Monica trembled so hard that the letter she held clutched in both her hands rattled as if unsettled by wind. But she was secure from the spring breezes inside the posh Manhattan law offices. It was her nerves that caused the tremble. The shock of it all.
“Miss Darby?”
She heard the attorney, but his voice sounded distant instead of that of a man across the desk from her. She released small breaths as she looked down at the skirt of her print dress, remembering how much she’d fretted if it was the right thing to wear to an appointment with a high-powered lawyer.
Especially when I didn’t know what it was about at the time. I hope it’s okay.
Monica knew her random thoughts were a diversion from the truth she’d just been told.
“Do you understand what I’ve explained?” he asked. “You’ve been left an inheritance by Brock Maynard—”
“The actor?” she asked, although he’d already given her his name. She shifted her eyes to the bald portly man with thick, framed spectacles. “In all the movies?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Your father.”
Monica’s lip curled as she shook her head. “Not my father. He was a sperm donor,” she said snidely, feeling overcome with all the years of sadness and loneliness she had felt. For so long she had wondered who her parents were and why they hadn’t been able—or wanted to—raise her. And she’d thought of everything. Even their deaths.
Discovering that her father was a wealthy and famous actor was worse.
Had been an actor. Now he’s dead.
She looked around at the high ceilings, upscale decor and the New York skyline so clearly seen out the windows. This was the world of the Cress family and those of that ilk. Wealthy and affluent. Smart and talented. She could easily see Gabe sitting behind the desk with all the confidence and bravado needed to control the room.
She felt out of place. Like an intruder into his world.
Gabe.
Why am I thinking about him right now? Why am I always thinking of him?
She bit her bottom lip at the memory of their encounter beneath the twinkling fairy lights entwined among the flowers of the pergola.
Because I can’t forget that night.
“Miss Darby.”
You’re beautiful.
“Miss Darby?”
Monica cut her eyes back at the attorney. “Yes?” she answered with a simplicity that made her wonder if she had lost her mind.
Yesterday afternoon FedEx had delivered a letter requesting her presence at the law offices of Curro Villar and Hunt. She’d looked them up, saw that they were reputable—and not attorneys hired as creditors—and called to make her appointment with Marco Villar as requested.
That’s his name. Villar. Marco Villar.
And now, nearly five minutes later—maybe more than that—after being escorted into his posh offices in her inexpensive dress from a discount store, by a towering beauty who could be a model, Monica was still held fixated by a blend of confusion, shock and, yes, hurt.
“There is just one provision to receive the money,” Mr. Villar said.
Something in his dark eyes behind the glasses let her know his next words would hurt. She stiffened her back and notched her chin.
“You must sign a nondisclosure agreement—”
Monica released a bitter laugh as she jumped to her feet. “The final insult,” she said, her voice soft. “Not wanting to claim me even in death.”
She turned and quickly walked across the wide breadth of his office.
“Monica!”
She turned, surprised by the feminine voice that called her name. A petite woman in an emerald green pantsuit was standing in the doorway of a room just off Marco Villar’s office. She clutched her purse so tightly that her brown skin thinned over her knuckles.
“Now what?” Monica asked.
Mr. Villar rose to his feet, but the woman held up her hand and shook her head as she kept her attention on Monica. “We didn’t mean to trick you or anything, Monica,” she said loudly, her voice raspy as if she lived off cigarettes. “I am Brock’s sister, Phoebe. Your aunt, if you will.”
Monica stepped back with widening eyes and released a small gasp of surprise as the woman neared her. “We look alike,” she said, her eyes missing no details of the woman, who was in her sixties or seventies.
Phoebe smiled. “Technically, you look like me,” she said.
A famous father? A look-alike aunt? An inheritance?
“Ladies, why don’t you have a seat,” Marco said, coming from behind his desk to wave them both over to his sitting area. “Help yourself to a drink from the bar and I’ll give you a moment.”
With that he left them alone.
Phoebe sat down and crossed her ankles as she patted the seat on the leather sofa beside her.
“What do you want with me?” Monica asked as she remained standing.
