Plain Jayne (10 page)

I think it’s hilarious she assumes Lucas knows
me well enough to have a clue about my “dietary needs,” but I’m not amused that
she’s worried about my opinion of the food. Quickly, I reassure her as I take
my seat, “It looks great. I love meat.” That hasty declaration makes me blush.
“I mean, I’m not a vegetarian.”

She looks disproportionately relieved. Maybe
Lucas docks her pay for screw-ups. My heart races at the idea. Once again, I’m
terrified at the prospect of having that much power over someone else.

As I’m opening my mouth to make the dangerous
statement that I’ll eat anything, she sits across the table from me, pours
herself a glass of lemonade after pouring mine, and says, “Well, then, you eat
up. And let’s have a bit of a chin wag. If I’m going to be taking care of you,
I’ll need to know a bit about you, don’t you think?”

I chew and swallow my first bite of sandwich,
barely managing to keep from moaning at how delicious it is, and say, “Oh.
Well, you don’t have to take
care
of me. I’m very independent.”

“Not while you’re here, you’re not,” she says
sweetly but firmly. “My feelings will be rather hurt if you try to do
everything for yourself and ignore me.”

“Okay…”

“Not that I’ll be a pest about it, you know.
You won’t even know I’m around, if you don’t want me around. Luke was very
clear about that.”

That twangs a nerve. Slowly I wipe some
mayonnaise from the corner of my mouth and deliberately set the cloth napkin
into my lap. “Huh. Well, you don’t have to tip-toe around me, either, like I’m a…
a… diva. I don’t know what Lucas told you about me, but—”

She flaps her hands in front of her chest.
“Oh, no, no, no! That’s not it at all! He didn’t say a word against you; that’s
not a bit like him. What I meant was that I’ll be here when you need me but out
of your way when you don’t. That’s all.”

“Right-o.”

After a swallow of lemonade, she smiles
encouragingly at me. “Now, then. Tell me about the foods you detest. That way,
I can be sure not to make anything you don’t want to eat but are too polite to
refuse.” When I start to protest and proclaim that I’m not picky, she cuts in
with, “Ah-ah-ah! I can tell by the looks of you that you’d eat something you
hate before admitting it, so don’t be shy. I’m not going to judge you if you
say you won’t eat anything that’s good for you. I can stock up at the market on
crisps and sweets just as well as meat and veg.”

When the only foods on my list of won’t-eats
are anchovies, uncooked onions, creamed corn, and beets, she relaxes in her
chair, grins proudly at me like I’m a clever child who recited the alphabet in
another language, and says, “There. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? I think
you and I are going to be great friends.”

If every meal she cooks for me is this good, I
think we are.

******

The trouble is… I feel like I have a
babysitter. Don’t get me wrong; I like Paulette a lot. And she hasn’t said or
done anything obvious to make me think she’s reporting back to Lucas about what
I’m doing. But… I have this weird feeling that she’s all-knowing and all-seeing
when it comes to this house, and if Lucas were to come right out and ask her
what I’ve been up to, she’d feel obligated, as his employee, to tell him. And I
don’t think he’d hesitate to ask her. Not for a second.

Plus, unless she’s the most duplicitous person
I’ve ever met, she seems to be under the impression that I’m a great writer.
Maybe she doesn’t get sarcasm (that would explain her long, happy tenure on
Lucas’s staff). Anyway, even though I’ve just met her, she’s been so nice to me
that I don’t want to let her down. I know, that’s people-pleasing of the highest,
most illogical order, but I can’t help it. She’s very motherly, and it’s satisfying
a craving I didn’t even know I had. She dotes on me. I haven’t had someone do
that in… well, twelve years. However, I feel guilty when she serves me while I
lounge next to the pool.

To get an idea of what she thinks of me, I say
at breakfast this morning while buttering a flaky croissant, “You must think
I’m so lazy.”

Of course, she denies it. “No! I haven’t that
opinion at all!”

Washing down a bite with a mouthful of coffee,
I smile. “It’s okay. I
am
being lazy. I usually write for thirteen or
fourteen hours a day.”

