Lies Lovers Tell (12 page)

Stretch was out of jail, but Maya still worried. She’d tried to call him last night after Trish left, wanted to find out more about the friend who’d bailed him out. As much as Stretch and his hoodish ways got on her nerves, she didn’t know what she’d do if anything happened to him. He’d gotten caught up in the lifestyle of their old neighborhood, where he still lived. But at the heart of it, he was a good man.

She tried him once more as she exited the first bus and waited on the second one to arrive. After again getting his voice mail, she texted him with a message to call her that night. Then she checked her e-mails, both work and personal. By the time she finished a quick scan of both addresses, her second bus arrived.

Maya couldn’t believe how quickly one’s perspective could change. One day she vowed to never enter Sam Walter’s house again and today it felt like an escape from the B&A office madness. Even the Martha outfit was a relief, the oversized top and baggy pants helping her further distance herself from the tenseness of her current corporate state. Today her biggest worry would be folding a towel properly and not leaving spots on glasses. What would it be like to have such a simple life for real? Maya wondered. And if faced with the dilemmas of Maya’s world, what would Martha do? Maya laughed out loud at the thought. What would a lowly housekeeper, with no high-profile, high-paying job on the line, do about her brother, her promiscuous boss, and her love life?

She’d probably trust her intuition, follow her hunches, and go with the flow. Simple people didn’t overcomplicate situations; life was what it was. Maya remembered what Cecilia had said about her pretend cousin’s pregnancy.
Your cousin be fine. Having babies…natural to feel bad sometimes.
Just like that, no big deal. Joy, pain, sunshine, rain…all a part of life. Maya would make a conscious effort to adopt a similar attitude regarding the things that were taking place around her.

After coming in through the side entrance by the laundry room, Maya placed her purse in the closet and walked into the kitchen where Cecilia often left instructions on the day’s chores. Instead of a note, she was surprised to see Sam Walters himself standing in the middle of the room.

“Oh, uh, excuse me,” Maya said hesitantly. She’d been so busy focusing on Maya’s mess, she’d almost forgotten Martha’s accent! “How you doin’?”

Sean drank in Maya’s beauty, shrouded yet evident behind the wig and oversized clothes. Now it seemed unimaginable he’d ever been fooled by a disguise that now looked transparent. And with his attraction to her at an all-time high, it was more important than ever that he not blow the Sam Walters cover. He’d heard underground rumblings of violence that didn’t bode well for the company he was keeping. If anything happened to Maya because of him…well…he couldn’t even finish that thought.

“Why do you do that?” he asked in a brusque, British accent.

Maya bristled. Sam Walters always rubbed her the wrong way. But now was not the time to make waves. This was the job she’d looked forward to, a day she thought would be fairly routine.

“What, sah?”

“Talk like you’re a slave from
Roots
instead of a native Californian. You were born in California, right?”

Maya nodded.

“So what’s with the nauseous, southern accent? You do your ancestors a grave injustice by not speaking proper English!” Sam’s accent became even more clipped, if that was possible.

Maya longed to give Sam a taste of her extensive English vocabulary, using more than the first letters, but she kept her cool and answered with a shrug of the shoulders. She didn’t even look up.

“Look at me,” Sean insisted.

Maya took a deep breath, straining to keep her temper under control. For not the first time that day, she was thankful for the disguise, thankful that she’d barely be able to see Sam through the thick glasses, almost as thick as the first pair she’d lost.

“Take off your glasses,” he ordered.

“I can’t see without—”

“Take them off!”

Maya’s head shot up before she could stop herself. Her face fixed into a frown, but she covered it up by acting like the scrunched-up face was to help her see. “Why you want me to take off my glasses?” she asked in a soft, subdued voice.

Forget Trish being the actress; Maya could have won an Oscar in that moment. For all her subservient posturing, she was seconds away from pimp-slapping her billionaire boss.

Sean struggled to keep the smile off his face. How could he have missed this smoldering fire, this sensuality-charged force barely hidden inside baggy clothes? His stern countenance in place, he answered her tersely, “I like to see what my employees look like.”

