With an aggressive nudge, I moved a box down the hallway with my foot. The mortification that I had worked so hard to keep at bay was bubbling up, despite my attempt to squelch it. As a kid, I can honestly say that I never pictured this in my vision of Allie’s life. Where, along the line, did I lose the busy job, the supportive husband, and two kids? I didn’t even have a dog. Don’t all single people have a dog?
“You here?” I heard my mother say when I dumped an armful of hanging clothes onto my purple and white checked high school bedspread. It had slightly yellowed with age.
“Yeah.” The front door swung shut, rattling the adjacent wall. It had always rattled that wall. No one knew why; perhaps it was because the whole house was the size of a deck of cards, and if we blew just the right way, we could knock it down. It had been a good house, though—full of happy memories.
I looked up from my unpacking to find my mother and Megan, my sister, filling up my doorway as if they were sealing me inside. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly just to make sure that I could still breathe.
Megan pushed past Mom and plopped down onto my bed, sending clothes to the floor. “Wanna get a cup of coffee?”
I piled my hair up on top of my head with my fingers. Truthfully, a cup of coffee did sound nice, but I’d rather pout just a bit longer. It had been eleven years since I had even contemplated moving back home, and now it was actually happening. I let my hair loose and scratched my scalp.
Something about moving home as an adult made the space feel even smaller than it had while growing up. I hoped that I wasn’t imposing on Mom too much. She’d never tell me, though, if it were too much for her. She’d just straighten the mass of shoes at the front door or stay up a little later to finish the extra laundry so that I could have a free washing machine when I needed it. That’s how she is. She’d endure anything for family because having us home, she always said, meant more to her than all of the inconveniences. I love her for that.
Moving back was only temporary, until I could find a job—I had three applications out there, just waiting to hear back. Even still, it took some getting used to. Thankful as I was that she’d offered to have me, I didn’t feel like an adult living back with my mother. I felt as if I’d have to start handing her the keys to my car every night before bed.
“Coffee? Yes or no?”
“It sounds good, but I have some unpacking to do.”
“Oh, please. You have tons of time for that. What the heck else are you going to do around here besides unpack? Mom still doesn’t even have cable, you know.”
“I do so!” Mom piped up from the doorway. She slugged Megan’s arm affectionately.
From the that angle, Mom was standing just as she had so many times when I was young, and a pang of nostalgia pinched my chest. Have you finished your homework? There’s a boy at the door. Do you want dinner? Don’t be too late tonight; I need to know where you are before I go to sleep. All of these moments flashed before me like photos in a flipbook. My mother’s face was so much older now, so weathered; her familiar smile making new creases where her smooth skin used to be. In a way, it was good to be home. I was glad to see her. I rolled my head around on my shoulders to release the tension.
“Hey, Debbie Downer, let’s go.” Megan yanked me out the door, past my mother, and into the hallway where we both stumbled over yet another dozen or so boxes.
We squeezed ourselves into my sister’s newest triumph, her prized BMW—an indication of the success she’d had in real estate over the years. I had told Megan many times how proud of her I was for her accomplishments, and I was, truly, but it didn’t squelch the inadequacy that I felt when I saw the tangible evidence of her achievements.
“Careful,” she warned as I tugged on the door handle to shut myself in. I couldn’t help an eye-roll—don’t think she caught it, though.
Two patrons entered through the shop door next to where we sat. Cold air blew around my torso and a chill crawled up to my shoulders. I regretted taking off my coat and hanging it on the back of my chair when we came in. The door swung closed, although no circulating warmth seemed to return.
“I have another idea for employment,” Megan said from behind her coffee cup. She hesitated, because I had already told her I didn’t want any handouts. I had accepted one of her handouts when I’d taken the nanny job. Okay, her last offer had given me a wonderful job for eleven years, and a chance to use what I’d learned in college, but I wanted to get my own work this time; we’d already talked about it. Whatever she had to say, it didn’t matter, because I was back out there. I had things in the works.
“You’re quiet,” she said, breaking me from my thoughts. “And you’re never quiet.”
Even though I wanted nothing to do with the idea of my sister finding me another job, the suspense of not knowing was killing me. I could at least hear her out. “Tell me whatcha got,” I offered.
“Look at this,” she pulled a rolled magazine excitedly from her bag and slid it across the table. The main feature was a glossy picture of the Ashford estate, an early twentieth century manor. “They’re one of my clients, and they need a house manager until it sells.” Megan tapped the photo.
“Intriguing.” I took a drink of my coffee, and it sent a shiver through my limbs. It was really cold outside. “Why would I be good at that?”
