Swept Up (15 page)

2-1-014

Dear Reader,

And thus ends Quincy’s adventures.  Well, maybe.  I wanted to leave the possibility of a fifth story open.  But in case this was the last, I tried to make sure she had a happily-ever-after.  When we first met Quincy, she was a once-wanna-be-actress who’d become a harried business owner and a single mom.  As we finish this book, she’s also a successful screenwriter and is married to the love of her life. 

Because I often get reader letters asking about other characters in a story, I thought it would be fun to do a quick “
Where-Are-They-Now…”
ending for some of Quincy’s friends.

Tiny had a baby boy.  Salvador Addison Mardones Jr.  Quincy called him Sal-Ad once and somehow that morphed into Caesar Salad, and finally to simply Caesar.  The name will stick with him throughout his life.  He’ll never mind until he’s older and falls in love with a woman named Cleo.

Jerome and Peri did divorce right on his schedule—but Peri’s acting career had taken off and she met a very nice cowboy (well, an actor who was playing a cowboy on TV) named Buck and married him.  She’s still very good friends with Jerome and still the boys’ favorite stepmother.  Well, these days they don’t call her that.  You see, Quincy and Cal adopted her. They had Honey cater a lovely dinner where they presented her with her ‘official’ adoption papers.  Quincy’s entire family flew into LA for the party…they adopted her, too.  When Peri married Buck, Cal walked her down the aisle and Quincy was her matron-of-honor.  Peri’s adoption papers hang in her living room.  Her children call Quincy and Cal Grandma and Grandpa, despite the fact they claim they are way too young for those titles. 

Big G still flirts with Quincy and swears he’ll break her out of jail if needs be, but his wife, Honey, doesn’t mind the flirting and says she’ll be right there next him during the great jail break.  These two foodies were meant for each other.  (Cassandra and Julian are still together, too.)

Theresa is still the worst maid ever, but she’s a fantastic manager of Mac’Cleaners’ original store.  Tiny and Quincy have Mac’Cleaner’s franchises now and they are selling fast.  Oh, and Theresa married Rob.  They have a houseful of computer nerds.  Theresa doesn’t even clean her own house…she hired a Mac’Cleaner’s maid.

Quincy’s agent, Deanne, sold
Dusted
to the HeartMark Channel.  And Sean, the director, was back again, and so was Shia as Tiny.  Sean also directed Quincy’s first major motion picture,
My Next Ex
and Peri starred in it.  Quincy’s collaborating with Dick on
Cereal Killers
.  It’s in its second season, and there’s a lot of Mortie buzz.  Shia’s starring in it and comes to Quincy’s for holidays…the family is thinking about another ‘adoption.’
Dick has a new girlfriend.  Her name is Pat.  She’s petite, feisty, and madly in love with him…which is good because he’s planning to pop the question soon.

Detective Charlie moved to Cal’s division and they became partners…and friends.

Oh, and the boys all graduated from college.  Hunter’s gone all Maccish and is in medical school.  Miles is working with his father.  And Eli…he’s got his own show on Comedy Central.  He’s talking about getting a tattoo.

Now, in case you’re thinking there couldn’t be another story because I just told you what happened…there could.  But since neither Quincy nor her author wanted her stumbling across dead bodies on a regular basis (or stumbling on art heists and forgeries), it would probably be a few years after
Swept Up
.   I’ll keep you posted.

But in the meantime, thank you so much for all your support for Quincy!  I’ve been so very lucky to have you all in my corner.  You’ve read my romantic comedies and my romance dramas.  And now you’ve followed me to my cozy mysteries.  Thank you all!

~Holly

BIO

Holly Jacobs leads a life full of romance and adventure. From skydiving to jet-setting around Europe, from snorkeling in coral reefs to writing while wearing beautiful silk peignoir sets and popping chocolate bonbons, Holly Jacobs leads a life that is the epitome of romance.

Well, my fictional life sounds more interesting, but not better than my real life. Really, I'm the happily married mother of four. I write for
Montlake Romance and Harlequin.

You can visit me at
http://www.HollyJacobs.com
.

