The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

by Ninya Tippett

  “Who’s Winnie?”

  “My friend at the concierge, remember? The one who dealt with Simone two nights ago.” I sighed. “By the way, would your siblings need food too? I'll make sure to bring enough. The fridge there is stocked but mostly with just granola bars and those microwavable sandwiches. There’s gourmet food service but I was a little offended by their prices. I can't rob a sick man like that.”

  “Well, Anna already ordered food and fed everyone so don’t worry about them,” Brandon answered with a sigh. “Jake drove them home after I got back and he’s getting some sleep too for a bit before swinging by again later. You and me are on watch but Dad hasn’t even woken up yet so we can nap a little. There’s a nice, big sofa bed here.”

  I grinned. “I know. I saw it. Not exactly the marital bed to spend our first day married on but I’ll bring some more blankets for us.”

  "Just get here, okay?" he asked, his voice faltering a little, more desperate than impatient. “I need to relax and I can’t until you’re here.”

  "Okay, babe," I said. "Now, let me go so I can get on with what I need to do here and head back over there as soon as possible."

  "Alright. See you later, babe."

  The whole babe-endearment just kind of came out of nowhere there but it didn't sound awkward—which was ironic considering how much I was deliberating over that mere gesture we fell into.

  Finally, I slipped my cellphone into my jeans' back pocket and looked around, alerted by the sound of the TV playing in the kitchen.

  Eyes narrowed, I grabbed a large, decorative slate stone sitting on top of a side table, cursing its weight and whatever insane idea that possessed me to think that I could possibly smack an intruder in the head with it when I could barely hold it steady, and made my way to the kitchen.

  I listened by the corner that led into the kitchen, frowning as I picked up the lines from the TV show.

  Surely, someone breaking in wouldn't sit around and watch a Judge Judy rerun, would they?

  “Who’s there?” I demanded, poking my head out and zeroing in on a woman sitting by the kitchen island, drying dishes. “Who are you?”

  She looked to be in her late-thirties, attractive with her bone structure and sharp gray eyes which held no emotion when they collided with my narrowed gaze.

  “Mrs. Maxfield?” she asked warily.

  My brows furrowed, lowering the stone to one of the kitchen side counters. “Um, who are you married to? Martin? He never mentioned a wife.”

  A look of surprise, and then confusion, crossed the woman’s face.

  And then she smiled tightly, as if straining to rein in any display of emotion. “I was addressing you, Mrs. Maxfield.”

  “Oh.” Right. New last name since last night. How can you forget that you now have a last name that works like a credit card, a VIP pass and a celebrity ID all at once?

  The woman stood and walked with poise toward me, dipping into an informal curtsy once she was in front of me. Who the hell curtsies these days unless facing a damned monarch?

  “I’m Gwen McGowan, the housekeeper.”

  Yes, right. Brandon’s phantom housekeeper who only showed up every few days to tidy up and cook him some food. He claimed disliking having a clutter of people in his place that he’d done away with a permanent household staff.

  I smiled broadly at her, taking her hand in both of mine for an energetic handshake which seemed to perplex her as she straightened, still staring at our joint hands. “So glad to meet you, Gwen. My name’s Charlotte Sam—I mean, Maxfield.”

  It might take a few days and several pinches on my arm for me to get used to this new last name.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Maxfield,” Gwen said politely after withdrawing her hand. “Congratulations on your nuptials—”

  “Please, don’t stand on ceremony with me,” I appealed with a small laugh. “Just call me Charlotte, I’ll call you Gwen. Really, I’m not big on the excessive formalities."

  It was suddenly hard to be Mrs. Maxfield in that moment. It was hard to play a poised and pleasant yet unattainable woman of the world when I was in sneakers, jeans, a neon pink tank top and a messy topknot.

  Gwen looked at me for a moment as if in deliberation before nodding and tipping me a small smile. “Alright, Charlotte. If that’s what you would like.”