“You are personable and organized; you’d be a shoe-in!” Megan swung her legs from under the table and scooted her chair adjacent to mine, like she’d done when we were kids when she wanted to tell me a secret. She’d always lean in as if the proximity would make our conversation more significant. Tufts of auburn curls bounced softly around her face, and I suppressed the urge to scoop them up into a ponytail. “I think they’re willing to pay... well,” she whispered dramatically.
“And why should I consider this job over the others?”
“Because you could still apply for the other jobs, but you’d make a ton of money while you’re waiting. And I know how you love history. This house is ancient.”
“So, what happened to their old house manager?”
“He left. Lots of family drama, I hear, since he is the one who owns the house.” She uncapped her cinnamon lip-balm and dragged it across her lips. “Robert Marley, the heir to the house—irritatingly unfriendly—wants to sell the mansion. His family’s all up in arms about it.”
I peered at the magnificent structure on the page. The Ashford estate was the stuff of storybooks with its sprawling brick façade and a staircase that looked like an enormous smile. It seemed way out of my league.
“I don’t know, Megan. I don’t want you to give me another job.” Even though I said the words, the idea was eating away at me.
Megan exhaled in that motherly way that always made me feel very small. Her limbs were still, other than her finger nails drumming the table. Then, she stopped tapping abruptly and said, “What if I had nothing to do with it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could flip for it. Tails, you send in an application. No harm done.”
That was how Megan and I had decided everything growing up. It started when my grandmother made up her mind that we should collect coins. Every holiday, from the time I was four, Gram would thrust new coins into our hands; some in velvet boxes, others in cellophane. She would’ve been horrified if she’d found out that each coin had been mercilessly torn from its package and fingered by both Megan and me as we determined who got the next flipping coin.
It’s how my sister had gotten the biggest bedroom when I was nine and she was twelve, and how I had gotten to keep our fish, Oscar, in my room in the sixth grade. Now, it seems that it’s how I would be deciding between normal, everyday employment opportunities or living in the clouds and applying to run a multimillion-dollar mansion.
But I didn’t want Megan’s help this time, or her ideas. She was the firstborn. She was the successful one. She was on her own and living nicely. I was... a glorified babysitter, living with my mother. It sounded even worse spelled out in my head. It was time that I proved myself, made something of my life.
“I won’t get involved,” she pressed. “I’m just the messenger,” she said. When I shot a frosty glare toward her for even putting me in this position, she shrugged in the “why not” gesture and nodded toward my purse. “I know you still carry it around for luck,” she said with a smirk.
As if I hadn’t been humiliated enough by my recent move home, the fact that I did, indeed, have Gram’s coin in my purse—only because I had no way of packing it, and it was easier just to zip it in my wallet for the time being—made my cheeks sting.
I blew air through my lips and pulled out my wallet, retrieving the coin.
Gram had given it to me in 1983, four years after it was originally minted. She’d actually given it to Megan, but I had taken a liking to it and swore that I won every time I flipped it. Megan let me have it because she didn’t like the way Ms. Anthony glared at the edge of the coin. It creeped her out, she’d said. But I always wondered if she just knew how much I wanted it, and that’s why she really gave it to me.
Megan pulled in a sharp breath, her eyes as big as saucers. I don’t think she really believed that I had it, and I was too aggravated to explain myself.
The thought of being able to work in such an historic and fantastic home kept rolling around in my head. Even if it wasn’t permanent, it would be amazing.
“Management is great on a resume.”
I rested the silver Susan B. Anthony dollar coin on the top of my thumb. Its surface felt as cold as the weather outside. The late November air was just enough above freezing to cause the snow to fall in wet droplets that clung to the window, sliding down it like thin, transparent ribbons. Getting an interview for this would be like winning the lottery.
With my free hand, I pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and suddenly, a fizzle of excitement swam through me. “Tails I apply for the job.” I sent the coin into the air. It flipped over and over before bouncing onto the paisley-patterned carpet. A depiction of an eagle over the surface of the moon shone up at me. Tails.
A man by the name of Gerard stood outside the Ashford estate in an all white coverall uniform. He looked like some sort of painter, but I thought he probably wasn’t. Maybe the grounds keeper? I’d never seen a grounds keeper, so how would I know? I followed him inside the breadth of space that was the entranceway, and all of the irritation I felt regarding my sister’s help melted away.
The scent of lavender wafted around me as I took in the massive foyer. Crystal and brass light fixtures dripped down from the ceiling like a frozen fountain. Underneath them, a table the size of a ship anchored the open area, a five-foot bloom of wildflowers erupting from its center.
I’d never been in a home that needed a staff to run it before. Wouldn’t it be weird to live in such a place, with strangers lurking around?
The wooden floors leading to the office gleamed with a thick, translucent wax. The shine was so vibrant that I couldn’t tell if they were wet or not, so I walked carefully just in case. How many people had treaded down the hallway that I was walking at this moment?