What the “h”? Maya couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She had come to this house for six weeks and Sam had barely acknowledged her existence. Now all of a sudden he wanted to “see what she looked like”? She kept her face scrunched up, trying to disguise her features as Sam Walters gave her the once-over.

Sean knew he should leave her alone, but he couldn’t. He wanted to be around her all the time, any way he could, even in the caustic role of the man she despised. With a recklessness he seldom displayed, he pushed on.

“What size are you?” he asked, as if he were inquiring about the time of day, or the weather.

“’Scuse me?”

“What size do you wear, you know, in panties, bra, pants, and top…especially panties?”

Maya’s mouth dropped open.

“I’m thinking of ordering maid uniforms for you and Cecilia, dress, underwear, shoes, the works.” Sean’s expression remained blank, casual, but his blood was quickly warming at the thought of Maya in a skimpy French maid uniform.

Maya was stunned. What the bump was going on? Was Mercury retrograde or something, that time of the year when the alignment of the planets sent communication all out of whack? Surely she hadn’t heard what it sounded like she heard; surely Sam “Waddling” Walters hadn’t just asked her about her panty size?

“Where’s Cecilia” she asked abruptly. Somehow she’d walked into the twilight zone, and she needed to quickly make her way back to Real World.

“I, uh, I don’t feel right talking to you ’bout this,” she said, with more southern drawl than she’d ever used. She was going from Kizzy in
Roots
to Celie in
The Color Purple
, but was too discombobulated with Sam’s line of questioning to notice.

Sean figured it was enough badgering for the moment. “I guess you’re right,” he said after a pause. “Cecilia’s running errands. I believe there’s a mountain of laundry to be washed and then the linen in all the bedrooms need to be refreshed. Once that’s done, all relevant floors can be mopped, the silver shined, and then…well…just come see me after that.”

The silver shined? Cecilia had just done that two weeks ago. Maya decided to remain silent. All the joy she’d felt for coming here today had vanished. She would talk to Zeke first thing tomorrow and tender her resignation; if not to her role as Martha Williams, then to her position as executive assistant at B&A. Nothing was worth this aggravation.

Maya entered the laundry room and for the first time since she’d started working in the Walters household…locked the door. She leaned against the cool walnut exterior and inhaled deeply. Her heart was pounding, but until now, she’d been too busy trying to maintain her Martha persona to notice. Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked around. Here, things looked normal. The detergent, bleach, fabric softener, and other cleaning products were in their normal place on the top shelf. The iron, spray bottle, dryer sheets, and other laundering items occupied their normal spot on the second tier. A huge pile of linens, which looked to represent all the sheets and towels in the house, was in the middle of the floor. As Maya took in the familiarity of her surroundings, her breathing calmed and her tense shoulders relaxed.

She began sorting out the whites from colors and while doing so, tried to sort out the meaning behind Sam’s strange conversation. He’d never shown the slightest interest in her as a person, much less what she was wearing. And now that he was talking, it was about panties? None of it made any sense.

As she loaded the two washing machines, Maya began to see the humor in what had just happened. That fat, stuck-up Brit had tried to come on to her! What’s more, he’d done so with a lame “a” line about panty size! Was that as creative as he could get? The more she thought about it, the more she wasn’t surprised. He was a man and she a woman after all. That he would test the employer/employee boundaries was bound to happen. Just look at Zeke and Jade. She only hoped her reaction served as fair notice: There wasn’t a chance this side of forever that Sam Walters and Maya, or even the lowly Martha, would do a bump and grind.

Maya worked uninterrupted for almost half an hour, steadily thinking about how to get control of her life. She hoped Sean would help her prove Sam Walter’s identity, the easiest solution being he was exactly who he said he was, a rich man wanting to buy real estate. “And a pervert,” she muttered aloud. Then there was B&A and how to make a well-timed exit. When it came to Jade, she wasn’t running from a fight as much as avoiding one in which she didn’t care to win. Jade was welcome to whatever she wanted from Zeke, as long as it didn’t involve stepping on her in the process.

And then there was Stretch. Although he affectionately called her big sis, Maya was just a few minutes older than her thirty-year-old brother. He was past grown, and as hard as it was for her to cut the mama-type umbilical cord, Maya knew she needed to do just that. Maya had fulfilled the promise she made to her mother, as they’d talked casually one evening while preparing dinner.

