Natalie was just finishing her regular Tuesday-morning cleaning job at the Montgomery home when her cell phone rang. It was a number she didn’t recognize. “Hello,” she managed as she crammed the phone under her chin and opened the trunk of her Focus.
“Are you Natalie Forrester?’ The woman’s voice sounded mature but strained somehow.
Natalie managed to lug her tank vacuum up onto the rim of the trunk with one arm. “Uh-huh.” She used her hip to balance the vacuum while she shifted her caddy of cleaning supplies to the corner of the trunk. The hose of the vacuum was coiling dangerously around her legs. “Can you hold just a moment?” She set the phone down on the bumper of the car, settled the vacuum and hose into the trunk, and slammed the lid. Now she could actually think and talk at the same time. “Thanks for waiting. My vacuum hose was attacking me like a hungry elephant.”
No laugh from the other end. Natalie grimaced.
“Mrs. Forrester, my name is Esther Johnson. I got your name from Valerie Lisle. She says you’ve been cleaning for her regularly for the last few years.”
Well, what do you know? Natalie’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. Mrs. Lisle is aware of the serfs and lackeys in her life after all.
“I know she is very particular about the people she allows to work for her, and I’m looking for someone reliable like that. I’m afraid I am in need of help.”
Natalie leaned against the side of her car. The October air was brisk, but the sun made the body of her car warm, and the rays felt good on her face. She’d been sweating after mopping the floor, and the crisp combination was refreshing.
The woman continued. “I have been cleaning a home for the last few months—just the one house. A little bit of extra money on the side, you know, for the fun things. What? Just a minute, Mrs. Forrester.” Natalie could hear murmurs in the background, bells dinging, voices over an intercom. It sounded like a hospital. What was going on? “Thanks for holding—so sorry about that.” Her voice sounded even more strained, even weak. Natalie waited patiently, but she could feel a knot in her stomach begin to form. “As I said, I’ve been cleaning a home for some time now, but an emergency has come up.” Her voice broke.
Natalie, alarmed, waited quietly. She didn’t know this woman and didn’t know what to say, but she didn’t want to abandon her either.
“Sorry. I’m okay now. I have to go in a minute. They’re . . . Anyway. I’ll have to go in just a minute. My husband is ill, and I need someone who can take over this house for me for a while. Do you think you can help me? I’m not sure how long Burt will be . . . I just want to be sure I’m there for him.”
“Tell me about the house, Mrs. Johnson, and I’ll tell you if I think it will work into my schedule.” Natalie hoped it would work into her schedule; it could be the answer to her prayers. Best to act professional and not too eager. Still, how could she not try to help this woman? Natalie could almost hear her crumbling over the phone.
Mrs. Johnson told her quickly about the house. Executive-style home, not too large but tastefully decorated. Quality, high-end furnishings on the modern side, with the occasional antique thrown in for balance and a touch of the eclectic. Single, professional man—an attorney—who traveled quite a lot; the job involved a bit more housekeeping than just the quick dust and sweep up. He paid extraordinarily well—Natalie gasped when she heard how much—but that included carting his clothes to and from the cleaners and an occasional personal errand or two. Mrs. Johnson confessed that the pay had staggered her as well, and as a result—and because she liked the nice young man—she brought in or made meals for him on occasion. After she did that, she noticed her paycheck amount increased even more.
“Wow,” Natalie said under her breath. She found herself hoping Mr. Johnson stayed sick for a long time. That led to a stab of guilt. But the money involved—on a long-term basis—would allow her to meet her tuition and possibly allow her to dump the Lisles’, despite Valerie’s generous recommendation. She imagined never having to pick up Megadeth Lisle’s dirty laundry ever again. She shook her head. It was wrong to hope that this poor woman’s husband would become chronically ill just for Natalie’s sake. But even in the short term . . . Natalie mentally rubbed her hands together in glee.
“I’d be happy to help you, Mrs. Johnson. Tell me what days he normally expects you. Even if I have to do a little juggling”—Natalie was in the second month of a couple of college classes—“I’ll make it work and get there this week.”
“Oh, thank you! I usually go in on Tuesdays and drop off his laundry on Fridays. I didn’t get there today, because—”
“I understand.”
“He just left town again for a while. He travels a lot. I don’t think he’d mind if you were to work other days, although I always went in on Tuesdays as we originally arranged it, so I’m really not sure.”
How could a person who was out of town care what day of the week she cleaned his house? And that would give Natalie the flexibility her schedule dictated right now. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Do you know when he’ll be home?”
