Timothy (12 page)

Once in the hallway, I was stunned again at how enormous the place was. The hallway ran the length of the house, and at either end was another staircase. The first room that opened off the hallway was an enormous dining room, with the walls painted yellow and the floor gleaming wood. Two enormous chandeliers hung over the enormous dining table, with a carved wooden chair at each end and five chairs on each side. More enormous oil paintings hung on the walls, and through the windows on the opposite wall I could again see the deep blue of the Atlantic. An enormous fireplace divided the wall on the left, and a big white door in the far corner undoubtedly led into the kitchen.

From the left, I heard a noise and I turned.

Coming down the staircase at the far end of the hallway was a man in a black suit. He moved quickly, but so smoothly it seemed like he was barely moving at all. His black patent leather shoes clicked against the marble floor. As he drew nearer, I saw that he was bone thin, almost skeletal. His face was cadaverous, and he was so pale it was like he'd never been out in the sun. His hair was black as pitch and slicked back. His lips were thin and bloodless, and there seemed to be no lashes around his intense, large brown eyes. His age was indeterminate—he could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty.

“Carson!” Carlo smiled. “Good to see you again.”

He stopped a few feet from us and inclined his head slightly to Carlo before turning his attention to me. His nostrils flared barely perceptibly, his eyes narrowing a fraction, and the corners of his mouth seemed to droop just a little bit. His intense eyes moved up and down, as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

In just a matter of seconds, I could tell I'd been judged and found wanting.

I shifted nervously from one foot to the other as Carson turned his attentions back to Carlo, and could feel the color coming up in my face.

“Mr. Romaniello, I took the liberty of making up the green suite for…”

Dismissed, I walked back to the entryway and to the glass door opening out onto the gallery. I could hear the sound of the waves in the distance, and I opened the door, taking a deep breath of the cold sea air. I stepped out onto the wide gallery that ran the length of the back of the house and sat down on a wrought iron chair. I could feel the cold metal through my clothes and shivered again, closing my eyes and listening to the waves and the cries of the gulls down by the beach.

A few moments later the door opened, and I turned with a smile, thinking it was Carlo, only to see Carson standing there, his hands clasped in front of his stomach. He inclined his head politely to me, but not before I could see the contempt blazing in his eyes. “If you will follow me, sir, I will show you to your rooms.”

My face coloring yet again, I followed him back inside the house. Carlo was nowhere to be seen—but I didn't want to ask where he had gone.

Carson started speaking as we walked down the hallway toward the staircase on the east side of the hallway. “The house is of course divided into east and west wings by the center part of the house. I don't know if you know the house's history, but it was done this way deliberately, what the original builder called the public areas kept separate from the private areas for the family, which were the wings on either side,” Carson said as he walked, his voice low and respectful—yet there was an edge to it that made me uncomfortable. “I have prepared the green suite for you. I trust you will find it most satisfactory.” As we passed a closed door, he gestured to it. “That is your office.”

“Office?”

He stopped walking and looked at me. “I simply assumed that, like Mr. Timothy, you would take charge of the household. Is that not to be the case?”

“No, no, of course,” I stammered out quickly, my face getting hot. “What exactly does that mean?”

He turned and started walking again, but not before I noticed the strange look that flitted across his face before it became impassive again. “You of course approve all menus—if you have any special dietary needs, just let me know and I will pass them on to Delia—the chef—and you of course will be deciding what flowers to decorate with, and when we have houseguests what rooms will they be put in—I will prepare the checks to pay the household accounts for you to sign, and once a month we will go over the accounts together.” He started up the stairs, and I followed. “I have gone ahead and prepared the accounts for you to look over—I assume you are too tired from all of your travel today, and tomorrow being Sunday, shall we meet on Monday morning, perhaps after breakfast, to go over the accounts?”

“Yes, that sounds wonderful,” I replied, fighting down a rising panic.

