Deb Hanson
10-13-2010, 02:00 PM
T H R E E
Carlita’s big voice revealed only a trace of lingering accent as it reverberated throughout the housekeeping office.
“And again, do not meet Mr. Jackson’s gaze while performing your duties,” it boomed.
Deb stood rigid listening to House Rule No. 1 being imparted to her in the cool early morning hours at Neverland Valley Ranch. She looked straight ahead at the name badge pinned to her new supervisor’s chest. Carlita Hernandez, Acting Ranch Manager, it read.
With a belly that protruded well past the toes, the big woman almost shouted the rule as she plopped a starched gray uniform into Deb’s waiting arms. A large bucketful of supplies was handed over next, followed by a cleaning schedule and small diagram of megastar Michael Jackson’s home.
“Do it, and you’re gone,” Carlita said in a matter of fact but more subdued tone. She looked over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses. “You won’t be the first I’ve sent packing if the rules aren’t followed.”
Her face could almost be considered cherubic but for the deep furrows in her forehead and acidic words coming from her mouth. The unnatural tone of her hair without a doubt came from a bottle and was another dead giveaway she wasn’t a creature from heaven. As far as Deb knew, the prototypes put out by the man upstairs didn’t include a model with red hair and black eyebrows. At nearly six feet tall, her hulk of a body towered over Deb, who feared for the woman’s narrowing, middle-aged arteries and suspected she’d been super-sizing at the local grease pit for too many years.
“Yes, ma’am.” She acknowledged the tart words with a nod and tucked the uniform under her arm. “I understand the rule. When I encounter Mr. Jackson, I am not to meet his gaze.”
For the third time in less than an hour she had been clobbered over the head with the no-gaze policy and a dozen others. And for what? The idol wasn’t even on property today. His caravan of silver Benz’s had whizzed past Deb’s Corolla on the way out of Neverland as she waited in darkness for security clearance to enter its gates. Catching sight of his black fedora through an open window as he flew by and out to Figueroa Mountain Road was a thrill she would not soon forget.
Her eyes might have rolled if they weren’t being drilled by Carlita’s piercing stare. Instead, she met the woman’s intense gaze and tried to absorb the warning like it was the first time she’d heard it. Carlita had to know the agency didn’t hand out an assignment to work at the home of one of the world’s most famous people to just anyone. In nauseating detail, the resume sitting on her desk read like a domestic service map to the stars. She could see for herself Deb had been up to her elbows in celebrity grime since working her first Hollywood party to get through school. And there was certainly no need for a lecture on maid etiquette. Her references spoke for themselves. Agency pal Sheryl had confirmed Carlita’s contacts with some of Deb’s more recent clients, the first call going out to the aging glamour queen, a dead ringer for Norma Desmond awaiting her close-up—she had actually lived on Sunset Boulevard. Then there was Chad and Raul, the party-hearties who relished running naked on Malibu beach each afternoon before donning chainmail and leathers—their club Trigger Happy had become the hottest ticket in L.A., for those who were so inclined. Next was the aloof Bel Air exec who had been jailed for assaulting his girlfriend a day after signing Van Damme to a low-budget action flick, Kill Switch 3, thereby killing the project along with the cleaning contract—the Belgian would eventually find another studio willing to transform him yet again into an ex-Navy SEAL. And then three months before the accident, a blinged-out wannabe rapper had decreed himself C-Note. “C-Note’s gonna be bigger than Hammertime,” had been his mantra, proclaimed with a straight face and cubic zirconia grill latched to his front teeth. At least he had recognized the value of a clean house.
There was no doubt in Deb’s mind they had each summed up her character using the standard words Carlita needed to hear from every one of them. Reliable, consistent, quiet, hardworking, dedicated, honest, works for peanuts. Carlita’s ears would have been perked for the magic words too. The ones that kept Deb’s resume from being tossed in the trash and permitted the gates of Neverland to swing open. Words like discreet, egoless, subservient, obedient, loyal, willing to take crap from anyone. Hearing unambitious spoken a few times probably didn’t hurt either.
“Don’t cause me any problems and we’ll get along just fine,” Carlita said.
Deb tucked a wisp of brown hair that had fallen over her eye behind her ear and told herself to stay focused on the big picture.
“I intend to do a great job for you, Ms. Hernandez,” she said in an eager voice, “and for Mr. Jackson. I take pride in my work.”
“I’ll remember you said that,” Carlita replied, “when I get ready to sign your first paycheck.”
On that caustic note, the lesson on house policy came to a merciful end. Deb penned her name to the customary confidentiality agreements, scrawling her initials at least eight times on the one detailing her promise not to spill her guts to the tabloids. Then she completed the remaining stack of personnel forms with flying colors.
The morning’s assignment was to clean all eight guest bathrooms in the big house where the star lived and slept, and Deb was anxious to get started. A look inside his famous ranch was something she had been looking forward to since the agency confirmed her work release from Dr. Rubin had hit Sheryl’s inbox. Not only was her bank account thirsty for cash, but seeing how the other half lived in the privacy of their homes, away from the red carpet and glare of the flashbulbs, had always fascinated her. And not always in ways she expected. She could still remember walking in on family man Tom Hanks lip-locked with that barely-legal brunette who wasn’t his wife, a disappointment that had left her out of sorts for days, and utterly shocked. Almost as shocked as finding the wad of hundred-dollar bills tucked into her supply bucket the next morning with a note that read, “For the great job you’re doing....”
Carlita walked them in silence from the office to the main residence using a meandering Disney-esque path bordered with daffodils and pink tulips. Working at Neverland might prove to be Deb’s most tantalizing assignment yet. There wasn’t any star bigger than Michael Jackson, and his eccentricities were fast becoming legend. Not many people could say they worked at a 2,500-acre homestead in the middle of nowhere, populated by wild animals and amusement rides. Besides, the creative wizard had more talent in his little pinky than all of tinsel town put together. How could one person possess so much talent? And he was cute too. More than cute. Hot. Smokin’ hot.
Deb’s mind flashed with some amusement to her stargazing college roommate Jean. Jean would give an arm and a leg, and maybe throw in a liver and spleen, to be walking the path to Michael Jackson’s new residence. She had once told Deb she listened to his music just to hear the way he reached for breath between verses. She could be seen gliding through their dormitory saying his name over and over just because she loved the way it sounded. Deb hadn’t realized one person could think about another as much as she thought about him. They had plastered their dorm room walls and ceiling with posters of him in every pose they could find. Michael in black leather pants and a red bowtie. Michael in a cemetery surrounded by technicolor zombies. Michael in concert leaping free flight from a baby grand with his arms unfurled. Bare-chested Michael lounging poolside in an afro. Deb had found room for that one above her own pillow. While their friends were planning weddings and careers, she and Jean were planning where to fit the next poster.