“I hate what my brother did to you, and had I known about you, I would have raised you myself,” she said, her eyes filling with tears as she pressed a wrinkled brown hand to her chest. “He told me on his deathbed, and it took every bit of willpower I have in this small body not to reveal to my dying brother that his treatment of you angered and disappointed me. It forever changed my view of the man I thought him to be. I swear to you. I didn’t know.”
Her anguish was clear, and Monica did not have the heart to ignore that. She took the seat beside her and let the woman reach for her hands to clasp them tightly between her own.
“When Marco told me they located you, I begged him to let me hide here so that I could see you. I didn’t know if you’d even want to meet me, once I learned of all the challenges you had to overcome in your life,” Phoebe said. “But I couldn’t let you leave and walk away from what he owes you, Monica. It is the least he could do, to give you an easier life than you’ve had these last thirty years.”
“But even in death, he won’t claim me,” she said, her voice hollow. Her heart hurting.
“That money is yours to do with as you see fit,” Phoebe said, her voice fiery and passionate. “If you sign those papers, collect that money and say to hell with all of us, I wouldn’t blame you one bit.”
“So you want me to sign the NDA, too?” she asked, easing her hands out of the woman’s grasp.
Phoebe swiped away the tears with her hands. “I didn’t know about it until Marco said it, but to get your money? Yes!” she exclaimed. “You may have to sign an NDA to get your money, but I don’t. I can speak your truth even if you can’t. Your presence will not be denied anymore. I promise you that! Hell, I would do it even if I lost the stipend he left me to maintain the beach house he purchased for me years ago in Santa Monica.”
“In California?” she asked, still trying to process the entire thing.
“And guess what?” Phoebe said, reaching again for her hands. “He named you after one of his favorite places in the world.”
“He named me?” Monica asked.
“A small gesture to appease his guilt, I guess.”
Was I so hungry for love that such a small gesture mattered that much to me?
“And my mother?” Monica asked.
“I know the story of your birth but not her name. That, he wouldn’t reveal,” Phoebe said with obvious regret. “But I’m sure there must be a way to find her. Perhaps Marco and his team could help with it.”
Was I ready to find my mother? I wasn’t sure. It could be just more sadness and disappointment.
“We’ll see. I need some time to process all of this,” Monica said.
Her aunt nodded in understanding. “I hope you’ll give me a chance to get to know you, Monica.”
“Perhaps...in time. I can’t make any promises,” she said.
“I will leave my contact info with Marco and when—or if—you’re ready, you can get it from him,” Phoebe offered. “Just know there is no deadline on when you reach out to me. Be it a day or a year or a dozen—if I’m still alive, God willing—I will accept you with open arms.”
Monica remained silent.
Phoebe rose to her feet to summon the attorney back to his office. “She’s ready,” she said.
Am I?
As Monica rose and moved across the spacious divide to the attorney’s desk with her newfound aunt at her side, she longed for a moment of solitude to let it all sink in. She listened to his explanation of the NDA even as she continued to stare over his shoulder out the window.
She had so many more questions.
Do I have siblings?
Was he married?
What is this story of my birth?
When is the funeral? Am I invited to attend?
Who is my mother?
But she was not ready to absorb one more piece of info.
Not today. Except...
“Exactly how much is the inheritance?” she asked after Marco finished calling one of the clerks at the firm who was a notary public.
Marco looked to Phoebe briefly as he crossed his hands over the papers on his neat desk. “Fifty million dollars.”
“Huh?” she asked, blinking so swiftly that it appeared to be rapid gunfire before her eyes. “Fifteen million?”
Both Marco and Phoebe chuckled.
“No. Fifty million, not fifteen,” he said with emphasis.
She felt light-headed and willed herself not to faint to the floor and send the billowy skirt of her thin dress up over her head.
Gabe looked up at the top of the illuminated Eiffel Tower in the distance as he leaned in the doorway of CRESS V in the Champs-Élysées area of Paris. He was a Manhattanite who enjoyed the fast pace and urban flair of the city for sure, but the City of Lights, or la Ville Lumière, was a close second. It was where his mother had been born, where his parents had met and home to his favorite style of cuisine. He was staying at his parents’ country estate in the village of Saint-Germain-en-Laye for the week while he scouted possible locations for a new Cress restaurant.