“I oversee the day-to-day management of the staff,” he continued. “Three times a week we have a landscaping crew come out to take care of the yard and the hedges, and three times a week we have a cleaning crew out to make sure the house is clean. The regular, live-in household staff includes myself, Delia the chef, and two maids, Olivia and Juana—Juana lives in the village and goes home to her family every evening. Olivia is assigned to the east wing, which means she is in charge of keeping your suite in order.” His lips pursed again. “Olivia will turn down your bed every evening and will make it in the morning. She will take care of your laundry—be sure to let her know what can be laundered and what must be sent to the cleaners—and be sure to let her know what your preferences are for your toiletries.” He stopped in front of a large oak door and pulled an enormous key ring out from the pocket of his jacket. He unlocked the door and held it open.

To say the room was sumptuous would be an understatement.

The walls were painted a dark emerald green, with a white ceiling and a gorgeous gilt chandelier hanging from the sixteen-foot ceiling. There was an enormous window on the opposite wall with a great view of the back lawn, and a glass door leading out to a balcony that ran the entire length of the room. The bed was an antique four-poster, with green velvet material draped over the top. There was a marble fireplace, and several oil paintings of forest scenes hung on the walls. There was a rolltop desk with the top open, and I could see my laptop resting in the direct center of the desktop. A rolling chair was pushed up against the desk. The enormous bed was covered with a green velvet coverlet that hung over both sides. A small marble-top table sat in front of the window, with a cream-colored wingback chair on either side.

He crossed the room and opened a door into an enormous walk-in closet. “Olivia has already hung your clothes that were sent ahead, as you can see. Here”—he walked across the room to another door, which he opened—“this is your private bath. And of course the door leads to your own private balcony.”

Tentatively I crossed the room and opened the glass door, stepping out onto the balcony. There was a small table and two chairs out there, and an ashtray sat in the center of the table. There was a tennis court to one side of the sprawling back lawn, and on the other side an enormous swimming pool with marble statues of maidens at five-foot intervals surrounding it. The lawn ended in a beach of white sand, and a pier reached out into the ocean, ending in what I assumed was a boathouse. In the back right corner of the yard, just before the beach, was a small wooden building painted dark blue. “What is that building, Carson?”

He stiffened. “That's Mr. Timothy's—” He stopped himself, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “That
was
Mr. Timothy's studio. Now, of course, it isn't used.”

“Studio?”

“Mr. Timothy was an artist.” The pride in Carson's voice was unmistakable. “There were those who thought he was nothing more than a handsome face and that he wasn't the true driving force behind his clothing line, but he was an artist. He painted and he was an excellent photographer. He used the studio to create. Since—” His voice broke.

“I'm sorry, Carson, I—”

“Quite, sir.” His face became immobile and distant again. “No one has used the studio in over a year. I keep it clean myself—no one else is allowed in there. Is there anything else, sir?”

I bit my lower lip. “Where—where is Carlo's—Mr. Romaniello's closet?”

The right corner of his mouth twitched again, but his voice remained completely neutral. “Mr. Romaniello's suite is three doors down the hall, sir. Lunch will be served promptly at noon in the solarium—I took the liberty of ordering a cold lunch for you and Mr. Romaniello. After lunch, we can meet in your office and go over the menus for next week.” He moved to the door. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

My stomach growled. “I—I haven't had breakfast.”

“I'll send Olivia up with a tray. Do you take coffee, sir?”

I nodded, and the door closed behind him.

I walked back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, biting my lower lip. So, Carlo and I weren't going to share a bedroom? I wondered for a moment if he and Timothy had shared a bedroom, and fell backward onto the bed staring at the ceiling.

Of course they had. You don't marry someone as gorgeous as Timothy only to sentence him to lonely nights in a suite of rooms down the hall from your own. I heard Valerie's voice in my head again:
You don't belong to his world, and you're not going to fit in.