“Look after your brother, Maya,” she’d said. Their mother, Janet, knew he and his friends ran afoul of the law. “I know he’s hard-headed but he listens to you. One of these days I won’t be around for y’all. Just keep an eye out if you can.”

“That’s my twin, my heart Mama. You know we’ll always have each other’s back.”

The words spoken so casually proved prophetic. The next night her mother was struck head-on during a police car chase. She died instantly.

A rattling of the doorknob, followed by a loud pounding on the laundry door made Maya jump. She’d totally forgotten about locking the door, but was once again surprised at Mr. Walters’s uncharacteristic behavior. Then again, maybe it was Cecilia. Maya rushed over to open the door.

“What on earth are you doing in there that you need the door locked?” Sean demanded. He’d vowed to stay away from Maya for the remainder of the afternoon, but his body had refused to listen.

“I—I’m sorry. I must have pushed the button by mistake. I didn’t know it was locked.”

Maya forced herself to not squirm under Mr. Walters’s penetrating stare. His unusual behavior was unnerving, but Maya had gone up against bigger guns than Sam. He had no idea who he was messing with. She might be playing the part of a lowly maid, but if he kept acting crazy, Maya was going to have to introduce him to another side of her. She fixed her eye on a spot just over Mr. Walters’s shoulder and waited for him to speak.

“Don’t ever lock any of the doors in my home,” Sean said finally, once again appreciating Maya’s fire, even as she tried to dampen it under the guise of Martha Jones. “And hurry up in here. I’m leaving the house for a couple hours, but Cecilia will be back before then. If you actually work instead of daydreaming, you might be able to finish most of the responsibilities we’ve given you.”

Maya just stood there, imagining her hand grabbing the iron to the left of her and smashing homeboy upside his snooty face. He really didn’t know how close he was to a postal moment. Sam Walters was really pushing her already tightly wound buttons. Was it a full moon or what? Thank God, he was leaving. That’s all that mattered. She’d have a little time by herself in his home. Focusing on that fact helped her blood stop boiling.

“Thank you, Mr. Walters. Sorry about the door. Yes, I think I can finish everything.” To emphasize her point, Maya turned to the washer that had just shut off and began hurriedly placing the wet items into the dryer and refilling the washer with a new load of clothes. “Yes, suh?” she asked, when Mr. Walters continued to stand there.

He didn’t reply, just shook his head curtly and left.

Five minutes after she’d heard the front door close, and with both washer and dryer going strong, Maya ventured out of the laundry room. She hurried to the garage, double-checking that the BMW 720 sedan that Mr. Walters drove was gone. It was. She looked out front. Cecilia’s Toyota was nowhere in sight. She walked back into the house and quickly riffled through her usual haunts, the guest rooms, master suite, kitchen and den. As she suspected, nothing different, nothing new. The place looked as much the hotel as when she’d first arrived; there was nothing to be found here. As she walked towards the laundry room she thought about Sean, and hoped he could help her gain the information she needed.

Just before turning the corner, she had a thought.
Try the office.
She almost ignored this niggling; that door was always locked. But because she hoped it was her last day, she saw no reason not to exhaust every option. She turned and walked back down the hall, to the forbidden double doors. She reached up casually and turned the knob, fully expecting the usual resistance. To her surprise, the knob turned. Finally, access to door number one. She opened the door slowly, tentatively, and then, sure the room was empty of occupants, let it swing open wide. Here it was: the off-limits domain of Sam Walters’s office. It looked like, well, an office. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting…a torture chamber maybe?

Maya took in the surroundings quickly: a large desk that faced the window, looking onto a fabulous view of the Pacific Ocean; a large, low-slung file cabinet that ran the length of the side wall; two earth-tone wingback chairs; a black leather love seat; and a colorful rug that covered a major part of the hardwood floor. Its vibrant shades of blue, teal, rust, and gold warmed up an otherwise stark, yet tasteful environment. And she was almost positive that the portrait hanging over the file cabinet was another Van Gogh.