“I’m not late. I still have ten minutes.”
“Ahh . . . yes, but to her? Ten minutes early is five minutes late.” I felt the touch of his fingers as they lifted the keys from my hand. “Hurry now. Go change your life.”
I watched this stranger get in the driver’s seat of my car. The stuffing in the old cushion had flattened into a pancake over the years. I was used to feeling the wires poke me in the ass, but they were now poking him. My eyes drifted to the way his body curved in the seat. Muscles flexing. The way his shorts fit snug against his thighs and . . . this was not the time to be gawking at my future new coworker. I turned my attention back to the man. His gaze met mine with a faint smirk. I think he knew I’d been checking him out.
I pursed my lips. “So, the clutch hangs sometimes. You have to nudge it back up. Baby her a little.”
“No worries. I can handle the clutch.”
“Okay then. I guess . . . thank you.”
“You need to go. And good luck, hermosa.” He gave a quick smile before shutting the door with a slam. As my car drove away from the circle driveway, I glanced up at the two-story house adorned with marble hawks in the place of gargoyles on the slate roof.
Ten minutes early is five minutes late.
Well, shit.
The butler opened the door to the house. Not that I expected the Delsey Hawthorn to answer her own doorbell, yet I was still surprised to see a man in an actual stiff formal suit. He was tall with slender shoulders. A pair of rimless glasses sat perched on the tip of his nose and his pupils had a slight discoloration from old age.
The man stared out into the distance for a few moments, and I wasn’t sure if he actually saw me. And then I heard the same rough voice from the intercom. “Ms. Atwood, follow me.”
He turned abruptly, and I was left to close the heavy door on my own. My heart fluttered as my eyes took in everything at once: the two-story vaulted ceiling; the double staircase that spiraled up to the second-floor landing; the leaded glass windows overlooking the marble entryway; and pictures, paintings, sculptures, and antique furniture. It was all a whirlwind of tasteful grandeur.
“Please don’t dally, Ms. Atwood. She’s waiting.”
The sensory overload came to a blinding halt as I saw the face of the butler scowling at me. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
I followed behind the man who walked with a slight limp, seeing more of the same in each room. As we reached the end of the second hallway, the sound of music flowed out from behind gold-embossed mahogany double doors. The butler let out a wretched cough before pushing them open. The hinges creaked and then . . .
Holy shit.
This house had an actual ballroom with two chandeliers hanging from the ceiling—each the size of a small car. I knew the family used to have fundraisers and parties in the house, but I’d never imagined something so grand and elegant.
People didn’t have places like this anymore. They rented hotels and museums for parties. But this house had a room right out of the old days, preserved in all its glory, waiting for a couple to waltz across the wooden floor. The back of the room contained what I assumed to be a built-in bar. The walls matched the gold-embossed doors.
“Quite impressive, isn’t it, Ms. Atwood?”
“Yes,” I answered, my attention snapping back into focus as I searched the room for her.
To the left of the bar, two tapestry chairs sat with a small table in between, which held an assortment of hand-painted china. And then I made eye contact with the one and only Delsey Hawthorn.
I took a deep breath and plastered on a confident smile despite being giddy and nervous all at the same time. I walked over in her direction, my heels echoing in the grand room, mixing with the classical music. She seemed older than the recent pictures I’d found on the internet. Her slim frame was dwarfed in a bright blue suit accented with a small flower-shaped diamond lapel pin.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hawthorn.” I stuck my hand out in a formal greeting.
She stared at my fingers for a moment as her face wrinkled up with a frown, making her penciled-in eyebrows crease. “We are not men, Ms. Atwood.”
I swallowed hard and grew flustered as to where to place my useless hand. I was really nervous now. I couldn’t blow my chance to make an impression in the first thirty seconds. The music floated throughout the room, swirling and turning around us. The sounds grew louder at times as the notes grew bolder.
“Just sit and pour us some tea.” She looked pointedly at the table.
I’m not sure how I managed to get two cups filled without my hands spilling brown liquid in every direction. But I found myself sitting in the other chair, doing my best to sip tea while her icy-blue eyes followed my movements.
“I’ve come to enjoy tea after my trips to London over the years. I find it more dignified than Americans with our coffee. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I looked her straight in the eye. “Yes, I think tea is very nice. That’s why I suggested we offer both at the hotel events I manage.”
“Yes. The hotel. How long have you worked in catering again?”
“Three years in events and five at the hotel.” I reached for my notebook. “I have a copy of my résumé here that explains—”
“Ms. Atwood, are you incapable of answering questions about your employment without the aid of your résumé?”
I froze, balancing my tea in one hand and the cream-colored paper in the other. Setting the résumé down in my lap, I clutched the little cup harder as I met her stare. “I’ve worked five years at the Mannford Hotel while attending college classes. I started at the front desk and received a promotion in the events and catering department where I worked with clients on the ordering of food and the setup and teardown of the equipment and decorations in the ballroom.”
“And where did you attend these college classes?”
I swallowed hard. “At the local community college.”
“And did you receive a degree?”
“No, ma’am. But I almost have enough credits for my associate’s degree.”