She had been right, of course—Valerie made a point out of always being right. This house—I didn't know if I could ever get used to it. It was much grander than anything I was used to; this suite of rooms was bigger than my old apartment in Hell's Kitchen. I couldn't even imagine ordering servants around—being waited on. And Carson—I hadn't made a very good impression on him, had I? He had barely made an effort to conceal his obvious disdain for me. I could easily imagine him, even now, in the kitchen talking to the chef and the maid—Olivia, that was her name—about the enormous mistake Mr. Romaniello had made in marrying me.

I started when there was a light knock on the bedroom door, and it opened. The woman who entered looked like she was in either her late forties or early fifties. She had dark hair shot through with streaks of gray and was wearing a maid's uniform, a dark navy blue. She was carrying a silver tray that looked like it came from room service at a five-star hotel. There was a linen cloth covering it, a linen napkin folded around silverware, and a silver cover over the plate. There was a carafe of coffee, a little pitcher of cream, and a little porcelain caddy with packets of sugar and artificial sweetener. A cut glass vase contained a single long-stemmed red rose. There was a glass of water and a small glass of orange juice. She smiled at me and set the tray down on the surface of the table below the window next to the French doors out to the balcony.

She turned and smiled at me. “I hope you don't mind, sir, but we assumed you didn't want to eat in the bed.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I'm Olivia, sir. Welcome to Spindrift. If there's anything you need, or anything I can do to make you more comfortable, just let me know. My days off are Wednesdays and Sundays—on those days Juana will take care of you.”

“Thank you.” I wasn't sure what else I should say, so I got off the bed and hesitated, not sure what else to do.

She walked over to the door and paused. “Oh, lunch is usually served at noon and dinner at seven whenever Mr. Carlo is in the house, those are his preferences. Breakfast is at eight, but of course if you'd rather have any meal in here, just ring the kitchen and let Delia know, and I'll serve you in here. You should have plenty of fresh towels—I laundered all of them yesterday afternoon, and if there are any particular toiletries you prefer—”

I nodded. “I'll let you know, Olivia.”

The door shut behind her, and I sat down to my breakfast. The coffee was strong and delicious, and the strawberry preserves were the best I'd ever had. Once I finished and placed the tray outside my door, I lay down on the bed and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the soft pillow.

I awoke after a little over an hour, feeling completely rested and refreshed. I sat up in my bed, yawning and stretching. The sound of the waves and the gulls outside brought a smile to my face. The sun was shining, and I'd left the glass door ajar to let in the breeze from the sea. I had slept on top of the covers, and the green velvet felt amazing against my skin. The bed was just the right combination of soft and firm—easily the most comfortable bed I'd ever slept in.

If I was going to have to sleep alone, at least the bed was good.

I shook my head.
You don't know that you're going to be sleeping alone
, I reminded myself, trying to not go to a negative place.
There's any number of reasons for us to have separate suites. Maybe all rich people live like this—it's not like there aren't plenty of rooms in this place to go around.

It really hadn't sunk in to me as yet that this enormous palace, Spindrift, was supposed to be—was going to be—my home. It didn't seem real. None of it seemed real—it was like the greatest dream of all time, and I couldn't help but feel I was going to be jarred out of it by the harsh sound of my alarm clock.

I got up from the bed and walked across the room to the balcony door. I stepped out, deeply inhaling the salty air. The breeze was chilly, and I leaned on the railing, looking to either side. The hedges were high enough and far enough from the house so that I couldn't see into the yards of the houses on either side of Spindrift—which probably meant they couldn't see into ours, either.

As I stood there, turning my face up to the sun, the almost dreamlike state I'd been in since we drove through the gates faded and I became overwhelmed by a sense of unreality. I didn't belong here, I would never fit in—this wasn't the kind of place where people like me lived. I belonged back in my tiny apartment, or the dusty cluttered house back in Kansas. I was a fraud, an interloper, and no matter how I tried, I would never be comfortable thinking of Spindrift as my home.