“My head feels like it’s going to split open.” He massages his forehead.
“Maybe a shower?” I suggest.
He looks me up and down as if he’s actually noticing me for the first time. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
He frowns. “Why do you want to work for me?”
I swallow. I’m not one to hold back, or be dishonest. “Because I can’t get a job anywhere else.”
He laughs. “That’s as good a reason as any I suppose. What’s wrong with you?”
I decide to lead with some of my qualifications, sparse as they may be. “I have two Master’s degrees from Yale.”
He throws up a hand to stop me. “I didn’t ask you about your education, as fine and pretentious as it may be.”
He looks directly into my eyes for the first time and it gives me a chill. The man is definitely fighting some demons. There’s no doubt about that.
“I want to know why you can’t get a job anywhere else.” He stares at me expectantly.
My chest tightens and my heart begins to race. Is he going to fire me before I even have a chance to start?
“I was working as a nanny for Dannabelle.”
He furrows his brow. “What the hell is a Dannabelle?
“The actors Daniel Robinson and Annabelle Miller,” I clarify.
I’m glad when he gives a nod of recognition. I would be really worried if he had never heard of them. They were an even bigger celebrity couple than Bennifer, Tomkat or Brangelina.
“There was a bit of a scandal. The press called the ordeal Nannygate. I got fired when Annabelle accused me of having an affair with her husband.”
He raises an eyebrow then winces in pain. “Did you screw him?”
I shake my head. “Of course not. I would never do anything like that. Annabelle wanted to divorce Daniel and she used me as a convenient excuse. That way she didn’t look like the bad guy. Or bad gal, I guess.”
He takes in a deep breath as he seems to consider my story. “Okay. I just want to make sure that there’s not going to be any hanky-panky going on.”
Hanky-panky? I know the guy is old, but he’s not that old. That term makes him sound like he’s ancient.
“I can assure you there will be no hanky-panky on my part, sir.”
He makes a finger circling motion. “This is a hanky-panky free zone.”
I nod. “I understand.”
“And don’t call me sir. Jack is fine.”
“Jack? You don’t strike me as a Jack.”
He narrows his gaze at me. “What do I strike you as?”
“You’ve kind of got a Jeff Bridges vibe.”
His expression is blank. “Who?”
“The actor. Jeff Bridges. You look like him. You know. The Dude.”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t know.”
“Never mind.” He’s definitely a recluse. No doubt about that.
“I think I’d better go to bed.” He rubs his temple. “My head is killing me.”
“No!” I don’t mean for my voice to be that loud. It startles both of us.
“No?” He glares at me.
“You just got up,” I explain. “I think it would be better for me to make you coffee. We could sit down and you could tell me some of your expectations for me as your new assistant.”
He looks me up and down. “You make coffee.”
“Of course.” Is that a trick question?
“Is it good?”
“I think it is.”
His forehead wrinkles even more than it was already. You would have thought I’d just asked him for one of his kidneys with as much thought as he’s giving my suggestion.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Do you make toast too?”
I laugh. “It’s one of my specialties.”
Jackson’s kitchen is enormous, and just as immaculate as the rest of the house. He must have a housecleaner, but I don’t see any signs of anyone else anywhere.
After I find the coffee-maker and very expensive Kona coffee I start brewing a pot. Being unemployed for so long I could only afford the cheap stuff. Getting to have high quality coffee is definitely a perk of what so far seems to be a really weird job.
I’m not surprised that he has trouble keeping assistants. The job seems to require a high tolerance for ambiguity. Not many people possess that quality.
Normally I don’t either, but you know what they say about desperate times and desperate measures. Count me in on that cliché.
His large fridge is stocked with lots of food. Additional evidence that he has a housekeeper. Someone has to acquire this amount of fresh produce.
There are several different types of bread. I select the whole grain. I also grab the butter and raspberry jam.
He’s got one of those eight-slice toasters and I’m immediately jealous. I’ve always wanted one of those.
I make eight slices, just because I can. And I’m not sure how much he’ll want to eat.
Once the toast pops up I grab the slices, the butter and jam, and a couple of plates and knives and bring them over to the table.
Then I grab two mugs, pour us both coffee, and join Jackson at the kitchen table.
He savors his first sip of coffee like it’s a treasure. Kona coffee just may be as expensive as gold.
“How did you know I like it black?” he asks.
“Call it a hunch. The flavor of the coffee is too good to dilute it with cream or sugar.”
He points a finger at me. “Smart girl. Your money for the fancy Ivy league education didn’t go to waste.”
He grabs three slices of toast and slathers on loads of butter and jam. I wait while he takes a few bites before I speak.
“I wanted to get a better idea of some of your expectations for my job.” I look at him expectantly.
“Aren’t you going to have some toast? This jam is fantastic.”
I grab a slice and put small dabs of butter and jam on it.
Jackson glares at me. “You need more than that. That’s not even enough to taste it.”
I put a bit more of both the butter and jam on my toast then take a bite. “It is good,” I tell him after I swallow.