But old roommate’s aside, Deb’s life did not offer the luxury of focusing her attention on idol worship. The rich and famous were a means to an end, what paid the bills while she wrote. That was the theory anyway, in a perfect world where things went as planned and didn’t get thrown into chaos by life-altering accidents and collection goons hell bent on squeezing blood from an empty bank account.
Deb paused to marvel at the top of a Ferris wheel visible in the distance above breezy treetops, the same apparatus that had caused a recent media stir and Hardcopy ratings bonanza upon its arrival at the front gate. When she pointed to three llamas being led around by their snouts on an expanse of green lawn, Carlita just harrumphed and kept moving.
She whisked Deb through a service entry to the kitchen and down a hallway to get to the first cleaning site, Main House Bathroom No. 1. Deb made the immediate assessment she had worked in more opulent surroundings, but the warmth and old-world charm of Michael’s elaborate ranch home were impressive. Working here would be a breath of fresh air compared to C-Note’s crib. She would not likely find fur-lined briefs in Michael’s dresser drawer or a strobe-lit stripper pole in his living room.
Authentic in its hominess, his living space was rife with personal touches that appeared to be all his own, as if he’d avoided hiring a team of professional designers to swoop in and take control. She would have her work cut out for her when it came time to polish the plethora of sculpture art and whimsical figurines crowding every tabletop.
Carlita worked alongside her in the first two bathrooms to ensure protocol was understood and demonstrate how the big boss liked things done. Or was it how she liked things done? Gold hand towels formed into a pocket to hold black face towels crimped into a fan. Four royal-crested finger towels, alternated purple and gold, displayed in an arc and set cattycorner on the granite countertop. The end piece of toilet paper folded into a V, hotel style. Purple asters and giant sunflowers set on a marble pedestal to remain unmoved from its corner position near the commode. There was to be no deviation, no creative thinking employed on Deb’s part. She was to be the cleaning automaton to a taskmaster who would hover over every aspect of her day. And that was to be expected on her first day of work.
“Didn’t they teach you anything at that agency?” Carlita asked. “Work the sponge. Mr. Jackson’s home has to sparkle.” Her face grew a deeper shade of red with every tiny circle her empty fist made inside the sink basin. Then she snatched the sponge from Deb’s hand and dispensed a primer on housecleaning meant to reduce her new charge to a kindergartner.
“Yes, ma’am,” Deb responded to the dressing down. She would swallow her pride because she needed this job. “I can see your method is much better for making the porcelain shine.” And in the end she had to admit, it was.
Deb was set free to work alone, Carlita promising to follow up with a white glove inspection later. Only the eight bathrooms were to be cleaned, no more, no less. Further instruction would be provided when she reported back to the service entry.
The edge of her squeegee made its umpteenth pass against the mirror in Main House Bathroom No. 5 and Deb began to relax, knowing her sour boss was anywhere but in the immediate vicinity. She had a hard time believing she had finally made it back to work. Harder still that she was actually at Neverland, even if her first day of work here would be limited to seeing where the boss freshened up between carousel rides and trips around the property in his steam-driven train.
She roamed the hallway with her map after finishing Bathroom No. 6, passing beneath a chandelier that could easily fill the space inside her Corolla.
The final notes of a classical composition coming through an open door caught her attention. Peeking around the entry, she saw a figure standing at a bay window.
* * *
“You’re head of maintenance, Butler. Make it happen. I don’t want anymore screw-ups.”
Carlita was in no mood to deal with ineptitude this morning. She glanced at the wall clock hanging from pegboard in Neverland’s landscaping office. The daily assignment briefing had gotten off to a late start. It was already almost eight o’clock and she felt the morning slipping away. Three Tylenol taken earlier had done nothing to stop the throb in her head, or the barrage of yellow sticky notes from showing up in her inbox.
She rolled a blackboard to the head of a long, dusty conference table and tilted its surface toward her audience. Squeezing a short piece of chalk between her fingers, she scribbled the word HELIPAD!! under the column heading URGENT. She shifted her weight and added a third exclamation mark, grinding the point in hard enough to send white crumbs to the eraser tray.
She turned to face the eight Neverland department heads seated around the table, directing her attention to a man sitting apart from the rest at the back of the room, Jerry Butler, head of maintenance.
“Mr. Jackson’s logo needs to be stamped onto that helipad by the time he gets back, come hell or high water, even if I have to get down on my hands and knees and slap the paint on myself,” she said in a voice bold enough to carry. “But, you see, that’s not my job. It’s yours, Jerry, remember? So make sure it gets done. Understand?”
Tall, lanky Jerry Butler wore a ten-gallon Stetson that covered most of his salt and pepper hair that was more salt than pepper. He set the heel of his leather boot atop a fifty-pound bag of fertilizer and tipped his metal folding chair back forty-five degrees, resting his back against the wall.
“I’ll do my best, but it’s beyond my control,” he said, clasping his hands together behind his head. “The paint should get here FedEx sometime today.”
Carlita grunted. Just the sort of lazy answer she had come to expect from the slacker. The only task at which he excelled was making excuses.
“Well, get in your pick-up and go get some paint if you have to, Butler. Mr. Jackson told me himself he wants to see the look on Britto’s face when they come in for a landing on that logo.”
Butler placed the wooden end of a match into his mouth and re-clasped his hands. “It’s a special order reflective paint, Carlita. FAA-approved,” he said. “You can’t just waltz down to Ace and throw it into your shopping basket. Ships from Florida.”
The big woman huffed at the man’s incompetence. He never ceased to amaze.
“You gave me your guarantee the paint would be here last week,” she barked and wiped the chalk dust from her hands onto the front of her smock. She folded her arms and looked toward the acoustic tile ceiling. “He’s returning from Los Angeles at four tomorrow. The copter will set down here by five.” She looked again at Butler. “If you start in the morning, will it be painted and dry enough to land on by then?”
He used the ball of his foot to rock his chair forward and back on its hind legs. “Probably,” he said.
“No probably about it,” she said. “Call them for delivery confirmation. I want status on my desk by ten this morning. And don’t even think about making me hunt you down for an answer. We need to get this done pronto.”
A cheshire smile broke out on the cowboy’s face as he rocked. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, the words drawn out.
She could spot that patronizing smile from a mile off, and that ridiculous handlebar mustache. She wanted to shove them both right down his good-for-nothing throat. The man was turning out to be nothing but a big bunch of trouble, leftover baggage from the last ranch owner. He’d best soon get his act together, and quick. One complaint to the big boss and that ne’er-do-well would find his bony cowpoke *** leaving skid marks all the way down Figueroa Mountain Road on his way to the unemployment line. But she was in a hurry to get this meeting done, and adjusting the sorry attitude of an over-the-hill Marlboro Man would have to wait for another time.
