In Love by Christmas: A Paranormal Romance (8 page)

“That’s right, Edmund. Thousands of Native Americans came here for a spiritual retreat led by a famous shaman.” An artist’s conception of Grandfather filled the screen.

“Thousands went, but thousands didn’t return. We’re going to cut to New York City and Paul Running, the head of the Running Way, a prominent Native American spiritual group. Paul is a shaman himself and witnessed the disaster.”

“Paul Running Bird isn’t a shaman!” Leroy cried. “He’s a been my grandpa’s student for twenty years and didn’t learn a thing! He wasn’t in the Mogollon Bowl when it happened.”

“He’s on every channel,” Doug said. “He’s the new face of Native American spirituality. The massacre is just what he needed.”

Paul’s sonorous voice quivered with emotion. “It was hideous …”

8

Out of the Ballpark

L
ords Martingale, Surcingle,
and Pontificate joined Lord Ballentyne, Doug, and Leroy at the Heritage course of the London Golf Club. He was introduced all around. They already knew Doug.
Everyone
knew Doug.

The English Lords were as polite as he’d seen them portrayed on
Hermitage Estate: Upstairs and Down.
He and his dad sat in front of their TV every Sunday night and discussed the plot for days after each episode. The people around him could have been in the show. The Lords looked him over without staring. One finally said, “How tall are you, Leroy?”

“I’m six foot, eight and a half inches tall. In my socks.”

They tittered politely.

“You could be a basketball player,” Lord Surcingle said.

“Yeah, if I knew how to play basketball, I could do that.”

Leroy did fine at lunch. He’d grasped silverware well enough to make it through the meal in fine form. He grew more anxious as they approached the golf course. The London Golf Club—a private club—said ritzy in an exceptionally low-key way. Brilliant green grass swathed everything: green lawn mowed close. Mowed extremely close. Bushy. Sand patches nestled in, ringed by trees. Wide avenues of lawn turned abruptly around lakes that looked like they were there to swallow golf balls.

Leroy realized that this was probably a difficult sport, even if it was stupid. How much had the Lords paid for him to whack up the turf from his first step on the course to his last?

“I hope you all know that I’ve never played golf.”

“Doug told us that. Give it your best shot, old fellow. We’re playing for fun.” That was Lord Pontificate.

“All right. I just don’t want to have to replant this course at the end.”

They laughed.

Leroy dropped into the inner state where he lived when he healed. Relaxed, vigilant without being tense … “What club do I use, Doug? The big wood one?”

The Lords tittered and then stared, open-mouthed. Leroy’s ball soared past theirs, landing in the middle of the fairway.

“This is kind of fun,” he loped after his ball, making the mistake of trying to carry his own clubs.

“The caddy does that, Leroy.” Doug was plainly delighted. When they got to the green, Doug whispered, “Do
not
step on the green between anybody’s ball and the hole. That’s a no-no.”

Leroy kept going, his balls soaring past the others’. “Yeah, I’m kinda getting the hang of this.” Another fantastic swing and the ball shot through the air like a Winchester 223 Super Short Magnum, the fastest bullet in the world. Leroy loped ahead of the group from hole to hole, eschewing the carts.

“Oh, yeah, this one’s hard. You got to be very careful here. I can see that. William, would you get me that one with the flat edge.” He called his caddy by his first name. The Lords twitched every time he did it.

“Boy, this grass sure is short. I wonder how they get it this short.” Leroy squatted on the green of the fourteenth hole and studied the distance between his ball and the hole. Someone pulled the flag out of the hole. “That’s a good idea. Easier to get the ball in.” He gave it the tiniest little tap, and the ball scooted into the hole.

“Good lord, you’re on par,” Lord Ballentyne. “The fourteenth hole is the hardest on the course. It has a stroke index of
one!”

Leroy scored seventy-eight, probably the lowest of any first time player in history, on that course, certainly. The only place he didn’t score was the 19th hole.

They went to a dark-paneled and very posh bar at the end of the course. Everyone ordered with gusto. Except Leroy.

“You don’t imbibe?” one of the Lords asked. Maybe Lord Martingale.

“I don’t drink. It’s against my religion.”

Drinking wasn’t against their religion; the Lords drank freely, Scotch, mostly. They were very interested in his beliefs and spiritual life. He had to explain about shamans, spirit warriors, and his grandfather.

“Your grandfather is a shaman?”