The flute of champagne he nursed was unrivaled in its quality and well worth its hefty cost. That evening though, the restaurant was closed for a private celebration, and because of the event the liquor was apropos.
Finishing his drink with a small grunt of pleasure, he turned and opened the glass door to step back inside the restaurant. The entire staff was gathered in celebration of the release of the tenth cookbook by its head chef and Gabe’s best friend, Lorenzo León Cortez. He was well loved and respected by his staff and his peers.
“You look exhausted, friend,” Lorenzo said, giving him a quick look over the rim of the bottle of beer he nursed as Gabe neared him. “Who is she?”
Monica.
Gabe shook his head, refraining from revealing to even his best friend that he’d slept with the family’s housekeeper. “I’m on a little break from sex,” he admitted.
Lorenzo scoffed. “Medical issues?” he joked.
He gave his friend a look that was reproachful before shaking his head. “A one-night stand has had me in a loop for the past month,” he admitted.
“Ah. The one-night stand that’s really not just one night,” Lorenzo said, looking wistful. “I’ve had a few of those in my lifetime.”
“Yes, but it was just one night,” Gabe confessed.
Lorenzo winced and then released a short whistle. “Then at the very least have one more night, bro,” he said.
One more wild night with Monica?
Maybe, just maybe, that would quench his desire for her. Or make him want her even more.
No. Monica Darby was off-limits. They couldn’t risk it again. It was just the thing to get her fired.
And me hooked.
“Sometimes you make me very envious, Zo,” Gabe said, purposely changing the subject.
“Why? Because I have three inches of height on you?” Lorenzo asked, shifting his bone-straight, waist-length hair back behind his broad shoulders.
Gabe chuckled. “I have the extra inches where it counts,” he said before pouring himself half a glass of the golden champagne.
“Way more info than I needed,” Lorenzo drawled. “But what’s on your mind? Or should I guess?”
“We talk. It wouldn’t be hard to guess. Not for you,” he said, turning to face the large window into the kitchen, usually bustling with activity.
“You miss cooking,” Lorenzo said with a brief glance over his shoulder.
Gabe nodded. “Sometimes more than other times,” he admitted. “Don’t get me wrong. I am so proud of the legacy we are building for Cress generations to come. These last three years at Cress, INC. has been eye-opening and challenging, but...”
“There is nothing like the adrenaline rush of heading a kitchen. Right, Chef?”
Gabe glanced over at his friend and then fixed his gaze back on the kitchen. “Correct, Chef,” he returned.
A sudden surge in laughter caused both men to look over at the waitstaff having an impromptu dance contest.
“And what of the race for CEO, then?” Lorenzo asked him, leaving the staff to their fun.
“I want that, too,” he stressed.
“In this not-so-perfect world, you can’t always have everything you want, Gabe.”
True.
Lorenzo nudged Gabe’s arm and then slightly jerked his head in the direction of the double doors leading into the kitchen. As soon as they stepped inside the massive space, he grabbed two aprons from the stacks of clean ones on polished wooden shelves by the door. He tossed one to his friend with ease.
Gabe caught it with one hand and a curious look.
“If you could make any dish in the world right now what would it be?” Lorenzo asked as he tied the strings around his waist.
Gabe did the same. “You have an entire buffet of food out there.”
“We are open six nights a week, and this is the first night I had time to celebrate my new cookbook, and tonight I would like Gabriel Cress, esteemed chef, my former head chef, two-time–James Beard Award winner and my best friend since culinary school, to cook a meal for me,” Lorenzo said, waving his hand toward the huge walk-in cooler in the corner. “What can I get you, Chef?”
“And you’ll be my sous-chef? Interesting,” Gabe said as he moved to one of the sinks to wash his hands.
“Yes, but it will be like your mystery woman...one night only,” Lorenzo said with a laugh as he gathered his hair at his nape with a black elastic band and then washed his hands, as well.
