The old iron key takes a while to line up inside the lock, and I have to use a bit of force to turn it. As soon as I open the door, one thing is very clear: this will be no easy flip.
A gust of wind sends dust bunnies hopping along the floor, and the air sparkles so much in the afternoon light that it looks like I’ve just walked into a fantasy film. There’s a grand old double staircase in front of me, and whatever furniture I can see is covered in dust sheets.
This is definitely NOT what I signed up for. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.
“Call Jacob.”
As it rings, I continue looking around, and nothing I see improves my mood. The carpet is old and worn through, the wallpaper is faded and peeling, and the staircase is-
“Greysoooon!” says my lawyer, in his smarmiest city accent. “How are you?”
“Jacob. What the fuck, man?” I demand. I wouldn’t speak to just any lawyer that way, but this guy went to the same college as me and we both played on the baseball team. “I just got to this place upstate and it looks like it was abandoned a decade ago.”
“Well it was,” he says. “Didn’t you read the documents I sent along?”
“What? Wait a minute.”
I set my briefcase down on top of a sheet-covered side table, sending a puff of dust into the air, and open it up. I find the papers at the very top, still inside the envelope my secretary put them in before I left.
“All right, I’ve got them.”
“Well, it’d be the bit that says your dear old aunt spent the last eight years in elderly care.”
I don’t say anything for a minute. My mind is too busy taking in my surroundings now that my eyes have adjusted to the light and I can see the full scope of what will need to be done here before I can sell it on. It’s not my first rodeo—I just didn’t expect there to be quite this much to do.
“Shit,” I say under my breath.
“Ah, come on, buddy. You’re in marketing, right? Can’t you just sell it on as a haunted house or something?”
“You’re no help, Jacob,” I tell him, and I can hear him reply “Any time, buddy!” as I hang up. He’s clearly enjoying this, now that I can’t blame it on him anymore.
“Call Ben,” I tell my phone. Ben is my secretary, PA, whatever you want to call it. He’s the one who keeps the chaos in my life to a minimum. He’s well-paid for his position, but he earns every penny—the phone barely rings twice before he answers.
“Hey, boss.” He’s obviously chewing, and a couple of moments later I hear a loud gulp.
“Am I interrupting lunch?”
“Nope. Just finished. How’s uh…” I hear him click his mousepad a couple of times. “Sunny Valley. Sunny?”
“Sunrise. And it’s cold,” I say. “Listen. The house up here is a bit of a wreck so I’m going to need you to clear my in-office meetings for a while. Change whatever you can to online and push whatever else back.”
“Sure thing,” he says. “When will I push to?”
I pace across the hall and open a door that leads into a huge room with an open fireplace and yet more dust-sheet-covered furniture. My gaze settles on a pill bug that’s crawling across the floor, and I sigh.
“Let’s say after Christmas. But schedule me a few days in the office for anything pressing.”
“Will do. Flights?”
“Please.”
“You need accommodation in Sunrise Valley?”
I think back to this morning, and the cute girl with her little antlers and her red nose, and her hilariously fake French accent. If that had been a motel instead of a diner I might take Ben up on his offer to book me a room, just for the chance at a one-nighter with her.
“No. I can stay in the house. Thanks.”
“Any time,” says Ben as I hang up.
Within the hour I’ve been around every room in the house. Dust sheets, disrepair, and creepy crawlies aside, it’s really a beautiful building. If it was near the city I might keep it. Alas, it’s in the ass-end of bumfuck nowhere and the only entertainment seems to be a bar that has the occasional singer. Aside from the French reindeer girls, of course.
I take the dust sheets off some of the furniture in the kitchen, one of the bedrooms, a bathroom, and one of the reception rooms so that I can at least live here for the time being. But there’s a lot to do and there’s no way one man is going to do it all alone by Christmas. I need some help.
I manage to light the range without setting the whole house on fire, and boil enough water to make myself a coffee with the small sachet of instant I pocketed on the plane. It’s not the finest freeze-dried bean I’ve ever tasted, but it’s warm and it hits the spot.
Settled on a sofa with a blanket around me and coffee in hand, I open my laptop. Fortunately, cell coverage is pretty good here, and my data plan means that I can use my phone to get online—I really doubt that Great Aunt Julia left a WiFi router hiding in any of these rooms. I head straight to HelpForHire.com and type in my location. No matter where I’ve been in the country, no matter what work I’ve needed doing, this site has never failed me yet. I hit enter, and whereas in New York City there are pages and pages of all sorts of people with all sorts of specialist skills, in Sunrise Valley there is precisely one person registered.
“Alora Brooks,” I say to no-one in particular, “I guess you’re my only choice.”
Ms. Brooks
I have need of services to include cleaning, light repairs and decorating, to begin as soon as possible. Please reply with your availability and hourly rate.
Regards,
G. Blair
Message sent, I open up my favorite playlist, settle back with my eyes closed, and take a moment to relax. Maybe this will be an adventure. Maybe a few weeks away from the city will do me good. My brother’s always telling me to take time off, and his admonitions that I work way too much are not entirely unwarranted.