“Was. He died a little while ago.”

“Did he have supernatural powers?”

“Yes, he did. He could heal anything. Broken souls, mostly. And do all sorts of other things. Even blow things up.”

Leroy could see it happen: with one mind, the Lords recalled the sensational reports of a bull that exploded at a Las Vegas rodeo not so long before. A very tall, African American cowboy had been implicated. Their collective eyes continued to widen as the coverage of a recent and horrific spiritual retreat led by a Native American shaman in New Mexico returned to their minds full force.

This was exactly what he and Doug had realized would happen as they watched the news the night before. Everyone—including the noblemen they were meeting the next day—knew about the massacre and the general descriptions of the parties involved. Will had been there: all the major networks had interviewed him. He was trying to do damage control for Grandfather. The Lords knew that Will employed Doug and that Leroy was connected to him. Was Leroy’s grandfather the leader of a cult and a mass murderer? Was Leroy himself?

“This is your first big test,” Doug had said after he turned off the news. “You have to convince them that you’re a good guy, your Grandfather’s a good guy, and neither of you were in on the massacre. If you don’t convince them completely tomorrow, you won’t have a future in England or anywhere. If they buy you and your story, they’ll tell their friends and the upper classes will open to you. You’ll never hear about it again. If they don’t accept you, you might as well go home.”

“How will I know if they’ve accepted me?”

“They’ll invite you to their country houses.”

“You were at the massacre?” Lord Ballentyne’s features stiffened. Leroy learned that the British stiff upper lip included the whole body. “Did you see it? And what about the rodeo and the exploding bull?”

“I didn’t blow up the bull. I don’t know how he blew up,” Leroy spoke carefully, using all the spiritual power he could muster. “The FBI said a crazy agent made up the story about the bull so he could get a promotion. President Clinton agreed. I got to the Meeting when it was almost over. I don’t know anything about what happened, except that my grandfather is the best person I ever met.”

Doug jumped in. “I was at
the retreat the whole time and
I
don’t know what happened. Everything was fine until a bunch of hoodlums brought out the booze. They had threatened to cause trouble every year, but this year they did it. They had mushrooms, psychedelics. I don’t know what.
They
started a riot.

“Grandfather got us to a cave where nothing could get us.” Doug nodded at Leroy. “His grandfather
is
the most wonderful person in the world. And Leroy got to the retreat the night before we came home. He didn’t see anything.”

“Good heavens,” said Lord Ballentyne. “Drunken ruffians on drugs caused a riot? Is that what all the fuss is about? What about the monsters?”

“I didn’t see any.” Doug raised his hand. “Swear to God.” Leroy was amazed by how easily Doug lied, and with such a convincing effect. But then
he
had lied. He’d told the Lords his first lie. He had blown up the bull to save his father.

“Were there monsters?” Lord Ballentyne’s eyebrows rose so high that they nearly hit his hairline.

“I’m not supposed to say anything more. It’s
classified
.” Doug’s face was emotionless.

“Oh.”

“Every federal agency you can think of interviewed everyone from Numenon. They’ve got a division that investigates paranormal experiences and UFOs.
That’s
where the case ended up. In the division for fruits and nuts. And I’m not supposed to tell you that. It’s
all
classified.”

“But the news …”

“The news destroyed the feds’ case, tromping all over any evidence. Everyone whose spouse ran off in the last ten years is saying it happened at the retreat. All the whackos in the world are swarming the desert and reservation.” Doug shook his head, looking pained. “Your Lordships, we’ve known each other for years. You know I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“That’s true,” Ballentyne spoke for them all. “It’s classified?”

“Extremely.”

“Leroy wasn’t implicated?”

“No. Tell them, Leroy.”

He repeated the script he and Doug had worked out as sincerely as possible.

“Well, if Will Duane and Bill Clinton agreed, it must be true.” Ballentyne nodded gravely and his noble compatriots nodded in sync. “Besides, Leroy has too much potential as a golfer to do wrong.” He chuckled merrily.

“Where is your grandfather?” said Lord Martingale. Leroy’s eyes filled instantly. The others turned to Martingale, scowling.

“I say, John, that’s rather personal,” Ballentyne added quickly.

Doug cut in again, which was a good thing, because Leroy’s eyes swam with tears. Doug spoke barely above a whisper. “Every year after the retreat, Grandfather—that’s what we all called him—went for a walk in the desert. This year he didn’t come back.” Leroy jumped to his feet and ran toward the men’s room, stopping where he could hear what went on at the table, but not be seen. Doug continued. “They’ll never find the body. Scavengers.” The Lords gasped.