“Do you remember the dish that made Chef Roderick give me dish duties for a week?” Gabe asked.
“Do I!” Lorenzo said, shaking his head as he began retrieving pots.
For the next thirty minutes, Gabe allowed himself to think of nothing but his love of food, from prep to completion. Even as the music and the laughter of the staff filtered in to them, he was in a zone. It was an adrenaline rush, and his friend was the perfect sous-chef following every command and at times having the next item prepared for him even before he requested it. To Gabe it was the perfect symphony.
Soon the scent of his goat-cheese-and-roasted-butternut-squash bisque rose strong in the air. He used his hand to waft the aroma closer to his face and took a deep inhale. His cell phone vibrated in his back pocket, but he ignored it. With a plastic spoon he tasted the bisque before adding a large pinch from the bowl of pink Himalayan salt.
Moving with a rhythm that was fluid and precise, he cut the kernels from the cobs of corn Lorenzo grilled and added them, as well.
“Ravioli, Chef,” Lorenzo said, sliding over the tray of handmade, dried ravioli he’d stuffed with ricotta, lump crab meat, parmesan and wild mushrooms.
Gabe gave him a brisk nod even as he focused on spooning the pasta into the boiling water. Ten minutes later, he ladled the bisque into a large family-style ceramic bowl before adding the ravioli using a long-handled skimmer. He shredded fresh parmesan and quickly chopped scallions to scatter across the top.
With a nod of satisfaction, he set the bowl before Lorenzo, who at some point had poured himself a large glass of red wine. “Enjoy,” Gabe said, stepping back and wiping his sweaty brow with the hand towel he had tucked inside the waist of his apron.
It was only then that he noticed the staff had wandered into the kitchen to observe him as he was cooking. He smiled as he saw the looks of admiration on many of their young faces. He had been so lost in his art.
“Well?” Gabe asked Lorenzo.
Everyone turned to him to gauge his reaction.
His friend took care to scoop an entire ravioli covered with bisque before spooning the steamy food into his mouth. He closed his mouth and released a little grunt of pleasure as he chewed. “I see you learned the lesson Chef Roderick taught you very well,” he said. “Es la perfección, amigo mío.”
“Gracias.” Gabe thanked him with a nod as applause exploded around him at his friend saying the dish was perfection.
They all quickly moved to indulge themselves in consuming the dish, and he took time to watch the pleasure wash over their faces at their initial bites. It felt like the first time he knew he had the skill and the talent to make delicious food.
He retrieved a goblet and slid it over to his friend to fill.
“Here’s to one night only,” Lorenzo said with a wink.
Gabe toasted to that, thinking of another one-night stand that was unforgettable.
Life was surreal.
Monica awakened in her housekeeper’s quarters as always. She showered and dressed in her uniform, prepared to begin her daily chores. In her all-white bathroom, she took a moment to study her reflection.
For five years this had been her life. Here with the Cress family. On the perimeter but still one among many. It was the most stability she’d ever known. What with growing up in foster care and then traveling with James, she had never had a chance to plant roots. It felt silly to worry about yet another new start when she had been blessed with so much money to do it with, but she did.
Same surroundings. Same tasks.
Different Monica.
She’d given her two weeks’ notice to Mrs. Cress and was excited about the money, which was to clear her bank account the next day, but she was also nervous about leaving her home-that-wasn’t-really-home next week, packing her personal items and forging ahead.
Alone again.
She saw the sadness and fear fill her eyes and turned away from it.
Was it silly that I’d rather have had my father back than his money now?
She made her way upstairs to the first level, and like any other day, the house was still and quiet. She took a moment to pause in the kitchen and slowly turn to take in everything in the early morning. Pockets of light from sconces and under-cabinet lighting gave it such a lovely glow. Even as she looked across the kitchen and adjoining dining room with its glass wall, the waterfall at the end of the garden was backlit and made the backyard appear magical as the sun began to rise in the metropolitan sky.
It was a beautiful home in an affluent neighborhood and she would miss it when she left.
What will Gabe think?
He’d been in Paris all week, and she didn’t know if he knew her days at the Cress town house were nearing an end.