“No. He never shares that kind of information with me. I just show up on Tuesdays, clean, and take his shirts to the laundry. I pick them up and drop them off at his home on Friday. If he has errands for me, he leaves a note on the kitchen counter. That doesn’t happen very often though. I leave any meals or goodies I feel inclined to make for him in the fridge.”
Mrs. Johnson gave her the name and address, told her where the spare key and security controls were, and gave Natalie her cell number just before the doctor arrived and she had to abruptly end the call.
Natalie slipped her cell phone into her purse and did a little happy dance. Then she made an embarrassingly loud whooping sound, looked around sheepishly, and slipped into the driver’s seat of her car. She was due at the Raymonds’ house in thirty minutes, but this Mr. McConnell professional man’s house was only a small detour on the way there. She’d swing by and take a quick peek.
High on the east bench, hugging the hillside, she found a contemporary house—work of art, more like, to Natalie’s eyes—made of mountain stone and cedar. The architecture was natural, with clean lines and rough edges combined. It looked settled in its environs as though it was comfortable in its own skin. Scrub oak wrapped around the exterior in a fiery autumn blanket; yews stood as solid sentries of the deepest green. Natalie could breathe in the very masculinity of the place. She was entranced. Her fingers itched to get the key from its secure location and take a quick look around, see if the heart of the house matched the exterior as well.
After a quick call to Mrs. Raymond to let her know she’d be a few minutes late, Natalie located the spare key and deactivated the security alarm. She slipped through what appeared to be a utility room. A professional-grade washer and dryer that looked like they’d never been used stood against a pewter-colored wall, and maple cabinetry and a slate floor accented the room. Natalie’s “utility room,” if you could call it that, was in a corner of the unfinished basement of her rental house. Her ancient washer and dryer were chipped but reliable. Her floors and walls were pewter colored also, but that was because they were made of concrete. Above her washer was a single hanging lightbulb.
Natalie felt an almost reverent urge to remove her shoes, so she slipped them off and left them next to the utility room door. She had butterflies as though she were a thief. Ridiculous. She’d never had this kind of reaction before when she’d done her job. She’d been in plenty of homes alone working. Shrugging off the feeling as best she could, she made her way to the kitchen. And sucked in her breath.
The kitchen, again, was pewter and maple, its slate flooring rich with mottled colors of charcoal, rust, and jade. The east wall wasn’t a wall; it was a bank of windows that looked out onto a sloping hillside of scrub oak and aspen and let in a glorious amount of morning sunlight. French doors opened onto a cedar deck that wrapped around the house. The ceiling was high and angled dramatically. A large mission-style dining table and chairs with a deep cherry finish stood next to the windows so diners could enjoy breakfast with a breathtaking view. She would have called the overhead light fixture a chandelier; it was constructed from a weathered bronze, with twists and angles that made the artist in Natalie want to climb on a chair and stroke it.
The living room wasn’t large, but the high ceilings and use of windows gave the room the illusion of spaciousness. Its floor was hardwood, and oversized leather sofas faced each other on a muted Oriental rug. Splashes of color came from a couple of well-chosen throw pillows and a spray of Oriental poppies in a chunky earthenware vase. A huge fireplace of mountain stone held a large oil painting that looked original and old. Probably an antique and by itself worth more money than Natalie would earn in her entire lifetime. Feeling more and more impressed, she walked up the stairs.
The master bedroom took up half of the second floor. It held a huge four-poster bed and some large chests she was sure were also antiques. The carpet was a deep, warm green, the duvet covering the bed a thick brocade of golds and greens that looked rich and European in style. The master bath was Natalie’s idea of heaven. It was large and airy, the exterior wall lined with bright windows high enough to let in floods of sunlight without losing privacy. The bathtub was huge and sunken into a slate surround wide enough to sit on comfortably or hold hundreds of wonderfully scented candles. Natalie could see herself sinking up to her ears in bubbles, with the flickering lights of the candles and soft music playing quietly in the background. There was also a large shower with multiple heads at various levels in a glass enclosure.
Natalie had yet to see any evidence of the man who supposedly lived in this amazing house. She had almost decided Mrs. Johnson must work for a phantom or a Realtor who was really having her keep a model home tidy. She glanced at her watch, gasped, and headed back to the utility room door. Her snooping time was more than over. She was going to have to work quickly at the Raymond’s to be in time to pick up Em from school. Taking one final look around, she decided this house should be easy to take care of if its appearance today was anything typical. It didn’t even look lived in.
She briefly wondered where this Mr. McConnell did his actual living as she pulled out into traffic and headed for the Raymonds’, now nearly an hour behind schedule. As beautiful and rich as the house had been, it didn’t appear to be much of a home.