“Hmm. I see. Well, the last two ladies were college-educated women. Four-year degrees. One of them even had two different degrees. Communications and something with social work. A little do-gooder, that one. And rather annoying. Fidgeting. The whole time we spoke, she couldn’t sit still in her seat. Much the way a two-year-old behaves at a zoo. Anyway. My point being, I’ve interviewed many college-educated candidates. And you have dabbled in a few community classes. Give me one good reason not to end this interview right now?”
“Mrs. Hawthorn, I’m a fast learner. And I really need this job so I will work very hard and I—”
“Everyone needs a job, Ms. Atwood. And you technically already have one. Do better.” Her hand flipped up in the air with the sting of dismissal. But I wasn’t dismissed. I was still here. I still had a shot.
I decided to hit her straight. Either she would have the butler toss me out or this would be the three-point win from half court.
“If I stay at the hotel, I will be just a person who makes other people’s lives better. But I want to make my own life better. Working for you will be an opportunity that I can’t find anywhere else. It will be an education I can’t get in a college class. You are someone who has power and authority and influence. You know how to accomplish things that are important. I see the charities that you have founded. The lives you have impacted. And I want to know what it takes to have people fear you while still admiring the person you have become.”
Her face remained stoic as she took a sip from her cup. Her eyes tilted up to the beautiful painted ceiling of the ballroom. “Do you know the composure of this music?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t.”
“Handel. This is the Water Music suite. But you might recognize his famous work. Hallelujah Chorus. It’s said that he wrote that piece while angels whispered in his ear. What do you think, Ms. Atwood? Do you believe that could be true?”
I felt my heart quicken at the simple sentence with the philosophical weight of two preachers in a Sunday debate. Her lips flattened into a thin line as she waited for my answer.
Taking a swallow of tea, I tasted the bitter liquid on my tongue as I spoke. “Well, I suppose a person could say anything was true. But in the end, only God knows the real answer to that question. And answering to God for a lie about angels is much worse than my opinion of this man’s potential lie. But I know us mortals don’t act that way. We usually condemn those around us like we are God himself, making us no better than the person who said the lie in the first place.”
As I stared at the old woman, her lips turned up slightly at the corner. I wasn’t sure what that meant. My heart continued to flutter in my chest and a trickle of sweat ran down my back. But I held my composure under her scrutiny.
“Well, Ms. Atwood. You have no formal education and you know nothing of music. But you seem to follow directions when spoken to and appear to be fairly quick-witted. You are also the only young woman who bothered to wear stockings with their skirt today. So I think we should give this arrangement a try.”
It took every ounce of strength to control the muscles in my body—to keep from leaping from the chair and hugging this stiff woman. “Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorn.”
“I had my attorney run a background check on each of the applicants for the position. Yours has already cleared so I see no need to delay. As you are aware, this is a live-in staff position. You will have no set hours. Just be prepared and available when I need you. You are also expected to be present at dinner every evening, which is served promptly at six. You are allowed to have Sunday as a personal day. The other day must be cleared in advance and not to interfere with any of my activities. Do you understand?”
Yes, yes, yes. I nodded as my lips remained taut while I struggled to keep it all together. “Yes, ma’am.”
“My physical abilities are not what they used to be, but my mind is still completely intact. You will be my assistant and will be present at every board meeting, charity lunch, and the assortment of other functions I need to attend. Sometimes I will need to send you in my place to take notes when I’m feeling under the weather. I’ve also committed to planning and hosting the Mercy General Hospital auxiliary fundraiser this year, which is why I have decided to hire an assistant. I want to reopen the ballroom. It has spent too many years alone and neglected. We are going to bring it back to life.”
The excitement built with her every word, her every syllable. This job was better than I’d expected. No more nights at the hotel. And the house. I was going to live in this monstrosity of a house. I wouldn’t have to make my own food. She had a cook. I wondered if there was a maid. Would I even have to do my own laundry?
“As for compensation.” She held my gaze. “I know my attorney gave you the list of salary and benefits that come with the position. That is not negotiable. However, you maybe earn a bonus after the fundraiser depending on your job performance. I will give you a week’s paid vacation to our home in Turks and Caicos. I find the heat stifling and never visit the place. But I hear it’s considered very nice. You may also take a guest.”
I’m going to the ocean. I bit back my ecstatic shock at the news. The flutters in my chest grew rampant. “I would fly there, correct?”
“Yes, Ms. Atwood. Unless you would prefer to swim.” Her lips pursed in annoyance.
“No, I just . . .” I couldn’t tell her the reason behind my question. “Thank you. That’s a very generous offer.”
“Don’t get too excited. You haven’t earned anything yet.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As we spoke, the double doors opened. I expected to see the elderly butler trudging across the floor. But that wasn’t the case. I blinked several times as a different man approached us. It took a moment for my head to register what my eyes were seeing in front of me. The smile. The soft lips from earlier. They touched the wrinkled cheek of Delsey Hawthorn. “Good morning, Grandmother. Did you finally make a decision?”
“Well . . .” Her eyes tilted up in a half roll. “She lacks in most areas, but I guess she will have to do. Ms. Atwood, this is my grandson, Javier. He also lives in the house.”
