Chelsea sat on the sofa in the formal living room, a cashmere throw tucked around her legs to ward off the predawn chill. She’d had a restless night and had finally given up trying to sleep in favor of studying her upcoming role. Her script was on her lap, but she hadn’t read a word.
It had been a week since Fran had started assisting, and the results had been decidedly mixed. In many aspects, Fran was doing all right. She was a careful driver, pleasant to be around, and friendly with household staff. There had been one or two problems with correspondence. She had emailed some documents to Chelsea’s publicist instead of her lawyer, but had the error fixed as soon as she realized it. A couple of phone message mix-ups. Chelsea thought it was simply a matter of Fran not being familiar enough with the team of people Chelsea surrounded herself with, and that would right itself with time, because Fran certainly was not stupid. She had made a few incisive comments over the past few days, but mostly she stayed quiet and listened.
Chelsea could cope with these mistakes, but she could not cope with Fran’s attempts at breakfast anymore. She hadn’t realized how much she had taken advantage of Lorraine’s penchant for cooking, or how talented her former assistant had been in the kitchen. Lorraine had enjoyed catering to her dietary needs far more than the administrative side of the job. It remained to be seen which parts of the job Fran would excel at, but the results of her food prep had been uniformly dismal.
A simple soft-boiled egg had not been prepared the same way twice, and the smoothies—Chelsea couldn’t quite believe how bad they had been. None of the permutations of fruit and veg Fran had tried had been edible. The last one had tasted like wet chalk with tiny little buds of broccoli floating throughout that gave it a crunchy texture. She shuddered at the memory. The breakfast routine was definitely not working.
Still, she liked Fran, believed she was trying her best. And she felt safe with her, which was the most important thing.
Fran had an old-fashioned courtliness about her, which showed up in little gestures like a brief hand on the elbow as she guided Chelsea through a busy lobby. She always opened Chelsea’s car door for her and darted a glance at Chelsea’s seat belt before putting the car in gear. She was never without that charming smile, which Chelsea was growing to like very much. The fact that she was very easy on the eyes, and had Chelsea noticing her—a woman—in a sensual way was something she had tried to avoid thinking about.
And by trying to avoid objectifying Fran, it was now all that occupied Chelsea’s brain. She had noticed Fran’s hands at various moments over the course of the week. Once during a particularly tedious meeting, she had studied Fran’s fingers as they cradled her phone, her thumbs flying over the keyboard as she seemed to record every word that was said. Slim and dexterous, with blunt, polish-free nails. Chelsea detested the word shapely, but it came to mind. How could fingers be shapely?
And her eyebrows. They were dark and thick and not plucked and shaped within an inch of their lives, as Chelsea’s were and had been since the nineties. They looked natural and framed Fran’s face in an attractive way, a complement to her keen dark eyes. What in God’s name…? She couldn’t be caught ogling. She had never noticed Lorraine’s hands or eyebrows before. Fran was an employee, for Pete’s sake. Still, she hadn’t taken notice of a woman—or anyone really—in the way she was noticing Fran’s various body parts in a very long time. It was sort of surprising to know that part of her brain was still in working order.
At 5:55 a.m., the front door opened, and Fran entered. She stood in the foyer and looked at her phone, then started to walk toward the kitchen.
“Fran.”
She halted and peered into the living room. “Chelsea? I’m not late, am I?”
“No, you’re not late. Right on time. Come sit.” Chelsea watched her come closer. A brown crewneck sweater accompanied her T-shirt and jeans today, and she wore no makeup, which could’ve covered up the deep shadows under her eyes. Why wasn’t she getting enough sleep?
Fran sat in the Barcelona chair across from the sofa and hiked her shapely thumb toward the kitchen. “I thought I was supposed to—”
“Yes, in a bit.” She ran a self-conscious hand over her face and hair. She probably had some pretty substantial bags under her own eyes. “I thought we might have a state of the state conversation. You’ve been here a week.”
She placed the orange phone on her knee in preparation for taking notes.
“You won’t need that.”
Fran gave her an uncertain look and swept the phone against her stomach.
“In my anxiousness to get back into my regular routine, I haven’t been fair to you. I don’t think we’re playing to your strengths. I think we need to figure out something different for the mornings now that you’re here.”