She peeled a yellow sticky from the face of the conference table and made a chalk mark under the heading LANDSCAPE & GROUNDS. She looked to her left at a short, stocky man with dark, wavy hair.
“Sanchez.” she said. “What’s going on with the azaleas?”
“We’ll be done planting magenta today,” he said. “White will go in tomorrow.”
“Good work. That area outside the theatre will pop with color just the way Mr. Jackson wants.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and read the note still stuck to her finger. “He also wants the Lady Di in plot L-3 outside the library switched to a Sir Walter Raleigh.” She looked at Sanchez expecting him to nod. Instead she saw his jaw drop. “He says you’ll know the one to order from the catalog. You can move the Lady Di roses to S-1.” She put her index finger to a color-coded map spread open on the table. “Right here—plot S-1 is not planted yet.”
Sanchez stood and leaned over the property map. “I know where S-1 is, Ms. Hernandez,” he said, exasperated, “but we just put the Lady Di in two weeks ago. It took my crew three days to plant all those bushes.”
Her eyes squinted as she tried to decipher the handwriting on the note. “He says the shade of pink isn’t soft enough.” She looked at Sanchez over the top of her glasses and ignored the light titters she heard coming from around the table. “It does seem an unusual request, Octavio, but this is Mr. Jackson’s home and we get paid to do what he wants, not complain. Just dig them up and get it done. And don’t forget our meeting at three about his ideas for the vegetable garden.”
She disregarded the groan coming from the man as he sat, and the smirk on Butler’s face she caught out the corner of her eye. She lifted another note off the table and looked three seats down to address a tiny-boned Asian woman with delicate features and a demure smile.
“Keiko, Mr. Jackson is thrilled with the flower arrangements you made for the guest houses. He wants the same done for the main residence and would like to fly you to L.A. next week. A driver will take you to the flower market and you can pick up whatever you need.”
“Really?” she squealed, her smile now showing a mouthful of teeth.
Carlita sighed. She didn’t have time for this. “Do you have wax in your ears?” she snapped. “Yes, really. I didn’t invite you here to chit-chat. He wants to see what else you can find to make larger arrangements for the big house.”
“But I was just playing around with the flowers, Ms. Hernandez,” she said. “I’m not a flower person. I just take care of aviary—”
“I’m not sure why you were playing with the flowers either, Keiko,” Carlita interrupted. “Being a florist is not what you’re paid to do, and I’m not sure how that got past me. Maybe Lloyd can shed some light on why zoo staff was making flower arrangements on Mr. Jackson’s dime.” Carlita watched a tanned Englishman in khakis sitting next to the petite woman squirm in his seat. She continued. “But obviously Mr. Jackson saw something in what you did that made him happy. I’m sure it will be an exciting trip. Now, please get back to work.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you,” she said, leaving her seat and rushing to the door. She could be heard gushing as she left the room. “…he noticed my flowers….”
Carlita rolled her eyes and flicked chalk dust from her fingers, looking next at an attractive black man wearing a dark cap and gray sweatshirt.
“What’s up with security, Gist?” she asked.
He stood and looked around the table. His good morning greeting met with a few tired nods and a sly grin from Butler. He looked down at a notepad attached to a clipboard held in his hand.
“The frequency on the transceivers has been programmed and I’ve issued twenty-two numbered units so far,” he said, and then looked at Carlita. “I emphasize again that the devices are not to be transferred from person to person without my knowledge and the agreed-upon documentation.”
“Good deal, Gist,” she said. “I’m still getting used to mine.” She pulled a black walkie-talkie from her smock pocket and played with one of its dials. “We didn’t have anything like this at the old house.”
“The most powerful on the market,” he responded. “Motorola. The range is phenomenal. They’ll be supplemented with cell technology once a tower is available for us and the concrete pad is poured. Staff will need to learn the communication protocol I’ve set forth. Radio silence should be observed unless absolutely necessary, and all conversations will be conducted in code. The frequency can be easily tapped by paparazzi or anyone else who wants to listen in.”
She set the walkie-talkie on the table and crossed her arms. “Got it,” she said. “What else?”
“More paparazzi out front at sunup. Current Affair,” he replied. “Two this time, on Suzuki’s behind some brush at the ranch across the street. Long-range telephoto lenses. Diversion was successful, and I’ll put the report on your desk later this morning.”
“Fine,” she said.
He flipped a page and continued.
“The final on the security plan will be complete today. It should be reviewed personally by Mr. Jackson. He should sign off on every protocol.”
“Yes, he’ll want to do that,” Carlita agreed. “He can review it when he returns from Los Angeles. And I’ll need a copy for my files.”
“Not a good idea,” Gist responded, looking at her. “He should keep possession of the original under lock and key. Having copies floating around leaves him exposed. The plan could get into the wrong hands.”
“Ah, yes, I understand,” she said. “I’ll maintain custody until he can look at it.”
“For now I recommend hiring three more guards. I give specifics in the plan, but they should be hired right away. Word is getting out to the public about this place and we’ll need more manpower at the gates and roaming the property, with twenty-four-hour roving patrols along the perimeter to reinforce sensors.”
“Good work, Gist. Go ahead and do the hires.” She looked down at the table in thought. “Three more sets of gear, three more badges, three uniforms to add to the order.” She jotted a note and continued, looking again at Gist. “The uniforms will be here next week, including yours.”
“Uniform?” he asked, his eyebrow raised. “We’ll have to talk about that. I don’t do uniforms.” He smiled and pointed to the logo on his cap. “This is the only uniform I wear. Silver and black, baby.” He let out a boisterous laugh that was followed by chuckles all around.
“Hey, is Bo gonna’ run wild again this year?” asked Sanchez.
Gist became animated. “I don't know, man. He’s gotta’ put up some pretty tall numbers to best himself.”
“Yeah, he tore up the field last year—almost 600 yards. And that’s just football—
“Okay, people,” Carlita interrupted, a grin on her face. “Let’s focus on one Jackson at a time.”
She peeled several yellow notes from the table and stuffed them into her pocket along with the walkie-talkie. That’s it for now,” she said. “I’ll catch up with the rest of you later this morning. Any questions?”
“Uh, yeah. I have one.” All eyes turned to Butler.
“What is it, Jerry?” Her grin turned to a frown.
“My guy tried to get into the room next to the library yesterday,” he said. “Someone’s changed the lock and we can’t get in. He said you told him to stay out.”
Carlita glared at him. If the vaquero wanted to play games, he had come to the right place.