My mind wanders back to the diner this morning. It had that small-town charm, but I wasn’t expecting to see someone as stunning as Reindeer Girl there. Those big, green eyes, dark, curly hair falling out of a topknot. Perfectly curvy, perfect height, and a sense of humor. Even with the ridiculous Christmas outfit on I could tell she was smoking underneath. My mind wanders a little more, imagining what she looks like without the nose and antlers… without clothes… then without clothes but with the nose and antlers... There’s a twitch in my pants and I reach down under the blanket, only to be pulled out of my daydreams when my laptop pings at me.
Ben, maybe? It’s after 8 pm, but he reliably ignores me whenever I tell him to stop working so late. I reach for the laptop and read the notification: I have one new message on HelpForHire.
G. Blair
Thank you for your message. I’d be delighted to work for you. My hourly rate is $20 and I am available on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, plus occasional weekends. Evenings are negotiable but will require advance notice and will be charged at $30 per hour.
I am able to start tomorrow.
Regards,
Alora Brooks
Sometimes you never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.
The last line is written in some kind of purple Comic Sans-like font and I blink as I read it. Twice. The idea that someone has that as their signature, let alone for work-related emails, makes me feel like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe. But what choice do I have? There is quite literally no other help for hire in this weird dimension full of dusty old mansions, Parisian reindeer girls, and emailed platitudes.
Ms. Brooks
Please bring your resume along tomorrow at 10 am sharp. The address is Sunrise Valley House, on Old Green Road.
Regards,
G.Blair.
I don’t even get a chance to settle back onto the couch before the laptop pings again.
G. Blair
Great! See you then. And thanks.
Regards,
Alora Brooks
Sometimes you never know
the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.
I don’t know why that signature bothers me so much, but I spend another long moment staring at it, lips pursed like an old fisherwoman.
“Scotch,” I say to myself, decisively, and rise from the sofa to retrieve the bottle of Glenmorangie that I packed for this trip.
If nothing else, this is going to be an interesting few weeks.
Chapter 3
Allie
I thought I’d left plenty of time to get everything done this morning, but the second I step outside with the girls and see my car, shimmering in the morning light with a thick layer of frost all over it, all I can do is sigh.
“Shit,” I say.
“Shit!” says Emma.
“That’s a bad word, Mommy,” notes Lottie, frowning up at me with her little arms folded.
“Uh. Yeah. Don’t say shi… that,” I tell Emma, half distracted as I try to pull open the car door. It barely budges, and the ominous crackle of frost confirms my worst suspicions.
“Told you it was a bad word,” says Lottie, sticking out her tongue at her younger sister.
“Back inside!” I tell the girls, ushering them towards the front door.
By the time I’ve covered my car in enough warm water to bathe an elephant, managed to pry the doors open and turn on the internal heaters to clear the rest of the frost, retrieved the girls and got them strapped in, and collected my bag from the kitchen, I’m afraid to check the time.
So when Emma looks at me with a very worried expression on her face, just as I’m putting on my seatbelt, and mutters the words “poop, Mommy,” it’s difficult not to take it as a statement on how this day is going so far.
One whirlwind bathroom visit later, I turn the key to start the engine and the CD player starts blasting The Wheels on the Bus at me. Usually, I switch to my phone input before starting the car so that I can listen to a podcast during the drive, but once the girls have heard the first note of a kids’ song I have no chance. They will stage a protest in the back seat if I even think about changing it.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s 9:53 am.
“SHIT.”
“Shit!” calls Emma.
“Mommyyyy!” protests Lottie, sounding genuinely offended.
“Don’t say that word!” I call to Emma, who’s already moved on to singing The Teddy Bear’s Picnic and can barely hear me over the sound of her own voice.
We reach Eddie’s house in record time. I practically eject the girls from their seats and throw them at my sister-in-law, Sadie, who’s waiting at the door.
“My, you’re certainly in a hurry today!” Sadie remarks as I shower the girls with kisses.
“SUPERLATEGOTTAGOLOVEYOUALL!” I call as I wave-sprint back to the car. I put the pedal to the metal and arrive at the open gates of Sunrise Valley House less than ten minutes later.
Crawling up the winding driveway I can see the familiar old house coming into view, and I feel a little flutter of excitement. I’ve spent my life driving past the place, but I’ve never been up to the house before. A few months ago, when news reached Sunrise Valley that the previous occupant had died, Bet told me that old Ms. Blair used to live here alone and go into the town every Saturday for cake and tea at the diner, and every Sunday for church. A big place for one widow with no children, she’d said, and wondered out loud what would become of it now. I guess I’m about to find out.
Cleaning, light repairs, and decorating. That was what the message said. Well, I can do the cleaning for sure. The light repairs might be a stretch, but how hard can it be, really? And I’ve given rooms a lick of paint before. In any case, I wasn’t about to say no with Christmas just around the corner and two little girls’ faces to put smiles on.