Other Kindle Books
by Holly Jacobs:

Maid in LA Series:
Book #1
Steamed: A Maid in LA Mystery
Book
#2
Dusted: A Maid in LA Mystery
Book #3
Spruced Up: A Maid in LA Novella
Book #4 Swept Up: A Maid in LA Mystery

Watch for
Just One Thing
in June of 2014! 
And Christmas in Cupid Falls in October 2014!

Everything But… Series:
Everything But a Groom
Everything But a Bride
Everything But a Wedding
Everything But a Christmas Eve
Everything But a Mother
Everything But a Dog

WLVH Series:
Pickup Lines
Lovehandles
Night Calls
Laugh Lines

Nothing But Short Story Series:
Nothing But Love
Nothing But Heart
Nothing But Luck

Whedon Series:
Unexpected Gifts
A One-of-a-Kind Family
Homecoming Day
A Father’s Name

Valley Ridge Series
:
You Are Invited…
A Valley Ridge Wedding
April Showers,
A Valley Ridge Wedding
A Walk Down the Aisle
,
A Valley Ridge Wedding
A Valley Ridge Christmas

American Dads:
Once Upon a Thanksgiving
Once Upon a Christmas
Once Upon a Valentine’s

Wedding Mishaps:
How to Catch a Groom
How to Hunt a Husband

Also available:
Found and Lost
(working title
: Can’t Find No
Body
)
The House on Briar Hill Road
Same Time Next Summer
Confessions of a Party Crasher
The 100-Year Itch

Did you miss Quincy’s first adventure,
Steamed: A Maid in LA Mystery
?
 
She based her Mortie Award winning screenplay on it! Find out what happened to Mr. Banning and who dunnit!
Here’s the excerpt:

 When I moved to LA, I was an eighteen year old with stars in my eyes.  Well, not exactly in my eyes, but rather
on
my eyes.  My high school best friend bought me sunglasses with lenses shaped like stars for when I
Made It.
Lottie always said the words in such a way you just knew they were capitalized. 

 
Made It.

 
Yes, I graduated from high school and moved to LA.  I planned to be a famous actress.  Lottie made me promise I’d wear my star-shaped glasses on my first Oscar red carpet walk.  My goal was to take Hollywood by storm.

 
These days, those glasses are in a drawer in my bedroom and I have two much smaller goals.  One is that I want to wear my jeans without a muffin-top.  After three kids, I’d developed a bit of a baby-pooch that wants to creep out above the waistband of my jeans.  I longed for the days when pants had waistbands that were higher.  Back then you could tuck your baby-pooch in.  These days your options are exercise, wear Spanx, or learn to suck it in.

 
I tend to suck it in…when I remember.

 
My second goal is an empty nest.

 
It’s not that I don’t love my boys.  I do.  I have three sons—Hunter, Miles and Eli.  They are eighteen, seventeen and sixteen.  I’ve been a parent practically my entire adult life.  I’m ready for a time when I simply have to worry about me and no one else. 

 
This summer is my trial empty-nest. 

 
The boys left last night to spend four weeks in the Bahamas with their father and his most recent wife, Peri. 

 
Now, my place isn’t exactly a dump, but compared to their dad’s house, my three bedroom bungalow in the out-of-the-way neighborhood of Van George is a cardboard box in some alley.

 
And while thirty-eight isn’t exactly over-the-hill, next to Peri, the twenty-year-old, I am ancient.

 
I miss my boys (and I realize the irony in longing for an empty nest, but missing them when they’re on vacation).  I try not to mind when my ex takes the boys on fabulous vacations—and most of the time I don’t mind—but getting ready for work in a quiet house, I minded.

 
My ex, movie producer Jerome Smith, is a nice guy...a nice guy with a taste for younger women.  Specifically women between the ages of twenty and twenty-five.  The exact ages I married, then divorced him.  Or rather, he divorced me.

 
Jerome had two marriages before me, and three marriages since, all within those same parameters.  His current wife’s my favorite.  I really like Peri despite the way her breasts perk and mine just sort of...well, hang loosely if they’re not strapped down.  I think Peri sort of appeals to my maternal instincts.  I don’t have a daughter.