Pushing aside thoughts of him, Monica made herself a cup of coffee and had fresh fruit before moving throughout the entire first level ensuring no messes had been made by the family after she retired to her quarters last night. She chuckled, remembering during her first few weeks awakening to the aftermath of a late-night, spontaneous dinner party to top all dinner parties. Chaos had reigned and the empty plates and wine bottles had been abundant.
Thankfully all was well except for a random glass here or there, overturned pillows and a few filled wastepaper baskets that she emptied into a garbage bag. Lightly humming a tune, she carried that bag and those from the cans in the kitchen to the interior entrance and through the marbled vestibule to the outer door.
She paused halfway down the stairs and looked up the street at the rows of ornate townhomes. Next week, everything would change and she had some decisions to make. Home or condo. New York or New Jersey. Travel or...or...
Or what?
The sudden flash of cameras and raised voices caused her to turn her head. She froze and leaned back from the crowd advancing to surround the porch.
“There she is!”
“That’s her!”
Monica’s eyes widened in shock at the people pointing cameras up at her from the street. “What?” she asked, feeling her heart pound.
“Are you Monica Darby?” one of them yelled to her.
She climbed back up a step.
“How do you feel about the death of your father that you never knew?”
“Do you hate Brock Maynard?”
The bags dropped from her trembling hands.
“Why weren’t you invited to the funeral?”
Their barrage of questions was rapid and overlapping. The flash of cameras and the steady beam of lights from the video cameras were shocking intrusions into her life.
“Were you mentioned in the will?”
“If you’re not in the will, do you have plans to sue?”
“Move! Excuse me. Out of the way!” a male voice roared. Gabe pushed through the throng of paparazzi on the street with ease, holding his suitcase with one hand. She then noticed the family’s SUV pulling off down the street.
He opened the wrought-iron gate to race up the stairs to her. She felt sweet relief when he slid his arm around her waist and turned her to guide her back up the stairs.
“How does it feel to go from being a maid to the daughter of an A-lister?”
Gabe ushered her into the vestibule, closed the door and set down his luggage.
“What is all that about?” Gabe asked as they entered the house. “What are they saying about your father? What’s going on?”
Remembering her NDA, Monica pressed her lips closed and shrugged as she shook her head. Lines of annoyance filled his handsome face as he moved back to the door to look out the tinted glass panes at the photographers still there. She allowed herself a moment to take him in. To enjoy being near him for what was the last time. He looked so handsome in his denims and a crisp blue shirt that made his eyes all the more brilliant in his tanned shortbread complexion.
“I resigned from my position here last week and gave two weeks’ notice,” she began.
He turned his head to eye her. Confusion filled his face even as she gave him a brisk nod.
“But I think I should leave today,” she said, enjoying the subtle hint of his warm and spicy cologne. Fireworks seemed to shoot off in her belly.
“Today?” he said, his voice deep.
She nodded. Her nondisclosure agreement kept her from explaining even more. It was the price of her inheritance.
“Is it because of what happened between us?”
“No.”
“Do you have a better position?”
“No.”
They shared a long look before he extended his hand. “I guess this is goodbye,” he said.
Monica slipped her hand into his. “I guess so,” she agreed, silently taking note how his large hand easily engulfed her own.
And felt so warm. Especially his thumb resting against her sensitive inner wrist.
She broke the hold, choosing to focus on calling the police to get rid of the crowd outside. The Upper East Side address would speed up their arrival.
“Monica. Wait.”
“Yes, Mr. Cress?” she asked, turning to face him.
He bent down in front of his monogrammed Vuitton case to remove an envelope from the side pocket. “The Cress Family Foundation’s charity ball is next week. I’d like for you and a guest to attend. Please,” he stressed.
“I don’t think that would be appropriate—” she began but then remembered that in less than twenty-four hours she would be worth just as much as he was and she would no longer be his maid.
He eyed her.
“I’ll consider it,” she conceded, taking the thick and creamy envelope from him. “Thank you.”
With one last smile Monica turned from him to finish out her last day and make plans for her tomorrow.