“What brings Leroy to England, if I may ask?” That was Martingale, who Leroy realized was a gadfly, but the one who asked all the questions that no one else would.

“Leroy did Will a personal favor,” Doug’s calm voice reassured them. “He’s giving him a year on the continent to repay him.”

“Oh,” the Lords said collectively. All of them had had a year on the continent when growing up. It was a rite of passage. Martingale opened his mouth to ask about the nature of the favor, but Lord Ballentyne cut him off.

Leroy slipped back to his chair, shaky but composed.

“Is there anything you’d like to do while you’re here, Leroy?” Ballentyne asked after a moment’s silence.

“Yes, your Lordship. I’d like to play polo. I’ve never done that. And I’d like to go fox hunting. I’ve never done that either. Though I can’t see any reason for hunting foxes. Wild boar. Elk. Deer. They’re worth hunting.” That earned him more smiles.

“Will has Leroy fully scheduled through December,” Doug said. “But maybe we can cut him some free time. He goes to Rome soon.”

“The hunt season starts in November. We could get you up an exhibition game of polo then too. Informally.”

“Right on! Her Grace and I will expect you at our country house,” said Lord Ballentyne.

“And then at my place.”

“And mine!”

9

Charm School, Week One

“
T
hat wasn’t so
bad,” Leroy said, basking in his triumph.

“That was baby stuff.” Doug looked at him from under furrowed brows. “You hit a home run, but you’re barely into the first inning.”

“I still don’t get why all this matters. Why don’t I just travel around and see things?”

“Because you’d still be Leroy Watches Jr., cowboy rancher, when you’re done. Will wants you to be his ambassador. Do you know why Will wants you to make it with these people? Or why he cares about them at all?”

“No.”

“They’re gatekeepers. They can open doors that pure money can’t. Doors to bankers, more nobility, and
royalty
, plus the people who really make decisions. There’s more to being at the top than just money.

“Will has wanted to expand into Britain and Europe in a big way for years. He wants to beat Donatore on his own turf. Europe is where Donatore is from and where he plays. And he plays; he’s a social bigwig. Will wants a piece of the action.”

“Will’s the richest man on Earth. Why does he need ‘in’ on anything?”

“Will is in, but you need to know something else. There’s rich, and there’s rich. Among people who have been rich for four hundred years, Will’s the new kid on the block. Did you know that he couldn’t get invited
anywhere
when he first got to California? Couldn’t get into a single top country club in San Francisco or the Peninsula, even for lunch?”

Leroy shook his head. “Why?”

“Will was raised with a lot of money, but it was from handling industrial waste or something; dirty and definitely not classy. His father was a thug. Will was too rough as a young Stanford grad for society to accept him, even though he was starting the tech industry and making a bundle, on top of his family’s bundle. That was in the 50s and 60s. He had to do the same thing you’re doing.”

Leroy was dumbfounded. “Will had to learn knives and forks?”

“Yeah, Will Duane had to learn what people who are truly upper class care about. We’ve got an upper class in the US just as much as here. What got Will’s career in the fast lane was meeting this crazy old lady, Dr. Vanessa Schierman. Her ancestors were the ones who took California from the Indians. Before that, they ruined the lives of peasant farmers back in Germany for a thousand years. That’s
old
money.

“Dr. Schierman took a liking to Will and cleaned him up. And she got him in everywhere. They kowtow to her anywhere she goes. Breeding, money, and brains. She’s a physicist. She views Will as a member of the family.”

“Will got where he is because he had good manners?”

“No. The right people would talk to him and treat him as an equal when he got into their clubs because he has good manners, and connections to people with money and social power. He got where he is because he’s a ruthless, driven competitor who was in the right place at the right time. Wait until you meet Dr. Schierman.” Doug grinned ear to ear.

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” Doug smiled. “I know all this because Will and I were best friends once. I said we fucked our way around the world together; we also talked. I thought he was the best man on Earth once.” Doug shrugged. “I found out he’s OK. Not the best, not the worst.

“But—you’re gonna be busy. The tailor is coming at one, followed by your hair stylist and manicurist.” The doorbell rang. “That’s your staff.”