 
Maybe I’ll adopt her when Jerome divorces her.

 
TGIF, I told myself.  I’m thirty-eight, and until the boys come home from their summer visit with their father, I’m footloose and fancy-free.

 
Maybe it isn’t exactly the life I’d dreamed of when I moved to LA, but it’s a good life.

 
Oh, sometimes I still wish that I was starring in some movie of the week instead of heading into Mac’Cleaners.

 
Yes, that’s right—I no longer have stars in or on my eyes.  Rather than achieving stardom, I have three sons and clean houses for a living.  It’s honest work, and it’s flexible enough that when I was younger I could take time off and go on auditions.  Now that I’m part owner and thirty-eight, I don’t go to many auditions. 

 
Okay, so I haven’t been on an audition in five years—I’ve discovered that I’m a size twelve girl in a size two world.

 
I missed the fame and fortune boat.

 
Okay, so I could live without fame or fortune, if only I could figure out what I wanted to do with my life sometime before menopause hit.  Owning a business keeps the boys and me afloat financially but lately, I’d had a feeling that it was time for a change.  The kids weren’t such kids anymore. Hunter would start college in the fall.

 
That empty nest is just around the bend.  Soon I’ll be able to live my own life.

 
And I know I want something more.

 
I’d said I wanted to act since I was six.  I never gave any thought to doing something else.  But it’s clear that acting isn’t going to be my ultimate career.

 
So while I wait to figure out what I want to do, I clean houses.  I need to figure out soon because I’ll be turning forty in a couple years.  Forty sounds so very grown up, and grown-ups should have some idea about the direction they want their lives to take.

 
But I wasn’t going to think about direction today.

 
Today, I was going to get my work done and then go do something decadent.

 
I’d like to say I was planning to go to a bar and pick up guys—well at least pick up a guy—but I’ll probably end up going to the store and picking up Ben and Jerry’s, then head home and try and catch up on all the chick-flicks the boys make me miss.

 
Feeling a bit better, I walked into the small brick storefront that was only a mile from my house.  It proudly proclaimed Mac’Cleaners on the plate glass window with a tartan weaving through the letters.  I walked through the small reception room and back to my partner, Tiny’s office.

 
Big mistake.

 
There’s nothing worse than starting the day as a single, directionless, mother of three and then walking into the middle of the wonderful world of weddings.

 
Tiny’s marrying Salvador Mardones in September.  September 30
th
to be exact.  And she’s going slightly insane...a bit further over the brink each day.

 
“Tiny?” I called, hoping she was somewhere in the sea of tulle and satin.

 
“I’m here, Quincy,” she said from the back corner.

 
Tiny’s not very...tiny that is.  She’s five eight and looks like a model.  Skin the color of strong tea and dark hair with a tendency to curl.  She’s gorgeous and simply a beautiful soul.  We make an interesting pair, what with me having Irish fair skin, a light sprinkling of freckles that might have been cute when I was in my teens, but aren’t as much when at thirty-eight.  And my hair...well, it was blond when I moved to LA thanks to Lottie and Miss Clairol.  These days, it has gone back to its brownish roots...literally.

 
Tiny smiled as I walked in, and I couldn’t muster up true annoyance that her smile was messing with my grouchy mood because she radiated happiness.  The kind of happiness I knew she deserved.

 
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” she asked, gesturing at her office.

 
I surveyed the room.  “Yeah.”

 
“I just can’t help myself.  I want this wedding to be perfect because Sal’s perfect.”

 
Truth is, Sal is perfect.  He’s my five five height, balding and has a beer belly that makes my small baby-pooched stomach look like washboard abs.

 
But he’s truly one of the nicest guys in the world.

 
Tiny had a history of dating losers.  But that was over because Sal...well, he’s a winner.

 
“The wedding will be perfect,” I promised. 

 
I’d see to it, even though I’d rather have wisdom teeth pulled than plan a wedding this elegant. 