  I let out a short sigh of relief before grinning at the housekeeper. “Actually, what I would really like is a big tub of strong, black coffee I can fuel on and some breakfast to bring to the hospital for Brandon.”

  “Oh, yes. I heard about his father,” Gwen said with a concerned frown. “Is he alright now?”

  “Pretty much,” I nodded, rounding the counter to look grab the tall, porcelain mug I’d been using in the last couple of days and filling it with some freshly brewed coffee. I closed my eyes briefly as I breathed it in, instantly relaxed by the strong, bitter smell. The hospital coffee, whatever little I had of it, tasted like mere drippings to this.

  I took a long, leisurely sip before looking back up at Gwen. “Doctors said the bypass went well and he just has to recover now. That means a week or so in the hospital for him and some of us who will be keeping watch.”

  “The news said something about your husband too and some altercation with his cousin in the hospital,” Gwen asked slowly as though extremely cautious of what she was saying. “I hope he’s alright, too. And his cousin.”

  I smiled at the woman in reassurance as I went to open the fridge and take out an assortment of ingredients for the sandwiches I was making. “Francis should be comfortable back in his own apartment now and Brandon will be in better shape once I bring him some clean clothes and food so he can eat and rest. We haven’t had any sleep or anything to eat since we got back from the wedding party last night.”

  Gwen stepped forward, her eyes widening as she watched me haul out a wooden cutting board and knife. “No, let me do it, please. I can make your sandwiches while you attend to whatever you need to. They’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  As much as I didn’t like letting other people do my tasks for me simply because of our economic gap, I flashed Gwen a smile. “That would be terrific, thank you. I’ll just have a quick shower and load up a bag for Brandon and then I’m going to head back to the hospital.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “I’ll pack you a cooler bag with snacks and energy drinks and water. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”

  I wanted to hug Gwen and twirl her around but I strongly suspected that a Mrs. Maxfield wouldn’t be particularly prone to dancing with the help so I just beamed at her and rattled off a handful of thank-yous before grabbing my mug and dashing off to the bedroom.

  I drank half of the coffee before scrambling into the shower. The steam helped my aching midsection and the pounding headache the lack of sleep, the summer heat and the pain meds joined forces to torture me with.

  After drying my hair enough that it wasn’t dripping all over the place, I let it hang over my back and put on a pair of white, cotton shorts, a floral peasant blouse and my red Chuck Taylors. I pulled a white fedora over my head and grabbed a pair of oversized sunglasses that would hopefully do two things: keep me incognito and block out the glare of the sun which was worsening my headache.

  Since we had a lot of stuff already packed in bags for our honeymoon trip, I had to go rummaging in the epic walk-in closet. After emptying a small, leather duffel bag I’d dug out, I went to rifle through some of Brandon’s clothes to find him a comfortable, uncomplicated set to wear along with a clean pair of black boxer briefs which I stared at for a full minute. It was hard not to imagine the snug fit of the fabric over the slopes and planes of that certain part of Brandon’s anatomy which I became intimate with last night—or much earlier this morning.

  Of all things that could’ve interrupted you, a heart attack—neither yours nor his—was the last thing you expected.

  If things had progressed much further, I would’ve probably would’ve a
cquired respiratory and circulatory problems—too much gasping and moaning and fevered blood directed to specific pleasure zones that were near bursting with sensations.

  So how did you say your heart attack came to be, Mrs. Maxfield? Too much pleasure from your husband?

  If nothing had happened to Martin, we would already be aboard Brandon’s private jet by now, kicking back and enjoying the high life while we traveled in comfort and luxury to his secret destination for our honeymoon.

  I wasn’t sure if I had been looking forward to it or dreading it—after my defenses crumbled so easily last night, I suspected it would’ve happened anyway, no matter my initial preference. My body clearly preferred Brandon and it didn’t care about some of the minor technicalities of our relationship.

  All it wanted was to make sweet, passionate love to the man I married and I wanted to call my true husband.

  For how long? A year or forever?

  I snapped myself out of the daydream and sat on Brandon’s side of the bed to pick up some of his important items like his watch, tablet and cell phone charger from his night stand.