“Well, you needed a rest, then, like Luke said.”

I can’t stop myself from asking, “What else
did he say about me?”

She doesn’t hesitate when she answers, “Only
that you’re in the middle of publishing your first book—good for you!—and that
you need a quiet place to stay so you can relax and polish your manuscript in
peace,” but she assigns an intense level of concentration to folding the kitchen
towel she was using to mop up the area around the sink. When she continues to
refuse to look me in the eye, I’m sure he said more than that. I can only
imagine.

Eventually she does look up at me. “In any
case… it’s good you came here, because no one else uses the house, and I’d much
prefer to be here than in the city, where I live alone and only have Luke’s
apartment to tend. Reminds me more of home when I can be close to the sea.”

With such a blatant subject change like that,
it would seem obsessive and rude to continue to try to get information about
Lucas from her. So I dutifully ask where she’s from (Dorset) and how she
managed to find her way to the States (met and married a Bostonian when he was
“on holiday” and stayed at her family’s bed and breakfast) and how long she’s
worked for “Luke” (a vague “quite a while”).

I’m out of questions about her, but I still
have plenty about Lucas. Feeling that it’s not too unnatural a loop back around
to our earlier discussion, I ask, “But Lucas doesn’t stay here very often?”

She scrapes with her thumbnail at something on
the granite counter. “Not much anymore. Used to, but… he’s so busy.” She shrugs
good-naturedly. “Well, you know how it is. Career before all else when you’re
young. You always think there’ll be plenty of time for… other things… later.”

Ah. So Lucas has no social life. Big shocker.
The guy’s about as personable as a porcupine.

Even though I’m a big proponent of hermitism,
I egg her on with, “That’s too bad. You’re only young once, right? Plus, it’s a
shame this big place is going to waste.”

She nods eagerly. “That’s what I tell him! He
needs to fill it with children.” Abruptly, she stops talking. Her mouth takes
on a shape resembling a purse that’s been zipped closed. After clearing her
throat, she continues more moderately, “That is, I also understand where he’s
coming from. And he’s a good boss. It’s not my place to criticize.”

Damn. I was getting into this topic, too. I
was hoping she’d tell me something juicy. Maybe a story about a beautiful woman
he drove away with his terrible temper and wearying workaholism. Now,
heartbroken, he buries himself even more in his work, lashing out at poor,
unsuspecting new authors who aren’t confident enough to tell him to go do something
sexual to himself.

Or
perhaps he’s
secretly pining for the busty Blanche, but he knows she doesn’t return his
feelings, so his love is unrequited and is eating him alive. That would at
least explain his sour attitude.

Or
maybe
he made a pact with the devil
that in exchange for his devastating good looks (at least, some people may call
them that), he had to give up all vestiges of a personality, so he’s cursed to
walk through life alone, never having any relationship more meaningful than a
one-night stand, because as soon as they get to know him better, women run as
fast and as far away as they can. Even though he’s physically perfect and a
master of the sexual arts…

“Oh, dear!”

Paulette’s words register at the same time as
the warm wetness in my lap. I startle, spilling even more coffee onto my
favorite sundress. “Well, shit!” I scold myself. Paulette passes me the
dishtowel that seems to be her constant companion as she goes about her day. I
swab at the tan splotch on my cotton dress while trying to hide the red
splotches on my cheeks.

Laughing, Paulette watches and says, “You were
a thousand miles away. Did you say hi to my sister and brother-in-law while you
were there?” Soon, when it’s apparent that no amount of towel-blotting is going
to help the stain, she holds out her hands, “Alright then. Strip to your
knickers. I’ll take that dress; you go upstairs and find something else to
wear.”

It doesn’t feel strange at all to follow her
orders since she’s so matter-of-fact about it.

Her attitude reminds me of the woman in the
fitting room of a lingerie store I visited with my mom when I was in high
school and needed a special strapless, backless bra to go with my prom dress.
She had casually stood by in the dressing room while I took everything off from
the waist up, and then she handled my breasts like a couple of melons (fine…
more like oranges) in the produce department as she took my measurements.

