In the Manor with the Millionaire

“I’m hired,” Madeline announced. “I can’t thank you enough for telling me about this job.”

“Congrats.” Using the remote, Alma turned down the volume. “How about lending me a hand with breakfast?”

“Sure.”

She turned and confronted a mountain of dirty dishes, glasses, pots and crusted skillets that spread across the countertop like a culinary apocalypse. It appeared that Alma hadn’t wiped a single plate since they’d moved into this house.

How could anyone stand such a mess! Madeline rolled up the sleeves of her daisy-patterned cotton shirt, grabbed an apron that was wadded in the corner of the counter and dug in.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Alma said. “Even as a kid, you were good about cleaning up.”

Maybe even a teensy bit compulsive. “Is that why you thought of me for this job?”

“I don’t mind having a helper.” Alma shuffled toward the butcher-block island and leaned against it. Though she was completely dressed with hair and makeup done, she wore fuzzy pink slippers. “Did you sleep well?”

“Took me a while to get accustomed to the creaks and groans in this old house.” Once during the night, she’d startled awake, certain that someone had been in the room with her. She’d even imagined that she saw the door closing, which made her wonder. “Does Duncan ever sleepwalk?”

“Not as far as I know, but I wouldn’t be surprised by anything that kid does. Or his father, for that matter.”

“Is Blake difficult to work for?”

“A real pain in the rear.”

Yet, he put up with the mess in the kitchen. “How so?”

“In the past year, he went through two other housekeepers and four nannies.”

“Why?”

“His lordship is one of those dark, brooding, artistic types. Real moody. Gets caught up in a project and nothing else matters. He forgets to eat, then blames you for not feeding him.” She patted her sculpted blond curls. “It’s not part of my job description to keep track of his phone calls, and most of the business contacts go through his office in New York. But if I forget a phone call, he blows a gasket.”

“He yells at you?” Madeline was beginning to feel more and more trepidation about this job.

“Never raises his voice,” Alma said. “He growls. Real low. Like an angry lion.”

With Blake’s overgrown dark blond mane and intense hazel eyes, a lion was an apt comparison. As Madeline rinsed glasses and loaded them into the dishwasher, she said, “I looked Blake up on the Internet. He does amazing restorations. There were interior photos of this gorgeous hotel in Paris.”

“Paris.” Alma sighed. “That’s what I expected when I signed on as a housekeeper four months ago. Trips to Europe. Fancy places. Fancy people. La-di-dah.”

“Sounds like a lovely adventure.”

“So far, I’ve been at the brownstone in Manhattan and here—Maine. I mean, Maine? The whole state is about as glamorous as a lumberjack’s plaid shirt.” She paused to sip her coffee. “Let’s hear about you, hon. How’s your big brother, Marty?”

At the mention of her brother’s name, Madeline almost dropped the plate she was scrubbing in the sink. “We’ve kind of lost touch.”

“Good-looking kid. A bit devilish, though. Didn’t he get into some kind of trouble with the law?”

She heard Duncan counting his steps as he came down the hall to the kitchen and assumed his father wasn’t far behind. “I’d rather not talk about Marty.”

“It’s okay.” Alma patted her arm. “I won’t say a word.”

Duncan preceded his father into the kitchen. His clothing was the same as last night: a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt and jeans. At the table, he climbed into his chair and sat, staring straight ahead.

Alma went into action. She measured oat-bran cereal into a clear glass bowl, then measured the milk. She placed them in front of Duncan, then fetched a pre-chilled glass of OJ from the fridge.

Neither she nor Blake said a word.

Madeline assumed this was some sort of ritual and didn’t interfere until Duncan had taken his first bite of cereal. Then she took a seat opposite him and watched as he chewed carefully before swallowing. She smiled. “Good morning, Duncan.”

He said nothing, didn’t acknowledge her presence in any way.

Blake cleared his throat. When she looked at him, he shook his head, warning her not to rock the boat. She rose from her seat and went toward him. Seeing him in the morning light, she noticed the lightly etched crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the unshaven stubble on his chin. He dragged his fingers through his unruly dark blond hair. His careless grooming and apparent disarray reminded her of an unmade bed that had been torn apart in a night of wild, sexual abandon.

She intended to discuss her plans for Duncan’s lessons. After his interest in the “Casey at the Bat” poem, she’d decided to use baseball as a learning tool. There were other things she needed to ask Blake about, such as her salary, rules of the household and teaching supplies. But being near him left her tongue-tied.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and said, “Do you have a baseball?”

“I can find one.”

Her cheeks were warm with embarrassment. Seldom was she so inarticulate. “Other supplies? Pencils and paper?”

“Everything you’ll need is in a room at the end of this hallway. It was once a conservatory so there’s a whole wall of windows. Until the renovations are done, we’re using it as a family room. Alma can show you.”

She stammered. “I-is there, um, some kind of schedule?”

He lifted an eyebrow; his expression changed from arrogant to vaguely amused. He stretched out his arm and pointed to the wall beside her. “How’s this?”

Right in front of her nose was a three-foot-by-two-foot poster board with a heading in letters five inches high: Duncan’s Schedule. The entire day was plotted in detail.

“I’ve found,” he said, “that Duncan does best when we stick to a consistent routine.”

She pointed to the slot after breakfast. “Quiet Time in Family Room. What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it says. Duncan likes to spend time by himself, and all his toys are in the family room. Usually he plays computer games.”

The next slot said Lessons. “How do I know where to start?”

“Duncan’s last tutor left a log that detailed her teaching plans and Duncan’s progress. She wasn’t a live-in, and I can’t say that I was happy with her results.” He glanced toward the housekeeper. “Is that coffee hot?”

“Piping.”

He went to the coffeemaker and filled a mug. “Well, Alma, it’s nice to see that you’re finally cleaning up in here.”

“I aim to please,” she said. “Breakfast in your studio?”

“Eggs over easy, wheat toast and bacon.”

With a nod to Madeline, he left the kitchen.