“Yes, Jerry,” she said. “Mr. Jackson was very specific in his instruction that the room be kept private. The house now has workers running around everywhere. He wants a room to himself where no one will walk in on him anytime they feel like it. But you already knew that from the message I put on your desk, didn’t you?”
Butler looked as if he were concealing a giggle right behind his smile that might erupt through his lips at any moment.
“Well, don’t you think we should have a master key for the room like we do for the others?” he asked. “How can we do our job if we can’t get in?”
Carlita heard the phony sincerity in the man’s voice she had come to see as his hallmark.
“Butler, your job is to get that paint here on time and not leave us scrambling at the last minute,” she fired back. “And didn’t you hear what I just said? This is what Mr. Jackson wants. We work for him. Your job is to follow his instruction and stay away from that room.”
He looked around the table at the others, still smiling. In a plodding drawl plucked right out of an old-west movie, he said, “Well, then I guess that’s just what we’ll have to do.”
Carlita half expected him to finish his sentence with the words “little lady” tacked on. And the fake smile plastered on his face disturbed her. But she had other fish to fry at the moment.
“Meeting adjourned,” she said, her voice decisive, like a gavel striking a sound block.
She picked up a clipboard and hurried out the door, beginning the steady incline from the landscaping office to the kitchen deep in thought about the busy day that lay ahead. Then she thought about Butler. She couldn’t shake that smile of his. Something about it gave her the sense he was hiding something. She didn’t like surprises. Or anything that could mess with her plans.
* * *
Deb closed her eyes. Then opened them. Was it Michael standing at the window? Her heart skipped a beat. And another. It couldn’t be. She had seen his car drive past hers out to the country road. She had overheard security at the guard shack too. “KOP, car number three, on time for LAX,” was the squawk that had come through the walkie-talkie. And Carlita couldn’t have overlooked telling her he was here in the house, could she?
Goosebumps broke out on Deb’s arms. Her mouth went dry. Every pore burst with perspiration as she came to the realization. The caravan had been a paparazzi decoy. Security must have spotted tabloid vermin draping the tree limbs out front.
And then a second realization. An unnerving one.
Yes, it was really him standing before her. There he was, Michael Jackson. The man whose face had adorned her ceiling. The man who had danced a red leather jacket into the record books and spawned the video era.
His statuesque form is what drew her into the room where she knew she shouldn’t be, one step over the threshold and closer to the person who could get her fired. The sight of his sunlit profile and soft halo of dark curls from across the room pulled her in, a nail to a magnet.
Bucket in hand, she forced herself to stop in her tracks. A quick sweep of the room told her he was by himself in his personal library.
She and Michael stood in the same room. Together. And alone.
Her palms grew slippery and her face flushed fiery hot. Butterflies hatched in her stomach, wings fluttering with abandon all the way to her brain. She might not ever get the chance to see him again if Carlita didn’t like the way she cleaned his bathrooms, or crimped his towels. A sense of panic set in. What should she do?
She watched as he stood in what appeared to be deep daydream, his left arm wrapping his stomach and the curled fingers of his right hand holding his chin. He stared out on a rose garden in riotous bloom.
What could he be thinking about? The base lick for a new song? The choreography for a Pepsi commercial? Whether to take cream with his morning coffee? What did multi-platinum, Grammy-winning icons think about, anyway?
He wore a loose-fitting, untucked red and white flannel shirt, buttoned at the cuffs and all the way to the collar. His lean body swam in black pants that could be mistaken for pajama bottoms. Deb crooked her neck to see his signature white socks peeking out from below his modified pant hems. Then her eyes settled on the black penny loafers he wore on his feet, the same style shoe he’d made famous by sliding it into a moonwalk in front of 50 million TV viewers. Like his home, he was a vision of comfort. And loveliness.
She tore her intruding eyes away from his jet-black kinks long enough for a closer look at the room in which he stood.
Elegant finishing touches made his library a spectacular yet intimate showcase for books. Even a down-on-her-luck housemaid could recognize spare-no-expense craftsmanship when she saw it. There was nothing veneer about this room. Every wall and surface was crafted of rich walnut. Colorful throw rugs accented dark parquet flooring, and massive beams spanned the ceiling in a bold diamond design. Ornate wood pillars framed an immense fireplace that served as the room’s focal point. Groups of sumptuous leather seating were arranged for informal conversation, one facing the fireplace and two others set near large picture windows to capture streaming sunlight. Row after row of neatly-placed books of every color and thickness rested on built-in shelves that lined the perimeter of the room, accessed by three floor-to-ceiling ladders that slid on a track.
She couldn’t just stand and gawk. A decision to either approach or retreat had to be made, go or no-go.
It couldn’t hurt to pop in for just a moment and act as if she had stumbled into the wrong room by mistake, could it? Errors did happen. It was her first day on the job in an unfamiliar house, after all.
Carlita’s repeated warnings swirling in Deb’s head shouted…stop! Her emotions screamed louder, trumpeting the only order she wanted to hear…go for it!
House rules and professional integrity be damned. She wanted to see Michael. She wanted to see the man who had put so much thought into creating this wonderful room and chose to spend his time here. She wanted to see his genius face now, even if it meant this would be her first and last morning spent in his house.
The squeak beneath her foot from a loose plank of hardwood on her third step into the room disrupted the quiet and any chance of entering with stealth. She stopped herself from going further as she realized he had heard her.
He seemed to dismiss whatever thought had been running through his mind and turned his head in a calm manner to see who had entered.
He stared right at her. His face to hers. His eyes to hers.
A noise issued from her lungs at seeing his face full on and feeling his eyes penetrate her own. Photographs did nothing to convey the power they held to captivate, to bore right through, to wrap themselves around and abscond with a heart without remorse. In an instant they drew her in and made her want to touch him, want to care for him, want to understand him and love him with her body and her mind. His eyes saw her, right through her, knew her.
How could it be? They had just made contact for the first time. Yet she felt it.
Standing there in his library, she knew she would need to know everything she could about the poet mind behind the huge chocolate orbs.
Just yards from her, he nodded. And then she saw a ray of golden sunshine dance off the surface of the ocean when he shone a brilliant beam to acknowledge her. A radiant smile for her, a perfect stranger in his home and the hired help to boot.
He raised his hand as if to say hello, an act that accelerated blood flow through her ventricles to warp speed and caused her to breathe through an open mouth. She did her best to appear calm and reciprocate, even as she considered turning and running, or flying into his arms, lips-first.
And then it was over.
As quick as he had reached in and made off with her heart, their private, amazing, wonderful moment was over.
Michael turned away and sat in the high-back wingchair by his side, positioned to face the window. His hands reached for an open book that rested on the small table beside him.