He gobbles down the rest of his toast then takes two more slices, loads them with butter and jam and wolfs them down just as quickly.
Eyeing the last two slices he asks, “Are you going to eat those?”
I shake my head. “Help yourself.”
And that’s exactly what he does. He scarfs them down so fast I wonder if he even had time to chew.
“You’re right. Toast is your specialty.”
It’s more likely that he was just really hungry from his drinking binge, but I keep that to myself.
“Your expectations…” I remind him.
He runs his tongue along his top teeth before he speaks. “I have a few rules. The first one we already discussed. No hanky-panky. That’s what got Sadie in trouble. I’m not interested in a tumble in the sack with my assistant. I’m old enough to be your father. And she was even younger than you. Right out of college.” He shakes his head. “That’s a road I have no interest in going down.”
“Of course,” I tell him. “No problem.”
I’m sure Jackson is an attractive man when he gets cleaned up, but I definitely don’t find older guys attractive. And he’s pretty old. I can’t imagine what a new college grad would see in him other than his money.
“I’ve got a cat around here somewhere. Her name is Knox, after the main character in my suspense series, Blake Knox.”
“Her?”
“I named her Knox before I realized she was a female. By then it was too late. It had already stuck.”
I admit I don’t know a lot about cats, but I think the difference between a male and female would be fairly obvious.
“My cat stays indoors at all times. She is not allowed outside. That’s rule number two.”
I nod. “Cat stays inside. I’ve got it.”
&nbs
p; “Your main responsibility will be to reply to all correspondence. That includes fan mail, emails, Facetwats or whatever the hell people are doing online, and invitations. I get a lot of invitations for speaking engagements, signings, teaching classes. You name it and people ask me to participate. Rule number three is always say no. No matter what it is the answer is always no. I don’t care how appealing you may find the invitee or the cause. The answer is still no. Got it?”
“Always say no,” I repeat. “Got it.”
“Good. Now you may have noticed that I don’t have any televisions, or radios, or other sources of unwanted noise. I like silence. Rule number four is peace and quiet at all times.”
“No noise. I’ve got it.”
He nods. “There’s just one more thing. Rule five is never stand between me and my booze.” He glances around the kitchen. “I think it’s time for a little hair of the dog.”
One thing I didn’t see as I searched around the kitchen for the stuff to make breakfast was any alcohol.
As Jackson rises from his chair he’s still a little wobbly. He does manage to make it over to the cabinets and searches through all of them before giving up.
“Earl must have hidden my last few bottles.”
“Who’s Earl?”
“My housekeeper.”
“You have a male housekeeper?” The question pops out before I have a chance to censor myself. I hope that didn’t sound sexist.
He laughs. “Earlene Fairweather. She’s definitely female, older than dirt, short and round. She’s been working for me for years. She was actually a nun when she was young. Ended up pregnant and apparently couldn’t convince her superiors that it was another immaculate conception. She left the church and never looked back.” He scrunches up his nose. “Don’t tell her I told you that.” Rubbing a finger on his chin he continues. “I think she took the day off. Something about her granddaughter having a recital. I don’t know. I tune her out most of the time because she talks so damn much.”
He focuses his attention on me. “You hardly talk at all. I like that.”
I can actually be extremely social, but now is not the time or place for small talk. Anyone who has a rule about having things quiet probably doesn’t want to hear me chatter.
He yawns. “I’d better get back to bed. If you follow me I’ll show you where the office is.”
I follow Jackson as he staggers down a long hallway decorated with stylish works of modern art.
When he opens the door to the office I stifle the urge to gasp. Unlike the rest of the spotless house this room is a complete disaster. It looks like a hurricane blew through and no one bothered to clean up after the storm.
“This is it. Your new home away from home.”
The first order of business will be to clean and organize. Due to the sad state the room is in it could take days.
As large as the office is it’s so crowded with piles of stuff that it’s nearly impossible to see any windows, or even much of the floor.
“You’ll have to respond to all of the fan mail. Manager’s orders. As he likes to remind me: it’s the fans who paid for the roof over your head.” He frowns. “The guy’s an asshole. Once you’ve got the mail squared away, you can start on the emails and Facetwat crap.”
Facetwat? He must mean his social media. It seems to be his own weird amalgamation of Facebook and Twitter.
He points to an ancient looking computer in the corner of the office. The thing looks older than I am. And it’s not even plugged into the wall.
“Is it okay if I just log into your email and social media accounts on my laptop?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “If you can figure out how to do that, be my guest. I think I’ve got HiFi.”
“WiFi?” I raise an eyebrow.
He snaps his fingers. “That’s it. And I’ve got a Cloud, whatever the hell that’s for. The passwords for everything are taped to the table next to the computer. I think Sadie did that. Or maybe it was Hilde. I can’t remember. It was one of my previous assistants.”
I wait for him to say something about where I’ll be sleeping, but he just yawns again.
I clear my throat. “I was told this was a live-in position. Where would you like me to stay?”
He points at me again. He’s definitely a pointy kind of guy. “You’re sharp as a tack. I like that. There’s a guesthouse out by the pool. You can use it.”