When I reached the office door it was open, so I walked in. Books, new and old, lined the walls of the room from floor to ceiling. Two windows balanced the space and allowed a magnificent view of the front lawn. Perched in the center sat an enormous claw-foot desk, casting a lengthy shadow in my direction.
A man with dark hair and a strong jaw-line was on the other side of the desk, his eyebrows pulled together in concentration, the office phone pressed against his ear. He looked up only long enough to shoo me toward one of the chairs on the other side. I sat down and pressed my hands down onto my lap before they started to tremble.
As he spoke or argued—I couldn’t tell—I tried not to stare at him, but his looks were striking. He seemed like the kind of guy who probably had never been through a fast food drive-thru or hit old baseballs at Battlefield Park. He looked like the type who knew the local jeweler by name and had private airlines on speed dial. With all my mental strength, I pulled my eyes from him and looked out the window.
“Good morning,” he said in a commanding voice as if he were speaking to a crowd of people. “Gerard, that will be all,” he nearly barked in Gerard’s direction. I glanced over at Gerard. He turned to leave, seemingly unfazed by Mr. Marley’s sharp tone.
My gaze snapped back over to the man. He didn’t seem much older than me, but I could feel his years of life experience run laps around mine. He stood and extended a hand in my direction. “Robert Marley. You must be Megan’s sister.”
Ugh. I have a name! “I’m Allison,” I stuttered. “Allie, actually.” I leaned over nearly on my tip-toes to reach across the massive desk between us and shook his hand. We were close enough that I caught his scent—a subtle mix of spice and laundry soap. I found myself holding his hand a little too long, not wanting to let go. He pulled his hand from mine slowly, motioning for me to sit as he lowered himself back down across from me, his eyes appraising. His gaze moved around my face carefully, putting every nerve in my body on full alert.
“If I could, I’d like to just go over the requirements of this position.” His head was down now, and he was fiddling with some paperwork. I was glad for that because when he looked at me, I felt like my heart would beat right out of my chest.
“Your job will be to manage the daily goings-on with the house as well as with the sale of the house—lawn maintenance, cleaning crew, viewing appointments, and those responsibilities concerning my grandmother, Pippa Marley.”
I willed myself to pay attention to his words, but all I really wanted to do was take in the sight of him—the starched collar of his shirt, the tiny lines he created between his eyes when he was reading.
He looked up. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I smiled.
“She lives in the east wing of the house,” he continued. His eyes met mine. “We have staff devoted to her care, so you would manage them as well.”
There was something about the way that he looked at me that sent my stomach fluttering. I’d never been this nervous in my life.
“Do you feel comfortable with that?”
“Um, yes. Fine.”
“Excellent. Can you start tomorrow?”
Had I missed something? “So, I have the job?”
“Yes.”
“No interview or anything?” Had I looked so convincing, so intelligent, that he didn’t even need to have more?
“You are Megan Richfield’s sister, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then, no. No formal interview.”
While I love my sister more than anyone in the world, that answer had made my skin crawl as if a thousand spiders had been unleashed on it.
“How’s tomorrow then?”
I filled my lungs with air and let it out to steady my nerves. “Fine.” He stood, and I could tell that he wanted me to follow. He was walking me out. That’s it? I’m about to make every decision regarding this house for the foreseeable future, and that’s all he has to say?
“I’ll give you an itinerary, and we can communicate via email.” It was as if he were watching for some sort of reaction, studying me as I digested this information. I smiled up at him once more, unsure of what exactly to do. I could see a hint of softness behind his eyes despite his generally brisk demeanor.
“You can use the computer in my office. I’ve arranged for the staff to have the yellow room in the staff quarters made up for you. You will be able to come and go as you please.” Just as I thought he’d finished, and we’d emerged again into the entranceway, he cleared his throat and added, “And you’ll be organizing the family meeting this Christmas.”
What the heck was that? I stopped and faced him. “Family meeting?”
“The house has been in the family for... a while. My sister Sloane and my brother Kip want to visit once more before we sell. We always spend Christmas with Pippa anyway, so we’re having one last meeting of our family at Ashford over the holiday.”
“Okay. Well, I suppose I’ll see you then,” I struggled for something interesting to say.
“No, it will just be my siblings at the meeting. Sloane will have her two children, Paul and Sammy, and then there’s my younger brother, Kip. That’s it. I’ll give you the specifics later.”
“So, you’re not coming?” He wasn’t coming to his own family’s Christmas celebration? What a Scrooge!
He paused for a second, looking at me, evidence of contemplation in his eyes. What was he thinking about? “Can’t get away from the office. LaGuardia is horrendous during the holidays anyway, so I’d rather not bother.”
“Okay.”