Doug admitted a group of people better groomed than the nobility Leroy had met, but dressed in plain black fabric. Doug led them into the kitchen and jerked his head at Leroy to get him to come. His staff?

“We’re pleased that you are able to join Mr. Watches’ household staff.” Doug gave a formal spiel; picking his words as through he was born saying them. Maybe he was. “He’s going to be coming and going from England, but you will remain in residence, ensuring that his London home is properly looked after, and that he meets his social obligations in good order.”

Doug took Leroy’s arm and pulled him toward the group. “This is Mr. Evan Ainsley, your butler.” A tall man nodded. He had an enormous nose that pointed straight out, grey hair, and posture more rigid and upright than any of the Lords.

“How do you do, Mr. …” Leroy said, holding out his hand. Doug had gotten him that far with proper forms of address.

The butler bowed deeply. “
Ainsley
will do nicely, sir. This is …” Ainsley introduced the cook, housekeeper, the three maids, and Leroy’s valet, Tom.

Leroy’s face widened and opened. He started to speak.

“That will be all for now,” Doug said. Leroy frantically gestured to Doug, but the cook cut in with great earnestness.

“What would sir being wanting for supper? An’ what do ye like for tea at four?”

Leroy stood, mouth flapping.

“Show him a good English tea, Mrs. Elvers. Do you have time to prepare a beef roast for tonight? Mr. Watches will go over the weeks’ menus with you after tea.”

“Why do I need so many people? We’ve been doing fine, jus’ us.” Tension caused Leroy’s voice to rise. “I’m not even going to be here most of the time.”

“If you’re going to have any of the people we met yesterday here, you
must
have an appropriate staff. If you are invited for polo or hunting at their country estates, you’d
better
have the best damn chauffeur and valet in the universe.”

“I didn’t meet a chauffeur.”

“He’s in the garage with the new car. It’s a Jag. Will is going to send different cars when you need them. But do you know who’s going to save your bacon when I’m gone? Tom Wyatt. Your valet.”

“What does a valet do?”

“Buttons up your pants.”

“Nobody’s buttoning up my pants but me.”

“Leroy, you’re invited to Lord and Lady Ballentyne’s London house for dinner in a week. You are no more ready for that than flying to the moon. You’re
going
to be ready for it, and I am to make sure you are. Then I’m going home, to Janice.

“It’s a simple family dinner, just thirty or forty of the Ballentyne’s dearest and nearest. In town. That means it’s the real thing. You’re being auditioned for acceptance into their circle.” The bell rang. “That’s the tailor.” Leroy ran to get the door. “No, Leroy. Ainsley does that. From now on, your servants do everything but wipe your ass.”

The young valet Tom Wyatt watched carefully as the tailor went to work on Leroy. The tailor and a couple of assistants had cases of patterns and measuring tools, as well as fabric samples.

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do bespoke clothing. I don’t have time. Mr. Duane’s man, Mr. Saunders, said you needed a formal wardrobe within a week. We’ll have to do made-to measure.” The tailor seemed genuinely ashamed.

They had measured every part of him to the quarter inch. He had learned that bespoke clothing was not made from a pattern; it was made to fit, entirely from scratch. What he was getting relied on a pattern that was altered to fit his measurements. Previously, Leroy had considered the Big and Tall Store the ultimate in fashion and fit.

“The invitation is to a semi-formal dinner in Lord Ballentyne’s home.” Leroy said to the tailor. “Slacks and a sport coat are fine.”

Tom, the valet, cut in. “Sir, with all respect, that means it’s black tie, not white tie.” Tom looked horrified. “You
cannot
go to the Ballentyne residence without being properly dressed.”

“The young gentleman is right, sir,” the tailor said, practically shaking in his immaculately polished shoes. “Informal is black tie. Formal is white tie. But we’ll be able to do bespoke for that. We’ve plenty of time before you’ll need a tailcoat.”

The late afternoon brought another horror: his tutor on matters of noble titles and court etiquette. Sir Glathering had a firm grasp on how to talk to the nobles he’d meet. “No, Mr. Watches, you do not call Lord Ballentyne’s wife Lady Ballentyne,” he said. “She is Her Grace Violetta, the Duchess of Radenberry and Cloudfill. She is a
Duchess
, while her husband is an
Earl
. Her title and ancestral lands are far superior to his. Address her informally as Your Grace.” Sir Glathering’s lips, nose and face pinched so hard Leroy was surprised he could breathe.