My wheels begin to spin. A guesthouse could mean anything from a closet to a mini-mansion.
“Do you mind if I move my stuff from my car into the guesthouse?” I ask.
He waves a hand at me. “Do want you want. I’m going back to bed.”
Before I have a chance to ask any more questions he turns and shuffles back down the long hallway towards the other end of the house.
My first order of business is seeing where I’m going to be living. I hurry down the hallway back into the foyer then make my way outside.
I unlock my car and grab as much as I can carry on the first trip: my laptop and two suitcases of clothes. I’ll have to make at least two additional trips for my other two suitcase and my two boxes of personal items: framed photos, stuffed animals, other knickknacks and memorabilia.
Instead of trudging through the house with all of my belongings I opt for going down the small staircase on the side of the building to the backyard where the pool and beach access are located.
The pool is better than anything I could ever imagine, with several waterfalls and an ocean view.
The guesthouse has a large sliding glass door that opens right onto the pool patio. How amazing is that?
The front entrance of the guesthouse is on the side adjacent to the pool. Thankfully it’s unlocked.
It’s not the mini-mansion I’d hoped for, but it’s definitely not a closet either. The place is probably about twelve hundred square feet. It has an open floorplan, which makes it feel roomy, and it’s completely furnished and well-decorated.
There are two bedrooms of equal size, but I opt for the one with the best ocean view.
That’s right, bitches. My bedroom has a view of the ocean. Even if working for Jackson turns out to be the suckiest job on the planet, I’ve got a magnificent view to look forward to every day. I immediately open the slider to let the fresh sea breeze drift in.
I practically run back to my car for the second and third trips to get the rest of my stuff. In less than an hour I’m completely unpacked.
In some ways it was fortunate that I didn’t have the opportunity to accumulate a lot of stuff after graduate school. I was unemployed while I searched for a nanny job, and I’ve been unemployed since Nannygate, so I used what little money I had saved to survive.
The only possessions I owned were those that fit in my various student housing dorms. The stuff easily fit in the back of my Volkswagen Jetta.
I know I have to get to work on cleaning and organizing my new office, but this guesthouse is so peaceful and quiet…and mine.
I don’t want to leave it.
I grab my cellphone and snap a few shots of my ocean view. Then I text them to Nellie. After the whole nanny nightmare she was very concerned about the situation I was getting myself into with this assistant job.
What’s he like? She texts back.
Nellie reads a lot more fiction than I do and she was familiar with his work.
A drunk. I text. Nellie and I are always brutally honest with each other.
Her next text is a warning: Be careful.
Visit me soon, I reply.
We’ll try. Laguna is so far away.
I knew no one was going to trek all the way down here to see me. I guess I’ll have to drive back up to La La Land on my day off, whenever that is.
I take one last long look at my lovely ocean view and try to psyche myself up for the work ahead of me.
I decide to see if the slider into the living room of the main house is unlocked so I don’t have to hike all the way back around the house to the front door.<
br />
Score! It’s not locked.
Unfortunately as soon as I slide the glass door open Knox bolts right past me and is outside before I have a chance to react.
Shit. I’ve already broken rule two and I haven’t even been here a full day yet.
Knox is a lot smarter than I am apparently, and a lot quicker on her feet than me. Every time I try to grab her she outmaneuvers me and scurries away.
My mom never allowed me to have any pets, so I don’t know what cats are like. I don’t even know if you can coax them with food like I’ve seen people do with dogs.
I don’t want to shout her name, because then I’d also be breaking rule four: no noise. I feel like I’m in enough trouble already with the cat crises.
When I see Knox heading for a very tall tree next to the guest house I panic.
Don’t cats climb trees and get stuck in them? That’s what happens in movies anyway. As soon as the thought enters my head Knox darts up the tree.
Shitty shit-shit. What do I do now?
The tree is much too tall for me to climb. Not that I have any experience in tree climbing. Or any desire to start climbing now.
Maybe I should Dial 911. The police help with this sort of thing, don’t they? That’s what they do in the movies.
Isn’t it?
I’m so freaked out right now my brain isn’t working properly.
If I don’t figure out a way to get Knox out of the tree I know Jackson will fire me.
I go back into the guesthouse and phone the police.
“What’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asks.
This is an emergency, isn’t it? Now I’m not so sure.
“I—um…” I need to make this sound as dramatic as possible. “My cat is in a tree.” I sniffle to try to make it sound like I’m crying. I’m not really an actress by any stretch of the imagination, but I do my best to sob a little. “I don’t know what to do.”
There’s silence at the other end of the line for what feels like forever. My chest tightens and I feel like I can’t breathe. Please say something.
“We’ll send a patrol car over.”
I give her the address and hang up.
I hurry around to the front of the house to wait. The last thing I want is for the police to knock on Jackson’s front door.
I realize a cat stuck in a tree really isn’t a priority, but I wait a really long time for an officer to arrive.
So Far Away (California Dreamers #2) Page 3