 
Me, if I ever get married again, I’m eloping.  Something fast and simple.  Someone saying the official words, then me and my new husband back at some hotel having sex.  Lots and lots of sex.

 
It had been a while, which might explain why my mind skipped right over finding Mr. Right and a wedding and went right to the sex.

 
“Speaking of help,” Tiny said slowly, “we need some today.  Theresa’s out.”

 
Rats.

 
“It’s my turn, isn’t it?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

 
She nodded.

 
When one of our employees calls in sick, we take turns filling in.

 
Today it was my turn to fill in.

 
I should have just gone back to bed this morning.

 
Grumbling to myself, I left Tiny to hold down the fort and took Theresa’s folder for the day.  The nice thing about working outside the office is that the day always went fast. 

 
Today was no exception.  By three in the afternoon, I was on my way to the last job.

 
As soon as I finished Mr. Banning’s, I’d decided that I was going shopping for a new pair of shoes rather than Ben and Jerry’s.

 
More money, less calories.

 
I thought the trade-off was worth it.

 
On a day like today, I didn’t just want new shoes—I needed them.  So, I grabbed Mr. Banning’s printout from Theresa’s folder.  I was anxious to finish this last job.

 
Mr. Banning’s was a BWP/wL.

 
A basic-weekly-pickup, with laundry.

 
I knocked on his door, even though the file said the odds of him being home at three o’clock in the afternoon were slim to nil.

 
I used our key and let myself in.  I surveyed the living room with disgust.  There was nothing basic about this job. 

 
The place was a mess.

 
I mean, a real pigsty.  Worse than my boys’ rooms...and that’s saying something.  Teenage boys are very toxic. 

 
Mr. Banning was a whole new level of toxicity, though.  Underwear was hanging from a chandelier, empty glasses and plates were scattered through the room. 

 
Oh, geesh.  Mr. Banning had a Mortie.  All TV Network, ATVN, had begun to hand out the award ten years ago and it had quickly become one of the premier Hollywood awards.

 
Hey, I might not be an actual actress, but I know stuff.

 
I noticed not out of some sort of awe that I was cleaning a Mortie winner’s home, but rather because the award was sitting in the middle of the leather couch, covered in something.  Maybe someone had dipped it into some of the food.  Ugh.  It looked like they’d tried to wipe it off before throwing it on the couch, but they didn’t wipe hard enough.

 
To top it off, there were footprints on the light beige carpet.  Big footprints.  Whoever wore those shoes had really big feet.  Thankfully, there were only two.  As if whoever made the prints realized they’d tracked in mud and took off their shoes, because those two prints were it. 

 
Well, there’d been at least one considerate person.

 
I tried to make a mental list of how best to approach this job.

 
In the end, there was nothing to do but start.  I gathered dishes and cups and the pots and pans in the kitchen and had the dishwasher running minutes later.  I even hand-washed the Mortie—which was about as heavy as a bag of sugar, heavier than I’d thought the old-fashioned silver television would be—and gave it a thorough polish. When I was done, the inscription on the silver television screen really stood out.  Steve Banning. 
Dead Certain
.

 
I remembered that show.  It was a comedy about a medical examiner’s office.

 
I set the Mortie on the mantle, thinking that was a more appropriate place for it than the couch. 

 
There was a desk next to the fireplace.  It had an old relic of a computer on it.  The keyboard’s cord dangled over the edge of the desk.  Yeah, that wasn’t going to work well. 

 
I plugged the keyboard into the back of the tower. 

 
Next, I dragged a garbage can around the room and made short order of the rest of the mess.

 
I debated whether I should toss the chandelier’s panties out, but opted to put them in the wash with a load of clothes.  At least when Mr. Banning returned them to whoever they belonged to, they’d be clean. 

 
Maybe they belonged to him? 

 
The thought was enough to make me decide to concentrate on the job at hand rather than on the underclothing our Mortie-winning client wore.

 
There was a small steam-cleaner in the back of the Mac’Cleaners van.  It made short work of the footprints.  I worked on the laundry as I vacuumed and dusted.  By then the dishwasher was finished, so I unloaded it then cleaned the kitchen.