After the tailor and barber left—the only hair Leroy got to keep was the little tail in back where he tied his feathers—Sir Glathering had arrived to begin teaching him how to speak to his hosts. Leroy got right away that Glathering was not very high in the royal pecking order if he was giving Lord and Lady lessons to an unknown cattle rancher from America.

Continuing on the topic of Her Grace, the Duchess of Radenberry and Cloudfill, Sir Glathering explained, “It’s not an unusual thing that a woman would marry lower than herself in the
new
England, but it would have been unheard of earlier. Now, what would you call Her Grace’s mother? She will be in attendance at the dinner party.”

“Ma’am?”

“No! She is the Dowager Duchess of Raddenbery and Cloudfill. She retains her titles even though her husband, the late Lord of Raddenbery and Cloudfill, has passed on. Her estates went to her daughter, Her Grace, with her titles also going to her daughter. She is the
Dowager
Duchess. She retains a small estate and lives independently.” Sir Glathering brightened when the butler brought in a tray of food. “I must say your cook puts on a good tea.”

“She has a
small
estate?”

“Yes. That’s the way things are. When her husband died, her daughter inherited everything. Now, stand and pretend to greet the Dowager Duchess for the first time.”

Leroy did. “How do you do, Your Royal Dowager …”

“No! You do not speak until spoken to. Do it again.”

Leroy stood there until Doug put on a squeaky voice and said, “How do you do, Mr. Watches. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Then Leroy said, “How do you do, Your Grace.”

Glathering was pleased. “Now, how do you greet Lord Ballentyne’s mother, the Dowager Lady Ballentyne?”

“She’ll be there too?”

“Oh, yes. And aunts and uncles. Cousins. Very eager to meet you. The massacre, you know. But they won’t say anything about it.”

The week was like that: Glathering and his friends harassed him every day, all day. They presented charts of people who would probably be at the party, with pictures so he’d recognize them. “I must comment, be careful of the Dowager Duchess. She’s a bit of a bristler.” That meant she was such a bitch that Glathering thought he should be warned ahead of time. More on knives and forks. He was trundled to a dance studio downtown for private dance lessons. They were exceptionally private: they shut the studio for him. A red-headed woman with no backbone slithered around with him while a guy in a toupee shouted orders.

“
Doug, I’m done
. I won’t do this anymore.”

“That’s good, Leroy. Because the party’s tomorrow night and I’m leaving in the morning. Will doesn’t think you’re ready to do this alone, but I do. I have to get back to Janice. You’ll have to face the bristling dowagers yourself.”

“The Dowager Duchess of Raddenberry and Cloudfill bristles, not the other one. She’s nice.” He was furious. “Why does Will tell
you
what he thinks about me? Why don’t he talk to
me
? If I’m so stupid an’ this matters so much, why don’t he send someone else over who can do it better? Or send someone else to babysit me if you can’t?

“An’ believe it or not, I
can
eat dinner with decent folks. Y’all seem to think I’m just a good ol’ boy who’s never done nothing …”

“You seem to think that I’m a country boy who hasn’t done anything,” Doug corrected. They’d had the language police after him too. They had given up.

“I
don’t care.
You think I’m can’t walk across the street by myself. I’ve done
plenty.
Come in here. I want to show you something. You all just assume I can’t do nothin’,” Leroy stormed into the living room. He powered up the computer and hit the button to put it on the large screen. Half the wall lit up. Typing an address, he stood back. “What do you think of that?”

“Holy shit!” Doug walked to the front of the screen. “
What the fuck?”

“Yeah, what the …” Leroy didn’t swear. “Dumb old can’t-do-a-thing Leroy Watches did that. No education, no money, just a bunch of cows. An’ I did
that
. When I came home to the ranch, my daddy was goin’ under. Four years later, this is what we are.”

A brilliantly simple but stylish website filled the screen. Colors were black, red, white, with a couple of skin colored areas. The background was bright red. Watches Ranch was written across the top in huge black letters. Round, friendly-looking letters. Under the letters on the right side and moving down the screen was a simple, pen-and-ink sketch of Yosemite’s half dome. Giant Sequoia trees were drawn on the other side. In the middle, a neat bulleted list said what they raised.

• Kosher beef.
  
• Grass fed beef.
  
• Our beef is organic pasture grass fed only.
  
• Certified no hormones, antibiotics, inoculations, or grain.