* * *
Carlita’s big voice revealed only a trace of lingering accent as it reverberated throughout the housekeeping office.
“And again, do not meet Mr. Jackson’s gaze while performing your duties,” it boomed.
Deb stood rigid listening to House Rule No. 1 being imparted to her in the cool early morning hours at Neverland Valley Ranch. She looked straight ahead at the name badge pinned to her new supervisor’s chest. Carlita Hernandez, Acting Ranch Manager, it read.
With a belly that protruded well past the toes, the big woman almost shouted the rule as she plopped a starched gray uniform into Deb’s waiting arms. A large bucketful of supplies was handed over next, followed by a cleaning schedule and small diagram of megastar Michael Jackson’s home.
“Do it, and you’re gone,” Carlita said in a matter of fact but more subdued tone. She looked over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses. “You won’t be the first I’ve sent packing if the rules aren’t followed.”
Her face could almost be considered cherubic but for the deep furrows in her forehead and acidic words coming from her mouth. The unnatural tone of her hair without a doubt came from a bottle and was another dead giveaway she wasn’t a creature from heaven. As far as Deb knew, the prototypes put out by the man upstairs didn’t include a model with red hair and black eyebrows. At nearly six feet tall, her hulk of a body towered over Deb, who feared for the woman’s narrowing, middle-aged arteries and suspected she’d been super-sizing at the local grease pit for too many years.
“Yes, ma’am.” She acknowledged the tart words with a nod and tucked the uniform under her arm. “I understand the rule. When I encounter Mr. Jackson, I am not to meet his gaze.”
For the third time in less than an hour she had been clobbered over the head with the no-gaze policy and a dozen others. And for what? The idol wasn’t even on property today. His caravan of silver Benz’s had whizzed past Deb’s Corolla on the way out of Neverland as she waited in darkness for security clearance to enter its gates. Catching sight of his black fedora through an open window as he flew by and out to Figueroa Mountain Road was a thrill she would not soon forget.
Her eyes might have rolled if they weren’t being drilled by Carlita’s piercing stare. Instead, she met the woman’s intense gaze and tried to absorb the warning like it was the first time she’d heard it. Carlita had to know the agency didn’t hand out an assignment to work at the home of one of the world’s most famous people to just anyone. In nauseating detail, the resume sitting on her desk read like a domestic service map to the stars. She could see for herself Deb had been up to her elbows in celebrity grime since working her first Hollywood party to get through school. And there was certainly no need for a lecture on maid etiquette. Her references spoke for themselves. Agency pal Sheryl had confirmed Carlita’s contacts with some of Deb’s more recent clients, the first call going out to the aging glamour queen, a dead ringer for Norma Desmond awaiting her close-up—she had actually lived on Sunset Boulevard. Then there was Chad and Raul, the party-hearties who relished running naked on Malibu beach each afternoon before donning chainmail and leathers—their club Trigger Happy had become the hottest ticket in L.A., for those who were so inclined. Next was the aloof Bel Air exec who had been jailed for assaulting his girlfriend a day after signing Van Damme to a low-budget action flick, Kill Switch 3, thereby killing the project along with the cleaning contract—the Belgian would eventually find another studio willing to transform him yet again into an ex-Navy SEAL. And then three months before the accident, a blinged-out wannabe rapper had decreed himself C-Note. “C-Note’s gonna be bigger than Hammertime,” had been his mantra, proclaimed with a straight face and cubic zirconia grill latched to his front teeth. At least he had recognized the value of a clean house.
There was no doubt in Deb’s mind they had each summed up her character using the standard words Carlita needed to hear from every one of them. Reliable, consistent, quiet, hardworking, dedicated, honest, works for peanuts. Carlita’s ears would have been perked for the magic words too. The ones that kept Deb’s resume from being tossed in the trash and permitted the gates of Neverland to swing open. Words like discreet, egoless, subservient, obedient, loyal, willing to take crap from anyone. Hearing unambitious spoken a few times probably didn’t hurt either.
“Don’t cause me any problems and we’ll get along just fine,” Carlita said.
Deb tucked a wisp of brown hair that had fallen over her eye behind her ear and told herself to stay focused on the big picture.
“I intend to do a great job for you, Ms. Hernandez,” she said in an eager voice, “and for Mr. Jackson. I take pride in my work.”
“I’ll remember you said that,” Carlita replied, “when I get ready to sign your first paycheck.”
On that caustic note, the lesson on house policy came to a merciful end. Deb penned her name to the customary confidentiality agreements, scrawling her initials at least eight times on the one detailing her promise not to spill her guts to the tabloids. Then she completed the remaining stack of personnel forms with flying colors.
The morning’s assignment was to clean all eight guest bathrooms in the big house where the star lived and slept, and Deb was anxious to get started. A look inside his famous ranch was something she had been looking forward to since the agency confirmed her work release from Dr. Rubin had hit Sheryl’s inbox. Not only was her bank account thirsty for cash, but seeing how the other half lived in the privacy of their homes, away from the red carpet and glare of the flashbulbs, had always fascinated her. And not always in ways she expected. She could still remember walking in on family man Tom Hanks lip-locked with that barely-legal brunette who wasn’t his wife, a disappointment that had left her out of sorts for days, and utterly shocked. Almost as shocked as finding the wad of hundred-dollar bills tucked into her supply bucket the next morning with a note that read, “For the great job you’re doing....”
Carlita walked them in silence from the office to the main residence using a meandering Disney-esque path bordered with daffodils and pink tulips. Working at Neverland might prove to be Deb’s most tantalizing assignment yet. There wasn’t any star bigger than Michael Jackson, and his eccentricities were fast becoming legend. Not many people could say they worked at a 2,500-acre homestead in the middle of nowhere, populated by wild animals and amusement rides. Besides, the creative wizard had more talent in his little pinky than all of tinsel town put together. How could one person possess so much talent? And he was cute too. More than cute. Hot. Smokin’ hot.
Deb’s mind flashed with some amusement to her stargazing college roommate Jean. Jean would give an arm and a leg, and maybe throw in a liver and spleen, to be walking the path to Michael Jackson’s new residence. She had once told Deb she listened to his music just to hear the way he reached for breath between verses. She could be seen gliding through their dormitory saying his name over and over just because she loved the way it sounded. Deb hadn’t realized one person could think about another as much as she thought about him. They had plastered their dorm room walls and ceiling with posters of him in every pose they could find. Michael in black leather pants and a red bowtie. Michael in a cemetery surrounded by technicolor zombies. Michael in concert leaping free flight from a baby grand with his arms unfurled. Bare-chested Michael lounging poolside in an afro. Deb had found room for that one above her own pillow. While their friends were planning weddings and careers, she and Jean were planning where to fit the next poster.
