Working Stiff

It slowly opened, revealing a moonlit blue-tinged gravel drive that was probably blindingly white in full day. The hedges were manicured and shaped as if they’d been taken to a high-end salon, not one leaf fluttering out of place. Bryn blinked as he drove up a long, winding path, past stately old trees and perfect rose gardens and a white gazebo large enough to host the New York Philharmonic for an afternoon concert.

A massive square block of a house appeared at the top of the next curving hill, illuminated with tasteful outdoor spotlights. The place was the size of a mall, Bryn thought, not to mention being so elaborate it could have been used in a movie with women in corsets and men behaving badly.

McCallister pulled up in front of the front steps, and the massive wooden door opened to reveal an actual butler. Well, she assumed he was, although he wasn’t wearing a tuxedo. More of a dinner jacket, which was remarkable enough at this late hour.

“Where are we?” Bryn asked.

“Home,” McCallister said. “Come on.”

This could not possibly be someone’s home. Not anyone who actually worked for a living. But McCallister walked around, opened her door, and she looked at Mr. French, who huffed something in dogspeak and jumped out to toddle along after him.

“Traitor,” she said, and grabbed her bag.

The butler was an older man, well into gray hair, but with a kind face that put Bryn at ease immediately. He took the suitcase from her without hearing any kind of protests, and said, “Miss Davis, I’ll take this to your room.”

“Give her the Auburn Room, Liam. I want her in a defensible position,” McCallister said. The butler nodded briskly and went up the stairs with her bag, leaving her and Mr. French to gawk at the huge, vaulted entry hall. It was some odd shape—octagonal, maybe—with three doors angled out of it, plus the staircase sweeping grandly into the shadows. She had an overwhelming impression of age, solidity, and above all, wealth. The paintings. The tapestries. The richly colored rugs on the floor.

“Welcome,” McCallister said, “to the ancestral millstone around my neck. Before you ask, yes, it’s mine. Or, more properly, it belongs to my family’s trust, and I’m allowed to rent it for a nominal fee.”

What did you say to that? Bryn finally settled for a subdued “Wow,” and studied a painting close to her. She’d seen that image before. They sold posters of it at Wal-Mart. “So you’re … rich.” Evidently, that was an understatement.

“Not really. As I said, most of this belongs to the trust; I just act as the administrator. I’m …” He thought for a second, and smiled. “A caretaker, I suppose. I avoid the place as often as possible, anyway. Liam is more than capable of running the enterprise without my interference.”

“But it belongs to your family.”

“No, to the trust. It belonged to my father. And my father didn’t leave it to me.” McCallister looked around for Mr. French, who was sniffing a low-hanging tapestry quite carefully, flat nose buried in the probably priceless fabric. “Ah, would you mind …?”

“Come here, dogface,” she said, and scooped him up. He squirmed, but she held him. God forbid the mutt should pee on anything in here; she’d be in debt for the rest of her life. “Who did your dad leave it to?”

“My brother,” McCallister said. “He died.” That was short, unemotional, and didn’t invite any more questions. “Let me take you to your room.”

“The Auburn Room,” she said. “Is everything named that pretentiously around here?”

“Be nice. I could have put you in the Aubergine Suite.”

“My God.”

“I’m two doors down,” he said. “If you need anything, you can press the button for Liam, or come get me. Don’t go wandering by yourself.”

“Ghosts?”

“None that would bother you.” Again, there was that slammed conversational door. McCallister jogged up a few steps, then turned and looked back at her. “Something else?”

She paused, hand on the railing. “What is your room called?”

“Patrick’s room,” he said. “But it used to be called the Black Room.”

Somehow, she wasn’t at all surprised.

The Auburn Room was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Bryn paused in the doorway, staring at the graceful lines of the canopied bed, the massive gilt-framed mirror that stretched half the length of the room, the silks in muted orange, rich browns, harvest golds. If the Queen of England has a favorite room, this is probably it, she thought. Her cheap little suitcase looked particularly pathetic where Liam had put it on a folding luggage rack. The luggage rack was probably worth more than the entire contents, and the suitcase.

She’d been starting to like McCallister, but now … now she couldn’t honestly believe that they had anything at all in common. He came from a whole different reality than she—or anybody she knew—lived in. Why in the hell was he working as some corporate drone?

“I hope this is suitable, ma‘am,” Liam said, and gave her a warm smile. “Shall I bring a bed for your dog?”

“Um … can I let him sleep with me?”

“Of course.”

Yeah, what was a little dog hair on that national treasure of a bedspread, or the rug that the Antiques Roadshow appraisers would have orgasmed over? She let Mr. French hop down to run around the room sniffing excitedly, and tried not to think about the disaster that might happen next.

Liam was watching her, and clearly knew what she was thinking, because he smiled and said, “No worries about the dog, ma’am. We have seven here, including two rottwei-lers, three greyhounds, a poodle, and a pug. Your friend is quite welcome. I’ll bring some food and water for him. Anything for you?”

“I’m all kibbled out,” she said. “I think I just need to sleep, but thank you. And thanks for not making me feel … second-class.”

“You’re assuredly not,” he said, and nodded to her before closing the door behind him.

That lasted about two full seconds before there was another rap on the wood, and when she looked out, McCallister was there. He cleared his throat. “So you’ll be all right.” It wasn’t a question, really. “As I said, I’m two rooms down. The panic button is next to your bed. Press it if you’re in any way alarmed, and Liam will come running. So will I.”

“Why do you work for Pharmadene?” she asked, as he reached for the doorknob. “You must have a reason. It’s not like you need the job. If I lived here, I’d never clip on some corporate badge and wear a monkey suit.”

He considered giving her an honest answer—she could see that in the way he looked at her—but then he shook his head. “We’ll discuss all that some other time; it’s a long story. For now, please get some sleep. Liam will make sure you’re ready for breakfast. We’ll be leaving right after that.”

“Going where?”

“Hopefully,” he said, “to someone who can help you more than I can.”

“Patrick?” She saw him glance back over his shoulder as he opened the bedroom door. “Back at my apartment, we—”

He shook his head, and left without a word.

“—didn’t do anything,” she finished softly, as the door shut. “Right. Professional relationship it is. No problem.”

Despite the amazing down mattress and soft sheets and feathery duvet, neither she nor Mr. French slept much at all.

The morning dawned soft and bright, with those kind of cheerful chirping country bird sounds that Bryn thought existed only in the movies. She felt tired, but oddly at peace, and swung open the window to look out at the unbelievable view of the manicured, jewel-perfect gardens. That lasted about a minute, until Mr. French marched to the closed (and locked) bedroom door, whined, and she remembered that mansions probably didn’t come with convenient doggy doors. She was pulling on her robe and slippers and wondering what the rules were about wandering around this place looking ratty when a soft knock came at the door.

She unlocked it and peeked out. Liam smiled politely and said, “May I take the young lad for a walk outside?”