  The bluetooth wireless headset I’d been clutching in my hand fell and clattered to the floor, bouncing off a small, black leather portfolio folder sticking out from under the bed.

  Absently, I picked it up to put it away in case it was important and work-related but as the folder contents shifted to one side, the top right corner peeking out from under the cover, I noticed the edge of a colored map.

  Before I could even consider that what I was doing was snooping, I found myself opening the folder and glancing down at its contents.

  My eyes widened, my heart starting a quick cadence.

  Tucked in the folder was a small collection of traveler’s maps, assorted pairs of tickets, brochures and guides. Under them was a notepad clipped on the folder, scribbled with Brandon’s unmistakeable large, bold scrawls.

  My breath caught in my throat as I set aside the other contents of the folder to scan Brandon’s notes.

  Project: Honeymoon with Charlotte

  Goal: Make my wife happy and let her have some fun at her favorite place in the world.

  Timeline: One week (July 21-27)

  Resources: C’s profile report, Aimee, Anna, Tessa, Felicity

  Brainstorming ideas:

  1. Quaint, romantic, private accommodations (C dislikes blatant displays of wealth)

  -Hotel des Grandes Ecoles (rustic, charming, courtyard dining)

  -L’Hotel (historical, fashionable, suite overlooks Paris rooftops)

  -penthouse; Walter building; 16th district; view of Eiffel tower, the Seine; for lease

  2. Lavoie Ecole de Patisserie (C’s pastry school; see about programs and classes)

  3. Macarons at Pierre Herme (C’s favorite. Ever. As per Aimee. Very important!)

  4. Dine at Parisian cafes (Le Cafe de Flore, of course. C loves it.)

  5. Romantic (C digs the big R) strolls along the Tuileries garden (classic), the Seine (Paris, after all), The Latin Quarter (old world charm), Buttes-Chaumont (waterfalls!), Montmartre (poetry-inspiring; should I prepare a poem? too much?)

  6. Museums (C adores them) Louvre, Marmottan (Monet), Musee d’orsay

  7. Eiffel tower (must take a picture of the two of us!)

  8 . Bike rides, boat rides.

  9. Bookstores

  10. The Paris Opera! (as per Aimee, C’s never been but would love to go)

  11. Shopping, of course. (As per Fel, remind her of the family she’s helping feed by buying clothes she can afford but may not necessarily need. As per Anna, let her buy what she wants and if she wants to put her own spin on it, let her. As per Tessa, spoil her like a princess. She hadn’t always been one.) Charlotte. A princess. Imagine that.

  Itinerary:

  1. Saturday, July 21, PM - Arrive in Paris. Check into hotel. Dinner reservations at—

  Important: Spontaneous. Gotta be spontaneous. Go wherever you and C end up—as long as you’re together.

  2. Have fun.

  3. Hold her hand.

  4. Kiss her a lot—lots.

  5. Cuddle.

  6. Snuggle.

  7. Buy her flowers.

  8. Tell her she’s beautiful.

  9. Try not to throw yourself all over her.

  10. Read books to her.

  11. Dance with her—anywhere, everywhere.

  12. Talk. Ask her about her time in Paris. Ask her where she wants to go in the world and take her there. Show her the world. Let her be young. And carefree. And happy.

  My fingers were shaking as I traced the letters of his scribbles absently, stunned by what I just read.

  At first, I was a little peeved that Brandon wrote out our honeymoon like a business project outline. I wasn’t surprised considering his pragmatic and logical approach to most things, with my exception, of course, but it seemed cold to me at first—until I got to the second line where the goal was stated.

  What obviously started out as a nearly-academic outline became something else.

  I could picture out Brandon sighing as his own random thoughts started taking over his no-nonsense plan—when he started to write more of what he thought and felt as candidly as he would’ve in his head and heart.

  He wanted to take me to Paris for our honeymoon, of all places.