But old roommate’s aside, Deb’s life did not offer the luxury of focusing her attention on idol worship. The rich and famous were a means to an end, what paid the bills while she wrote. That was the theory anyway, in a perfect world where things went as planned and didn’t get thrown into chaos by life-altering accidents and collection goons hell bent on squeezing blood from an empty bank account.
Deb paused to marvel at the top of a Ferris wheel visible in the distance above breezy treetops, the same apparatus that had caused a recent media stir and Hardcopy ratings bonanza upon its arrival at the front gate. When she pointed to three llamas being led around by their snouts on an expanse of green lawn, Carlita just harrumphed and kept moving.
She whisked Deb through a service entry to the kitchen and down a hallway to get to the first cleaning site, Main House Bathroom No. 1. Deb made the immediate assessment she had worked in more opulent surroundings, but the warmth and old-world charm of Michael’s elaborate ranch home were impressive. Working here would be a breath of fresh air compared to C-Note’s crib. She would not likely find fur-lined briefs in Michael’s dresser drawer or a strobe-lit stripper pole in his living room.
Authentic in its hominess, his living space was rife with personal touches that appeared to be all his own, as if he’d avoided hiring a team of professional designers to swoop in and take control. She would have her work cut out for her when it came time to polish the plethora of sculpture art and whimsical figurines crowding every tabletop.
Carlita worked alongside her in the first two bathrooms to ensure protocol was understood and demonstrate how the big boss liked things done. Or was it how she liked things done? Gold hand towels formed into a pocket to hold black face towels crimped into a fan. Four royal-crested finger towels, alternated purple and gold, displayed in an arc and set cattycorner on the granite countertop. The end piece of toilet paper folded into a V, hotel style. Purple asters and giant sunflowers set on a marble pedestal to remain unmoved from its corner position near the commode. There was to be no deviation, no creative thinking employed on Deb’s part. She was to be the cleaning automaton to a taskmaster who would hover over every aspect of her day. And that was to be expected on her first day of work.
“Didn’t they teach you anything at that agency?” Carlita asked. “Work the sponge. Mr. Jackson’s home has to sparkle.” Her face grew a deeper shade of red with every tiny circle her empty fist made inside the sink basin. Then she snatched the sponge from Deb’s hand and dispensed a primer on housecleaning meant to reduce her new charge to a kindergartner.
“Yes, ma’am,” Deb responded to the dressing down. She would swallow her pride because she needed this job. “I can see your method is much better for making the porcelain shine.” And in the end she had to admit, it was.
Deb was set free to work alone, Carlita promising to follow up with a white glove inspection later. Only the eight bathrooms were to be cleaned, no more, no less. Further instruction would be provided when she reported back to the service entry.
The edge of her squeegee made its umpteenth pass against the mirror in Main House Bathroom No. 5 and Deb began to relax, knowing her sour boss was anywhere but in the immediate vicinity. She had a hard time believing she had finally made it back to work. Harder still that she was actually at Neverland, even if her first day of work here would be limited to seeing where the boss freshened up between carousel rides and trips around the property in his steam-driven train.
She roamed the hallway with her map after finishing Bathroom No. 6, passing beneath a chandelier that could easily fill the space inside her Corolla.
The final notes of a classical composition coming through an open door caught her attention. Peeking around the entry, she saw a figure standing at a bay window.
* * *
“You’re head of maintenance, Butler. Make it happen. I don’t want anymore screw-ups.”
Carlita was in no mood to deal with ineptitude this morning. She glanced at the wall clock hanging from pegboard in Neverland’s landscaping office. The daily assignment briefing had gotten off to a late start. It was already almost eight o’clock and she felt the morning slipping away. Three Tylenol taken earlier had done nothing to stop the throb in her head, or the barrage of yellow sticky notes from showing up in her inbox.
She rolled a blackboard to the head of a long, dusty conference table and tilted its surface toward her audience. Squeezing a short piece of chalk between her fingers, she scribbled the word HELIPAD!! under the column heading URGENT. She shifted her weight and added a third exclamation mark, grinding the point in hard enough to send white crumbs to the eraser tray.
She turned to face the eight Neverland department heads seated around the table, directing her attention to a man sitting apart from the rest at the back of the room, Jerry Butler, head of maintenance.
“Mr. Jackson’s logo needs to be stamped onto that helipad by the time he gets back, come hell or high water, even if I have to get down on my hands and knees and slap the paint on myself,” she said in a voice bold enough to carry. “But, you see, that’s not my job. It’s yours, Jerry, remember? So make sure it gets done. Understand?”
Tall, lanky Jerry Butler wore a ten-gallon Stetson that covered most of his salt and pepper hair that was more salt than pepper. He set the heel of his leather boot atop a fifty-pound bag of fertilizer and tipped his metal folding chair back forty-five degrees, resting his back against the wall.
“I’ll do my best, but it’s beyond my control,” he said, clasping his hands together behind his head. “The paint should get here FedEx sometime today.”
Carlita grunted. Just the sort of lazy answer she had come to expect from the slacker. The only task at which he excelled was making excuses.
“Well, get in your pick-up and go get some paint if you have to, Butler. Mr. Jackson told me himself he wants to see the look on Britto’s face when they come in for a landing on that logo.”
Butler placed the wooden end of a match into his mouth and re-clasped his hands. “It’s a special order reflective paint, Carlita. FAA-approved,” he said. “You can’t just waltz down to Ace and throw it into your shopping basket. Ships from Florida.”
The big woman huffed at the man’s incompetence. He never ceased to amaze.
“You gave me your guarantee the paint would be here last week,” she barked and wiped the chalk dust from her hands onto the front of her smock. She folded her arms and looked toward the acoustic tile ceiling. “He’s returning from Los Angeles at four tomorrow. The copter will set down here by five.” She looked again at Butler. “If you start in the morning, will it be painted and dry enough to land on by then?”
He used the ball of his foot to rock his chair forward and back on its hind legs. “Probably,” he said.
“No probably about it,” she said. “Call them for delivery confirmation. I want status on my desk by ten this morning. And don’t even think about making me hunt you down for an answer. We need to get this done pronto.”
A cheshire smile broke out on the cowboy’s face as he rocked. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, the words drawn out.
She could spot that patronizing smile from a mile off, and that ridiculous handlebar mustache. She wanted to shove them both right down his good-for-nothing throat. The man was turning out to be nothing but a big bunch of trouble, leftover baggage from the last ranch owner. He’d best soon get his act together, and quick. One complaint to the big boss and that ne’er-do-well would find his bony cowpoke *** leaving skid marks all the way down Figueroa Mountain Road on his way to the unemployment line. But she was in a hurry to get this meeting done, and adjusting the sorry attitude of an over-the-hill Marlboro Man would have to wait for another time.