Fran’s expression turned absolutely sheepish. “Is this about breakfast? I looked up a new smoothie recipe. I think this one’s a winner. And I think I’ve almost got your boiled egg nailed.”
“I like to cook. I think I told you that the other day. You’ve met Magda, who cooks part time, but I really only rely on her for the kids, for when I’m regularly going to the set and out of the house all day. Don’t you think it’s odd that a person like me, who says she enjoys cooking, doesn’t make her own breakfast?”
Fran looked at the floor. “I know I’m not great at it yet—”
“My last assistant was a wiz in the kitchen, and she loved whipping things up for us. I’m now realizing that things had gotten a little unhealthy there. She’d been with me for years, and she saw me through a pretty rough patch. These past few years have been difficult, and she began to take on tasks that, I guess, were supposed to make me feel taken care of? She would come in and wake me so I wouldn’t have to hear an annoying alarm. She sometimes laid out my clothes. She would prepare me for the day, so I could prepare my children for their days. And she made me breakfast, as if I were a child.”
“It must have been a real betrayal when you found out what she was doing.”
“It was. She is—was—wonderful. Mary Poppins, Mike Ditka, and His Girl Friday all rolled into one.”
Fran gave her that easy smile. “I love that movie. Now I’m picturing Rosalind Russell, all competence and capability. How am I ever going to live up to that?”
“I want to be clear—I don’t expect that from you. And you are officially relieved of breakfast duty.”
Fran made an exaggerated wiping-the-sweat-from-her-brow gesture.
“This is the moment to establish some boundaries.” Keeping it professional went without saying, but this was a new working relationship, and she could create something healthy and lasting with Fran. What that looked like, Chelsea was not sure of. “I leaned on Lorraine far too much. But she’s gone, and you’re here. I’d like to figure out between us how that will work. It’s something we can both have input on.”
Fran nodded.
“Any ideas?”
“This is your show, Chelsea. I’m brand new at this. I guess I just want to be treated like a human being.”
“I hope I can manage that.” It seemed like extremely low expectations to her. At least it was a starting point. “Let’s make this an ongoing dialogue. If you’re happy, that probably means I’ll be happy. We should talk about the schedule. It’s Thursday. That means it’s legs and abs day. My trainer will be here soon.”
“That sounds absolutely horrible.”
Chelsea cast her eye over Fran’s trim frame. “I bet you can eat anything and not gain an ounce. When you get to be old like me, you’ll be doing all you can to keep the cellulite at bay.”
Fran opened her mouth and then closed it.
It made Chelsea curious. “What?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to violate the boundaries that were put in place”—Fran looked at her wrist and the invisible watch there—“four seconds ago.”
“Now you’ve got to tell me.”
“I was going to say”—she grimaced and spread her hands wide—“you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. But I thought it might embarrass you. It sure as hell is embarrassing me.”
Chelsea couldn’t help but laugh. She’d heard every type of flattery, so she wasn’t taken in, but Fran certainly knew how to employ the charm. “One thing you’re going to learn from being around actors—we love being told we look good. I’ll never get tired of it.”
“If it makes you laugh, I’ll tell you every day. I wasn’t being funny, though.”
Chelsea stood and squeezed Fran’s shoulder as she passed. “You’re sweet. Let’s have some coffee and talk about the day.”
* * *
Fran hefted the dry cleaning and brought it upstairs to Chelsea’s closet, a spare bedroom that had been fitted with built-in hanging space and shelving. A good-sized portion of the space was empty, and Fran guessed that was where Beau had kept his clothes. She debated putting the dry cleaning there, but made room among Chelsea’s things instead. She heard voices coming from the open door of Chelsea’s bedroom.
“Is that The Future Is Female? Let’s ask her.” That was Joyce.
“Her name is Fran.” Chelsea’s voice. “Come here, Fran, please.”
This was the first time Fran had entered Chelsea’s bedroom, and she shouldn’t have been surprised at how large it was. It was like a generous studio apartment with breathtaking views of the ocean. A king-size bed dominated one part of the room, and a settee and two easy chairs surrounded a large fireplace. Chelsea stood on an ottoman in a deep purple gown. Joyce gazed at Chelsea, a hand on her chin, while a blond woman, presumably a stylist, adjusted the full skirt. Petal sat on the window seat staring mulishly at her phone and Forge perched on one of the easy chairs with an orange tabby in his lap. Chelsea had a cat?