He guided me to the large front door through which I had entered only a few minutes earlier. In the moment of silence that followed, Robert looked at me as if he were about to say something, but he said nothing.
He inhaled sharply, and on an exhale of breath he said, “Well, that’s that. When you come tomorrow, Gerard will have your keys to the house, your sister can keep you abreast of any showings, and your itinerary will be waiting in my office. Gerard will show you where to go.” “You won’t be here tomorrow?” I heard myself say. Why did I just ask that? Of course he wasn’t going to be here. That’s why he’d hired me!
A hint of amusement surfaced behind his eyes, and felt my legs getting wobbly. “Nope,” he said, “The house will be all yours.”
I struggled again for anything else to add. See you soon? No. Chat soon? Nope. Thanks? Not appropriate. Awkward…
“Miss Richfield, it was nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said, willing my tongue to get the word out in spite of my dry mouth. I walked into the bitter cold of winter as I stepped onto the enormous landing that preceded the grand staircase. “Bye.” That was all I could get out before the door shut behind me.
It was my first day at Ashford. I was hopeful that the day would go well. So far, everyone on staff had been pleasant, although no one stopped what they were doing to say hello, which was good because I was afraid to speak for fear that I may say something awkward. But I’d gotten a smile or two. I needed time to absorb my surroundings, get my bearings.
It seemed almost as though they already knew who I was. Either that, or they were used to having strangers lurking around the premises. I wasn’t sure. At home this morning, I had wanted to make certain that I looked like I belonged there, because every fiber of my being felt out of place in this fantastic estate. I’d shined my shoes, pressed my clothes, and spent an extra thirty minutes on my hair. I looked the part, but still didn’t quite feel the part.
I placed my fingers on the keys of Robert Marley’s computer, already feeling invasive for tapping the little buttons that had supported his fingertips, and it came to life. The itinerary sputtered from the printer across the room. Nervously, I plucked the page from the machine and began to read his message:
…Be on the lookout for Tom. He’ll be stopping by each day promptly at nine to bring Pippa’s groceries.
Pippa’s groceries? Wasn’t that his grandmother? Why did he call her by her first name? It sounded so… My cell phone rang in my pocket. It was Megan.
“Hello?”
“How’s it going?” She sounded extra chipper this morning. She must have had her daily coffee without me. I wrinkled my nose at the thought.
“As well as to be expected. I’ve only been here about twenty minutes.” I toyed with the brass drawer pulls of the desk and ran my hands along the grains on its surface.
“Well, get your work hat on, because I have a showing for you already! Someone called in this morning and left a voicemail. I’ve set up the walkthrough for two o’clock.”
So that’s why Megan was so cheerful. She stood to make a mint on the sale of Ashford. Meanwhile, I would make nothing, and I’d be unemployed. With a gold Marley-embossed pen that felt heavier than a small elephant, I jotted the details onto a pad of paper that was placed neatly on the desk, and then got off of the line so that I could call Mr. Marley. He hadn’t left me any further instructions after today.
I dialed his number. Ringing… Voicemail.
“Mr. Marley, it’s Allie. Megan called with news that someone would like to view the house. Um. I’ll just try and get you by email. So… check your email. Thanks.” I hate leaving messages.
“Call me if you need me. Bye.” I ended the call and blew out the rest of the air that I’d been holding in my lungs the entire message.
Just to be nosy, I sat down at the desk and pulled out the desk drawer. Nothing interesting. Pens, sticky notes, a stapler. Next to the computer, I tilted a photo toward me of Robert holding some sort of framed award.
With a click of the mouse, the Marley computer lit back up. I opened the email screen and hit the icon to compose a message to Robert. This guy was not one for conversation, so I kept it brief: “Megan has someone to look at the house at two o’clock. How should I proceed?”
Almost instantly, I received a response. Is he Charlie from Charlie’s Angels? I wondered. I gnawed on my thumbnail. I guess that would make me John Bosley. Hm. I’d much rather be Jill Munroe. I read the response:
Pick up the in-house phone at the base of the intercom system and dial eighty-eight. It’s located near the home security panel, behind the butler’s pantry, off of the kitchen. This will summon the household staff to the kitchen where you can prepare them for the showing. I’ve already informed them of their duties should you require their services. I’ll send you an itinerary at eight o’clock every morning. Good luck.
I typed him a return email: “Thank you so much for the information. Hope all is well in New York.”
I waited.
No response. This guy was a piece of work.
The expansive hallways opened out like the type of mazes through which those laboratory rats are made to maneuver. I kind of felt like one of them: doing all of this work for a little cheese at the end. Eventually, I located the kitchen and ran into Tom.
“Hello!” He offered a weathered but pleasant expression and an outstretched hand. “Tom,” he said, clasping my mine. “Ni. . .
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