She peeled a yellow sticky from the face of the conference table and made a chalk mark under the heading LANDSCAPE & GROUNDS. She looked to her left at a short, stocky man with dark, wavy hair.
“Sanchez.” she said. “What’s going on with the azaleas?”
“We’ll be done planting magenta today,” he said. “White will go in tomorrow.”
“Good work. That area outside the theatre will pop with color just the way Mr. Jackson wants.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and read the note still stuck to her finger. “He also wants the Lady Di in plot L-3 outside the library switched to a Sir Walter Raleigh.” She looked at Sanchez expecting him to nod. Instead she saw his jaw drop. “He says you’ll know the one to order from the catalog. You can move the Lady Di roses to S-1.” She put her index finger to a color-coded map spread open on the table. “Right here—plot S-1 is not planted yet.”
Sanchez stood and leaned over the property map. “I know where S-1 is, Ms. Hernandez,” he said, exasperated, “but we just put the Lady Di in two weeks ago. It took my crew three days to plant all those bushes.”
Her eyes squinted as she tried to decipher the handwriting on the note. “He says the shade of pink isn’t soft enough.” She looked at Sanchez over the top of her glasses and ignored the light titters she heard coming from around the table. “It does seem an unusual request, Octavio, but this is Mr. Jackson’s home and we get paid to do what he wants, not complain. Just dig them up and get it done. And don’t forget our meeting at three about his ideas for the vegetable garden.”
She disregarded the groan coming from the man as he sat, and the smirk on Butler’s face she caught out the corner of her eye. She lifted another note off the table and looked three seats down to address a tiny-boned Asian woman with delicate features and a demure smile.
“Keiko, Mr. Jackson is thrilled with the flower arrangements you made for the guest houses. He wants the same done for the main residence and would like to fly you to L.A. next week. A driver will take you to the flower market and you can pick up whatever you need.”
“Really?” she squealed, her smile now showing a mouthful of teeth.
Carlita sighed. She didn’t have time for this. “Do you have wax in your ears?” she snapped. “Yes, really. I didn’t invite you here to chit-chat. He wants to see what else you can find to make larger arrangements for the big house.”
“But I was just playing around with the flowers, Ms. Hernandez,” she said. “I’m not a flower person. I just take care of aviary—”
“I’m not sure why you were playing with the flowers either, Keiko,” Carlita interrupted. “Being a florist is not what you’re paid to do, and I’m not sure how that got past me. Maybe Lloyd can shed some light on why zoo staff was making flower arrangements on Mr. Jackson’s dime.” Carlita watched a tanned Englishman in khakis sitting next to the petite woman squirm in his seat. She continued. “But obviously Mr. Jackson saw something in what you did that made him happy. I’m sure it will be an exciting trip. Now, please get back to work.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you,” she said, leaving her seat and rushing to the door. She could be heard gushing as she left the room. “…he noticed my flowers….”
Carlita rolled her eyes and flicked chalk dust from her fingers, looking next at an attractive black man wearing a dark cap and gray sweatshirt.
“What’s up with security, Gist?” she asked.
He stood and looked around the table. His good morning greeting met with a few tired nods and a sly grin from Butler. He looked down at a notepad attached to a clipboard held in his hand.
“The frequency on the transceivers has been programmed and I’ve issued twenty-two numbered units so far,” he said, and then looked at Carlita. “I emphasize again that the devices are not to be transferred from person to person without my knowledge and the agreed-upon documentation.”
“Good deal, Gist,” she said. “I’m still getting used to mine.” She pulled a black walkie-talkie from her smock pocket and played with one of its dials. “We didn’t have anything like this at the old house.”
“The most powerful on the market,” he responded. “Motorola. The range is phenomenal. They’ll be supplemented with cell technology once a tower is available for us and the concrete pad is poured. Staff will need to learn the communication protocol I’ve set forth. Radio silence should be observed unless absolutely necessary, and all conversations will be conducted in code. The frequency can be easily tapped by paparazzi or anyone else who wants to listen in.”
She set the walkie-talkie on the table and crossed her arms. “Got it,” she said. “What else?”
“More paparazzi out front at sunup. Current Affair,” he replied. “Two this time, on Suzuki’s behind some brush at the ranch across the street. Long-range telephoto lenses. Diversion was successful, and I’ll put the report on your desk later this morning.”
“Fine,” she said.
He flipped a page and continued.
“The final on the security plan will be complete today. It should be reviewed personally by Mr. Jackson. He should sign off on every protocol.”
“Yes, he’ll want to do that,” Carlita agreed. “He can review it when he returns from Los Angeles. And I’ll need a copy for my files.”
“Not a good idea,” Gist responded, looking at her. “He should keep possession of the original under lock and key. Having copies floating around leaves him exposed. The plan could get into the wrong hands.”
“Ah, yes, I understand,” she said. “I’ll maintain custody until he can look at it.”
“For now I recommend hiring three more guards. I give specifics in the plan, but they should be hired right away. Word is getting out to the public about this place and we’ll need more manpower at the gates and roaming the property, with twenty-four-hour roving patrols along the perimeter to reinforce sensors.”
“Good work, Gist. Go ahead and do the hires.” She looked down at the table in thought. “Three more sets of gear, three more badges, three uniforms to add to the order.” She jotted a note and continued, looking again at Gist. “The uniforms will be here next week, including yours.”
“Uniform?” he asked, his eyebrow raised. “We’ll have to talk about that. I don’t do uniforms.” He smiled and pointed to the logo on his cap. “This is the only uniform I wear. Silver and black, baby.” He let out a boisterous laugh that was followed by chuckles all around.
“Hey, is Bo gonna’ run wild again this year?” asked Sanchez.
Gist became animated. “I don't know, man. He’s gotta’ put up some pretty tall numbers to best himself.”
“Yeah, he tore up the field last year—almost 600 yards. And that’s just football—
“Okay, people,” Carlita interrupted, a grin on her face. “Let’s focus on one Jackson at a time.”
She peeled several yellow notes from the table and stuffed them into her pocket along with the walkie-talkie. That’s it for now,” she said. “I’ll catch up with the rest of you later this morning. Any questions?”
“Uh, yeah. I have one.” All eyes turned to Butler.
“What is it, Jerry?” Her grin turned to a frown.
“My guy tried to get into the room next to the library yesterday,” he said. “Someone’s changed the lock and we can’t get in. He said you told him to stay out.”
Carlita glared at him. If the vaquero wanted to play games, he had come to the right place.
