. I mean, we didn’t eat every meal together.”
“I wasn’t talking about the food.”
My mind reels. What was an awful waste of time then, if not the hours spent cooking?
The realization trickles in, dark and cold.
“Me,” I think aloud, the tremble in my voice giving away my nerves. “You meant Michael’s time spent on me.”
Dean huffs deeply and turns his attention back to his masterpiece. “I’m teasing, obviously. One thing you’ll learn about me is I have a dreadful sense of humor, and the timing that goes along with it. But I can cook. What do you think?”
“It’s great.” I smile again, pushing my food around the plate. “Really.”
“It was Joanna’s favorite breakfast. All of the meals I cook are her favorites, actually. Tailored to her tastes. Her requests. Right down to the seasoning. None of those will be changing, of course. Mr. Harris has specifically requested all meals remain the same.”
“Has he?” I feel the color drain from my face. “Well, if that’s the way he wants it, I’m sure it’ll be lovely.” I bet Joanna loved every bite of his meals. I’m sure they talked about fancy flavors and tastes and recipes to try for Michael when he had a long week at work. I look up at Dean. He’s standing still as stone, unmoving for the first time in the huge kitchen, a hand on his hip, the other clutching a dish towel. He eyes me carefully, waiting. I get the sensation that I’m being baited, analyzed for signs of weakness. I feel two inches tall. As if I’m an incompetent child who can’t appreciate the glorious food he’s prepared.
Suddenly I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble as I rise to my feet, steadying myself on the counter. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to head upstairs for a while. Start unpacking a few things.”
Taking the stairs slowly, I hear Dean turn up the radio. He sings along over the racket of clanging pots and pans. He knows he got under my skin—he has to know. And he’s doing it on purpose. He must’ve been friends with Joanna. They must’ve been close. Here I am, replacing her, an unworthy imposter. It can’t be easy to lose a friend and gain a stranger.
Does Michael feel the same?
He wants me to live here, walk where Joanna walked, rest my head where she did, eat what she ate. But in time, he’ll get over her. Soon, the meals will be to my taste.
“Everything’s going to be perfect,” I say aloud, remembering Michael’s words as I rummage through the first box. “Perfect.”
* * *
After Dean leaves, I pad downstairs and nearly collide with a squat woman with short, mousy-brown hair. She’s wearing a midnight-blue polo, khakis, and a pair of blue Nikes that match the color of her shirt. This time, I’m better prepared for the unexpected intrusion on my privacy.
“Good morning,” I say, stopping with a smile. “I’m Colleen Roper, Michael’s—”
“I know who you are,” she interjects with a nod. “I’m Samara Graves, the housekeeper. Pleasure to finally meet you. We’ve been prepped for your arrival.”
“How so?”
She begins digging through her pockets. “We were instructed you were to have no stress and do nothing that will cause physical strain on your body. Here.” She hands over a ring with two silver keys attached. “Mr. Harris also asked that I give these to you. The keys to the castle. The one he gave you earlier opens every outer door. That one,” she says, pointing to the more jagged key, “opens most of the doors on the inside—at least to the rooms you’ll be using.”
She doesn’t mention what the second key on the ring opens, though I think I already know.
“Thank you,” I say. “That was sweet of Michael to make copies so quickly.”
“Those aren’t copies, miss.” She strides past me. “They were Joanna’s.”
“Oh, I—I don’t know what to say.” The key ring seems to burn into my palm. “Thanks.”
Why wouldn’t Michael have made me another set—one of my own? It’s not like it would’ve been incredibly difficult or expensive.
Samara turns back, a strange smirk lifting the corners of her thin lips. “Would you like me to give you a tour around Ravenwood? Or can you find your own way?”
I pocket the keys before replying. “A tour isn’t necessary. I’ll find my own way. Thank you, Samara.”
Without an acknowledgment, she continues her trek up the stairs. But when I hit the bottom, I swear I can hear her laughing from the top.
I perch on the edge of a black leather couch in the living room, amid rows of taped boxes, and strain to hear where Samara heads first. West wing. I wonder—no, I shouldn’t even be paying attention to such things. I should be focused on my own workload. There’s still so much I have to do to prepare for our baby. Shopping and decorating the nursery top the list. Unpacking. Hiding out every morning until Dean leaves isn’t going to work. Not if I want to be productive.
Outside, curtains of mist roll in over the waves, sweeping over the garden and right up to the house. The sunshine
won’t last long at this rate, and from the look of the flat gray horizon, another storm is moving in on the heels of the last. Whether it’s the excitement of the morning, the decaf, or the earlier exchange with Dean, I’m bushed, and the day hasn’t even really begun.
Through the spotless glass of the living room window, I watch the parade of Point Reina’s royalty with morbid curiosity. The sidewalks are busy this morning. A forty-something brunette steers a stroller around a puddle and over a curb. Another, a blonde, strides across the street holding a bulging bag of groceries. I imagine them to be mothers and wives, nannies and mistresses. They’re late to yoga. Book club. Private tennis lessons. On their way to secret midday rendezvous in a dark corner of Starbucks. All important appointments that can’t be missed, of course.
A hatchback BMW passes slowly, curving around the bend leading toward the cypress grove. The woman inside waves at the others, and they all smile.
Michael didn’t tell me he lived in Stepford.
One woman in particular catches my eye. Waving enthusiastically at someone on the opposite side of the street, she’s strutting over the sidewalk as if it’s a catwalk, hips swaying, blond curls bouncing. To my surprise, she turns into Michael’s yard. I slide to the edge of the couch, watching her glide through the garden toward the entrance.
Oh God, no.
I’m not ready to meet anyone else. I’m barely keeping my head above water as it is.
She’s decked in workout gear—Nikes, leggings, white tank top peeking from beneath a purple sweater—but one glance at her flawlessly curled hair and fully made-up face, and I know she’s not headed to a gym. Her eyes are outlined, her lipstick too glossy and perfect.
She gracefully skips up the front steps and raps on the door. Two sharp bangs.
I hold my breath and wait for movement from upstairs. Am I supposed to answer? Is that what Joanna did? Or did she wait for Samara to greet guests?
More knocking.
No steps overhead.
Joanna’s not here anymore. I’m the woman of the house now. I should be the one to welcome people to Ravenwood. It’s my job to make them feel comfortable in this place, even if I’m not.
In Her Shadow Page 3