  It had been the dream and escape I paid a high price for with my father—one I had achieved for a very short time before my father’s death dragged me back home where he’d wanted me to stay in the first place.

  Paris was one of the reasons I took Brandon’s offer in the beginning—for the chance to go back and reclaim that dream—yet here he was, planning on taking me back, even for just a short while.

  He was going to let me live that dream again, even for just a week, and join me in it.

  And he would hold your hand, kiss you lots, go for romantic walks with you and let you be young, carefree and happy.

  Tears stung my eyes and I tried not to smile and cry at the same time.

  The fact that he’d researched what he could find about my favorite place in the world and all my favorite things in it when I volunteered so little because the reminders brought back the disappointment of what I had to give up, touched me so deep in my heart that I stretched out in the bed, hugging the folder and the notepad close to me and fighting not to cry.

  It was a peek into Brandon’s heart and soul and I never expected I’d see myself inside them.

  You never thought he’d think of you that way—that he’d want to see you well and happy. Brandon is just as full of surprises in this marriage as you are.

  I laid there for a while, blinking back tears and grinning silly alone, before I sat back up and returned the folder and all its contents to where I originally found them.

  I finished packing the bag with some toiletries, grabbed the food from Gwen and hopped back into the car.

  Gilles helped me up with the cooler bag into the hospital room, standing guard for me as well in case anyone accosted me along the way. He left as soon as I stepped inside Martin’s luxury hospital suite. Yes. People could really pay an arm and leg for a stint in the hospital of a five-star-hotel caliber.

  Brandon was sitting next to his father’s bed, his eyes shut, his fingers kneading his forehead.

  Even though he seemed to have washed the coffee off his face and hair, he still looked disheveled and dirty and scraped up.

  My heart surged, remembering all that I read from his notepad earlier.

  I set down all my stuff and approached him.

  “Hey,” I greeted him softly, placing a hand on his shoulder as I leaned against Martin’s bed and faced Brandon. “I brought some food and fresh clothes.”

  He looked up at my touch, his eyes fluttering open and gazing at mine. They were anxious, tired and tender.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” he blurted out, taking my other hand and squeezing it. “I was tired and worried about Dad and Francis just pushed me over the
edge when he started talking about what needed to happen in the company if Dad died. I wasn’t prepared for that.”

  I squeezed his hand back, studying the fresh nicks on his knuckles from this morning’s scuffle. “I know. I understand.”

  Brandon shook his head in dismay. “And then when he turned on you—I just kind of exploded. I’m sorry for putting you through that. I’ve never gone that far before. I’ve never been arrested before, you know? I was too practical to get into any serious trouble.”

  I smiled. “I can actually see that.”

  He smiled weakly. “You can say I might have unraveled a bit with all the events of the last twenty-four-hours.”

  “I didn’t particularly make it easy on you,” I said with a sigh. “I’m sorry for forgetting to call your lawyer.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It helped me think and pull myself together,” he replied, glancing at Martin who was still lying unconsciously in bed. “I was starting to panic about the possibility that he was going to die and that I would never be able to confess our lie and ask him to forgive us for it. I did this to make him happy but the guilt wasn’t something I'd been prepared to live with.”

  I could empathize completely. I had been racked with that same guilt the whole time we waited for the doctors to proclaim that Martin was going to make it.

  “I still think he would be happier not knowing,” Brandon continued, still studying his father. “But to know that the option to tell him was there if I needed it gave me some room to breathe and make the better choice. But if he’d died, he would’ve taken that other option away and leave me with one I could never rectify.”

  The beauty and evil of choices. The lies we say out loud and the truths we couldn’t even utter within the confines of our own hearts. Such is the burden of free will.

  “He’s going to be okay, Brand,” I reassured him gently, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “Martin is a stubborn, old goat. We’re not going to lose him. Not for a long while.”

  He smiled and leaned in toward me, pressing his head against my chest, his own arms circling my waist. It gave me a certain height with him sitting while I stood and I tightened my arms around his shoulders and neck, resting my chin on the top of his head.