I fluff my curls in the rearview, grab my bag, and jump out of the car. As I jog toward the door, I glance at my phone. Thirteen minutes late. Well, at least I didn’t break any mirrors or walk under any ladders on my way here. Silently hoping that my new employer has a flexible definition of “sharp,” I ring the bell and start rooting around in my bag for my resume. I’m still trying to dig it out as the loud BING BONG of the old-school bell fades away and I hear the door creak open.
“You’re late.”
The voice is deep and deadpan. For some reason, I’d expected a woman.
“I’m so sorry!” I say, finally fishing out my resume. There is less bag-fluff attached to it than I expected, but it’s a little crumpled so I pull at the edges to straighten it out. “I promise it’s a one-off. I wasn’t expecting the frost so I had to get the ice off the car before I set out.” Resume straightened out, I hand it over. “It won’t happen ag—“
Oh. My. God. It’s him. Brooding Stranger. My heart jumps right up into my throat as I lock eyes with the guy from the diner, suddenly wondering how on Earth I didn’t put two and two together sooner. I do also briefly wonder if it’s too late to start affecting a French accent again.
“Come in,” he says. There’s no smile on his face. Not even a hint of one. But there is that slight sparkle of amusement in the depths of his dark brown eyes, the same as yesterday when he reeled off his French before leaving.
He turns and walks inside, holding my resume in front of him as he thumbs through it. I step into the large entrance hall and close the door behind me. Looking around the foyer, I can see that this house must have been something special in its prime. It’s a grand old place. It’s full of dust and there are still sheets on half the furniture, but grand nonetheless.
I settle my gaze back on Brooding Stranger, who is studying my resume like it’s the constitution or something, and the silence begins to feel itchy on my skin.
“So you must be related to Ms. Blair,” I say, a little too eagerly.
He glances up, his dark eyes pinning me to the spot, and I swallow.
Look. He’s hot, okay? Like, model hot. And a girl can look. And if a swarm of butterflies takes flight in my tummy, so what? He’s just blowing through town, and he’s something different to all the men I’ve seen here my whole life.
“Mmhmm,” he says, eventually, and his voice is a low rumble. “Apparently.”
“Apparently?” I ask, curiosity piqued.
“Mmhmm,” he says, looking back down at the paper, and I’m immediately irritated by how little he says. He must be a city boy.
“Right,” I say, folding my arms and looking around the hall.
I sense him looking at me again and turn to face him. His eyes flick up to mine, as though he were looking elsewhere.
“Children?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“Do you have children?”
Lord, forgive me, but my car broke down last month, the repair drained my savings account, and I really need the money from this job if I’m going to give the girls any sort of Christmas. Plus he seems like the type who’d turn me down if I said yes. And it’s not really a lie anyway, is it? I’ve never given birth to any children.
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head.
He drops my resume onto a table and nods.
“Husband? Boyfriend?”
“Uh. Not sure that’s any of your business?” I say, a little astonished he even asked. Is that legal?
He looks me up and down, his face unreadable, and nods again.
“True. Come through.”
I follow him through the entrance hall and into one of the reception rooms where someone—presumably him—has made camp. The dust sheets have been pulled off a large, bottle green couch with embroidered arms and a coffee table. There’s a blanket on the couch and a laptop, a notepad, and an empty mug on the table.
Out of habit, I pick up the mug from the table straight away. When I turn around, he’s staring at me again.
“It’s polished,” I say.
He looks at me like I may be insane.
“The table,” I tell him, wafting my hand to it. “You’ll make rings.”
He’s quiet again, looking from me to the table to t
he mug and then back to me. He pulls a dust sheet from the chair on the opposite side of the coffee table, sending a cloud of fresh dust flying into the air, and nods toward it for me to sit. So I do. With the mug in my hands.
“I’m Mr. Blair,” he says. Very formal. “I’ll be here for a few weeks. As you may have deduced, I inherited this house from my great aunt. I intend t—“
“Did you know her?” I ask. “Bet says she used to come into the diner when she still lived here, but I didn’t work there then.”
“No,” he says. And that, it seems, is that. “Anyway, there’s plenty to do here. I’ll make a list of jobs whenever you come by. I don’t have one today because I haven’t been through the place yet, but you can help me remove the dust sheets and air the place out.”
“Right,” I say, a little too late. I got distracted by the shapes his mouth makes when he talks. He really is quite stunning.
“How long do you have today, Alora?”
“Ms. Brooks,” I correct him. It’s petty, but if he’s enforcing formality then so will I. There’s a small twitch at the corner of his mouth and I swear he almost smiles.
“Ms. Brooks,” he nods. I regret it immediately. There’s something particularly sexy about him referring to me that way. Very My Fair Lady. “How long do you have today?”
“A few hours,” I say. “I need to be back in town by two.”
“To work at the diner?” he asks.
I raise a brow at him. He’s nosy. He just stares placidly back at me.
“No,” I say, shaking my head, and we stare at each other in stubborn silence for a while... until what I presume is a grandfather clock suddenly BONGS loudly from under a sheet right behind me and I nearly jump out of my skin.
My Smalltown C.E.O. Scrooge: A Festive Romantic Comedy Page 2