The man turned his attention to me and smiled, extending his hand out between us. “Pleasure to meet you.”
I looked up at him in baffled admiration. He was gorgeous. Elegant. Polished. And obviously not the gardener in charge of the roses. Not that he wasn’t attractive earlier. This was just a different view of the same garden—the first bathed in sunshine and the latter in crystal chandeliers. His black suit was tailored to fit every limb and muscle on his body. The red tie around his throat spoke of confident authority.
This man seemed older than the guy I’d met outside in the sweaty T-shirt. Maybe close to thirty? He’d shaved, making the sharp lines of his jaw even more prominent. The humor still flashed in his brown eyes, but they also contained a level of worldly depth I’d missed the first time.
“Sarina Atwood,” I finally said, taking his hand in a firm shake. Our fingers touched a second time, more solid than earlier when he’d grabbed my keys and caught me checking out his legs as he sat in the worn-out seat of my car. And as if he’d read my mind, that obnoxious grin turned into a smirk again. I pulled my hand free of his grasp before Mrs. Hawthorn noticed the lingering handshake.
Javier gave me an amused stare and then addressed his grandmother. “I was just leaving. I can show Sarina to her car. No need to interrupt Elmore.”
“Thank you, dear. And will you be here for dinner?”
“No. I’m getting a late start today and will need to stay at the office. Uncle Ted is having dinner delivered from the Hunter Club. Maybe I can join you tomorrow night.”
“Very well.” Her lips grew tight and then she abruptly turned her blue eyes to me. “Ms. Atwood, I will see you on Sunday at three in the afternoon. That should give you adequate time to get your things settled before Monday. And please be prompt this time.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hawthorn. And thank you for this opportunity. I really appreciate it.”
“Well, I hope you don’t prove me wrong.” Her fingers flipped up in a dismissive wave. “You may leave now, Ms. Atwood.”
I placed my cup on the table and followed Javier out of the ballroom. As we entered the hallway, he came to a sudden stop and looked at me. “I see you were able to . . . how did you put it? Impress the shit out of my boss.”
I winced at the pointed remark about our misunderstanding from earlier. “Yes.”
His stare lingered and I wasn’t sure how to read the way he looked at me. Part of me thought I saw a flash of attraction or maybe he was just assessing my presence with curiosity or mocking my blunder from earlier. Either way, we needed to keep moving before she decided to leave the room and find us gawking at each other in the hallway.
“My car?” I prompted.
He flashed a quick smile before looking away. “Come with me. I will take you to where I’ve moved your car.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t say anything else as I followed him on a different path through the house than earlier. But it didn’t matter. My mind was spinning in so many directions.
I got the job. I was going to live here. And I was going to share a home with Mrs. Hawthorn and . . . with this man. I knew many things about the family—some from living in the city and some from internet research. But having Javier as a grandson wasn’t a familiar detail. And I was curious about his presence.
We reached a heavy metal door at the end of a long hallway. He turned the handle and flipped on the overhead lights, revealing an air-conditioned garage filled with expensive vehicles. At the very end of the room, my blue 1998 Volkswagen Beetle was parked next to a very shiny black Range Rover. Good grief. He literally had put my car where he parked his car. I looked back at the man in the crisp suit. His face twisted as he tried to surpress his laughter.
“Are you for real right now?”<
br />
He grinned. “I only did what you asked of me. You said park it where I put mine.”
Fine. Best to get this over with before it got worse. I gave him an amicable smile. “Look. I’m sorry about earlier. I assumed you were someone else. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t offend me. And I understand your confusion. You saw me cutting the roses.”
“Yes. You were cutting the roses, which is usually done by the gardner . . . at least in a place like this. So why would I assume anything different?”
“True.” The man agreed as he reached into his suit pocket and retrieved my keys. He placed them in my hand without touching my fingers.
“Thanks.” I held them for a moment. “So why were you outside pretending to be the gardener? Not that you’re bad at it. But you obviously spend your time somewhere else.” I motioned to his chest covered by one very expensive suit.
The question sparked something in his eyes. The humor was strong and vibrant as he contemplated my question. “Did you like me better when you thought I was the gardener or do you like me better now?”
What the . . . I laughed at his boldness. My gaze leveled with Javier and my eyebrows raised, mocking him back. “Who says I like you at all? I was just curious.”
“Curious. I see.” He grinned. “Well, the answer to your question. I decided two years ago, it was easier to cut the roses myself. My grandmother had fired six gardeners in four months. And then she threw the trimmers at Antonio. It’s a good thing she’s old with terrible aim, or he would have received a stab wound to the chest. That’s when I made the decision. And things are better now. He takes care of the estate. I handle the roses and my grandmother. No one gets hurt.”
“Should I be concerned? Keep the letter openers out of reach?” I meant it as a joke, but I suddenly questioned the mental stability of my new employer.
“It’s okay. You don’t need to worry. That was the only time. She’s all words. But they too can be sharp. And hurt very much, Sarina.” His accent rolled slowly over my name as his face shifted into a different look. One of concern. “I hope you understand. This job won’t be easy. She can be a difficult woman.”
The Hawks_A Novel Page 2