“What do you need?” Fran asked.
Petal turned baleful eyes to her, but then whined at her mother. “Why are we here? Why do I have to watch you try on stupid dresses?”
“I’m starting a new job soon. I know this isn’t exactly fun, but I wanted to spend time with you, and as soon as we’re done, we’re going to make cookies.” Chelsea spoke in a tone that Fran hadn’t heard before, both gentle and firm at the same time. Her mom voice.
“Lemon meltaways?” Forge asked.
“Whatever kind you want.”
“Yay! When we eat them, can we give Cheeto some milk?”
“Sure.” Chelsea plucked at the side seam and tilted her head at her reflection. Forge cuddled with the cat, who seemed more than happy to accept his love. Petal muttered darkly and went back to her phone.
“Was there something you needed?” Fran asked again.
Chelsea turned her eyes to her. “Right. What do you think of this color? Petal and Hannah are nays. Joyce and Forge are yeas. You’re the tiebreaker.”
Fran allowed herself to really look at Chelsea. She struggled to calibrate her brain between the real Chelsea towering above them on the ottoman and the one who’d been the plucky and resourceful protagonist trying to outwit her stalker ex-husband in the early 2000s movie she had watched last night.
Ever since that night she had stayed up watching Chelsea as a teenager emoting with all her might in Landon’s Way, she had begun a full-bore investigation into Chelsea’s filmography. It was something she had often done in her younger days, when she obsessed over certain genres of film, or a director’s oeuvre, or a particular actor. Each evening, after spending the day with Chelsea, Fran would go home and watch her on her laptop screen, absorbing the different characters she had played over the years.
Looking at her now, Fran felt off balance. She had been relieved to get out of Chelsea’s house and run errands this morning, to focus on something other than this irresistible pull she felt toward her new boss. She had a job to do, yes, but she was also supposed to be gathering intel to use in her exposé, not fixating on her performances like a stalkery fan.
She focused on the Chelsea who was currently standing before her. The gown was beautiful, but she believed it was Chelsea in the gown that made it all the more striking. Her auburn hair, pulled away from her face in a simple ponytail, complemented the deep jewel tones of the fabric—what might have been silk to Fran’s untrained eye. “Stunning. Royalty, power, heliotrope.” She said the first words that came into her head, and almost didn’t recognize the low, breathy sound of her own voice.
All three women turned to look at her.
“Well, that sums it up pretty well. She’s swayed my vote,” the stylist—Hannah, Fran surmised—said.
Joyce put her hands on her hips. “What’s heliotrope?”
“It’s a plant,” Chelsea said. “With purple flowers. It’s really pretty.”
Fran felt her face get hot as Chelsea gazed at her.
“Sounds like a contagious disease. Perfect for you, Mom.” Petal said it quietly, without looking up from her phone. Fran saw the cheeriness fade from Chelsea’s eyes.
“Shut up, Petal,” Forge shouted. “She’s not a contagious disease. You’re just mad because we’re not going to Dad’s this weekend.” His agitation seemed a bridge too far for the cat, which bounded off his lap. Forge ran after it.
Chelsea stepped down from the ottoman and sat beside her daughter. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Pet. I’m sorry, and I’m sure your dad is sorry. He only let me know he’s going out of town this morning. Did you text him? What did he say?”
“He said he’d be back next week and he’d take us to dinner. He didn’t even say what he was doing, or that he was sorry.” Petal gave her eyes an angry swipe. “It’s all your fault.”
“How is this—” It was clear Chelsea was trying to tamp down her frustration. “How is this my fault?” she asked in a calmer voice.
Fran didn’t want to be here for this. She wanted to shoo everyone from the room, but Joyce was busy on her phone and Hannah was taking another gown out of a garment bag—both ignored the private family moment happening just a few feet away. As she was backing out of the room, Chelsea stopped her.
“Fran, can you get in touch with Beau and see if he can meet me for lunch tomorrow? Or any time really he can spare. Tell him our first place.”
Petal sat up ramrod straight. “Can I come?”
“You have school, honey.”
“I don’t care about school! We haven’t seen Dad in two months. Please, Mom.”
Fran nodded at Chelsea and left the room, glad it wasn’t her who had to disappoint a young girl who wanted to see her father.