“Yes, Jerry,” she said. “Mr. Jackson was very specific in his instruction that the room be kept private. The house now has workers running around everywhere. He wants a room to himself where no one will walk in on him anytime they feel like it. But you already knew that from the message I put on your desk, didn’t you?”
Butler looked as if he were concealing a giggle right behind his smile that might erupt through his lips at any moment.
“Well, don’t you think we should have a master key for the room like we do for the others?” he asked. “How can we do our job if we can’t get in?”
Carlita heard the phony sincerity in the man’s voice she had come to see as his hallmark.
“Butler, your job is to get that paint here on time and not leave us scrambling at the last minute,” she fired back. “And didn’t you hear what I just said? This is what Mr. Jackson wants. We work for him. Your job is to follow his instruction and stay away from that room.”
He looked around the table at the others, still smiling. In a plodding drawl plucked right out of an old-west movie, he said, “Well, then I guess that’s just what we’ll have to do.”
Carlita half expected him to finish his sentence with the words “little lady” tacked on. And the fake smile plastered on his face disturbed her. But she had other fish to fry at the moment.
“Meeting adjourned,” she said, her voice decisive, like a gavel striking a sound block.
She picked up a clipboard and hurried out the door, beginning the steady incline from the landscaping office to the kitchen deep in thought about the busy day that lay ahead. Then she thought about Butler. She couldn’t shake that smile of his. Something about it gave her the sense he was hiding something. She didn’t like surprises. Or anything that could mess with her plans.
* * *
Deb closed her eyes. Then opened them. Was it Michael standing at the window? Her heart skipped a beat. And another. It couldn’t be. She had seen his car drive past hers out to the country road. She had overheard security at the guard shack too. “KOP, car number three, on time for LAX,” was the squawk that had come through the walkie-talkie. And Carlita couldn’t have overlooked telling her he was here in the house, could she?
Goosebumps broke out on Deb’s arms. Her mouth went dry. Every pore burst with perspiration as she came to the realization. The caravan had been a paparazzi decoy. Security must have spotted tabloid vermin draping the tree limbs out front.
And then a second realization. An unnerving one.
Yes, it was really him standing before her. There he was, Michael Jackson. The man whose face had adorned her ceiling. The man who had danced a red leather jacket into the record books and spawned the video era.
His statuesque form is what drew her into the room where she knew she shouldn’t be, one step over the threshold and closer to the person who could get her fired. The sight of his sunlit profile and soft halo of dark curls from across the room pulled her in, a nail to a magnet.
Bucket in hand, she forced herself to stop in her tracks. A quick sweep of the room told her he was by himself in his personal library.
She and Michael stood in the same room. Together. And alone.
Her palms grew slippery and her face flushed fiery hot. Butterflies hatched in her stomach, wings fluttering with abandon all the way to her brain. She might not ever get the chance to see him again if Carlita didn’t like the way she cleaned his bathrooms, or crimped his towels. A sense of panic set in. What should she do?
She watched as he stood in what appeared to be deep daydream, his left arm wrapping his stomach and the curled fingers of his right hand holding his chin. He stared out on a rose garden in riotous bloom.
What could he be thinking about? The base lick for a new song? The choreography for a Pepsi commercial? Whether to take cream with his morning coffee? What did multi-platinum, Grammy-winning icons think about, anyway?
He wore a loose-fitting, untucked red and white flannel shirt, buttoned at the cuffs and all the way to the collar. His lean body swam in black pants that could be mistaken for pajama bottoms. Deb crooked her neck to see his signature white socks peeking out from below his modified pant hems. Then her eyes settled on the black penny loafers he wore on his feet, the same style shoe he’d made famous by sliding it into a moonwalk in front of 50 million TV viewers. Like his home, he was a vision of comfort. And loveliness.
She tore her intruding eyes away from his jet-black kinks long enough for a closer look at the room in which he stood.
Elegant finishing touches made his library a spectacular yet intimate showcase for books. Even a down-on-her-luck housemaid could recognize spare-no-expense craftsmanship when she saw it. There was nothing veneer about this room. Every wall and surface was crafted of rich walnut. Colorful throw rugs accented dark parquet flooring, and massive beams spanned the ceiling in a bold diamond design. Ornate wood pillars framed an immense fireplace that served as the room’s focal point. Groups of sumptuous leather seating were arranged for informal conversation, one facing the fireplace and two others set near large picture windows to capture streaming sunlight. Row after row of neatly-placed books of every color and thickness rested on built-in shelves that lined the perimeter of the room, accessed by three floor-to-ceiling ladders that slid on a track.
She couldn’t just stand and gawk. A decision to either approach or retreat had to be made, go or no-go.
It couldn’t hurt to pop in for just a moment and act as if she had stumbled into the wrong room by mistake, could it? Errors did happen. It was her first day on the job in an unfamiliar house, after all.
Carlita’s repeated warnings swirling in Deb’s head shouted…stop! Her emotions screamed louder, trumpeting the only order she wanted to hear…go for it!
House rules and professional integrity be damned. She wanted to see Michael. She wanted to see the man who had put so much thought into creating this wonderful room and chose to spend his time here. She wanted to see his genius face now, even if it meant this would be her first and last morning spent in his house.
The squeak beneath her foot from a loose plank of hardwood on her third step into the room disrupted the quiet and any chance of entering with stealth. She stopped herself from going further as she realized he had heard her.
He seemed to dismiss whatever thought had been running through his mind and turned his head in a calm manner to see who had entered.
He stared right at her. His face to hers. His eyes to hers.
A noise issued from her lungs at seeing his face full on and feeling his eyes penetrate her own. Photographs did nothing to convey the power they held to captivate, to bore right through, to wrap themselves around and abscond with a heart without remorse. In an instant they drew her in and made her want to touch him, want to care for him, want to understand him and love him with her body and her mind. His eyes saw her, right through her, knew her.
How could it be? They had just made contact for the first time. Yet she felt it.
Standing there in his library, she knew she would need to know everything she could about the poet mind behind the huge chocolate orbs.
Just yards from her, he nodded. And then she saw a ray of golden sunshine dance off the surface of the ocean when he shone a brilliant beam to acknowledge her. A radiant smile for her, a perfect stranger in his home and the hired help to boot.
He raised his hand as if to say hello, an act that accelerated blood flow through her ventricles to warp speed and caused her to breathe through an open mouth. She did her best to appear calm and reciprocate, even as she considered turning and running, or flying into his arms, lips-first.
And then it was over.
As quick as he had reached in and made off with her heart, their private, amazing, wonderful moment was over.
Michael turned away and sat in the high-back wingchair by his side, positioned to face the window. His hands reached for an open book that rested on the small table beside him.
* * *