When I blushed and stammered, she said curtly,
“There’s no need to be embarrassed. I see bare breasts all day long; it’s what
I do.” She wrote my specs down on a spiral-bound mini-notebook and tapped my
shoulder with her pencil. “Now, hold tight; I’ll be back in a few seconds.” And
then she’d left me in there to simultaneously shiver and sweat with my arms
crossed over my chest.

She returned with a bustier that she wrestled
me into as I held on for dear life to one of the hooks on the wall next to the
changing room mirror. When she was finished, I had an hourglass shape that most
supermodels would have been jealous of.

That’s when Mom barged in, eager to get a
look. She blinked back tears and fanned her face. “Oh, Jaynie. You’re going to
be stunning! Look at you!”

At the time, I was supremely annoyed at the
crowd around me in my undies, but before we were even home, I’d realized that
Mom and I had shared a rare woman-to-woman moment. And while it may not be one
of my fondest memories, I do look back on it wistfully, because it’s one of the
very few moments like that I ever had the chance to experience with her. I had
no idea at the time how precious it was.

Like the woman in the lingerie shop, Paulette
is all business after I hand over my soiled dress. She doesn’t even give me a
second glance in my mismatched Target bra and panties but immediately turns and
heads in the direction of the laundry room. Only when I’m climbing the stairs
in an unfamiliar house in my underwear do I feel self-conscious. And then only a
little bit. After all, there’s nobody here to see me.

Chapter Nine

Paulette may insist she doesn’t think I’m
lazy, but I
know
I am, so when I’ve changed into clean clothes, I grab
my laptop and set off in search of a place where I can concentrate and write.

There’s a library, complete with dark raised
wooden wall paneling, hardwood floors, fusty rugs, and an entire
floor-to-ceiling wall of bookshelves, crammed with ostentatious works of
Literature with a capital “L.” A leather-topped desk sits in the middle of the
room. The only thing on it is a green glass-shaded library lamp. The drawers
are empty, except for the thin middle drawer, which contains some pens and
blank pads of paper. This is definitely not where the man of the house spends
time working. There’s not even a phone in here.

It should be a perfect, solitary, distraction-free
place for me to set up shop. It’s quickly apparent, though, that it’s not. Too
quiet. And the stale air-conditioned air makes me feel like I'm standing in a
vacuum.

Back out in the hall, I cross to the door
opposite the library and push down on the handle. It doesn’t budge.
Hmm…
Lucas’s private porn room, I presume?
I think with an evil smile. It’s the
only locked door I’ve encountered since arriving here. Interesting. I’d ask
Paulette, but I don’t want to seem too nosy. Anyway, it's not like it's any of
my business, right? Even so, I stare at the door for a while, dying to know
what's on the other side. Eventually, I give myself a little shake and blink
away the possibilities, making my way through down the hall, through the
kitchen, and outside.

I realize my options are limited out here,
too, thanks to the antique I call my laptop, which runs on its backup battery
barely long enough for me to get into a writing rhythm and then promptly dies.
So I need to have access to an electrical outlet. That means I should be safe
anywhere close to the house. I’ve noticed its outer walls are dotted with
covered outlets, ostensibly for electrical lawn equipment and other outdoor
appliances and conveniences.

The pool’s too tempting, so I don’t even
consider poolside as an option. Too hot, anyway, out there in the direct sun. I
scope out the covered balcony outside the bedroom where I’m staying. After
climbing the wooden stairs and coming to a shamefully breathless rest next to
the railing, I determine that it’s breezy, shady, close to an electrical
source, and has some comfortable seating options. Yes. This could work…

My eyes land on the French doors a few feet
away from where I’m standing. I set my laptop on the chaise longue, cross to
the doors, look around to make sure nobody’s watching, and peer through the
glass at the room inside. It’s a mirror image of my room in layout and a photo
negative of it in color scheme. The walls are painted a deep navy blue; the
baseboards and moldings are a medium gray. The floor’s kitted in gray wood
planks that are designed to look weathered, but I can tell from their sheen
that they’re smooth and un-splintered, perfect for skating across on sock-clad
feet.