“Yes. I’m here to see Drew Waters.”
The guard puts his hands on his hips. I’m sure he wants to say, “You and everyone else.” Instead, he asks, “Name?”
“Julie Michaels.”
The guard steps back into his hut and picks up a clipboard. He glances at me briefly before scanning his list. He seems taken aback when his finger is about halfway down the page. Apparently, he found my name.
He leans out of his post. “Can I see your I.D. please?”
I hand over my driver’s license and he examines it closely. After determining I am in fact the person I say I am and not a crazy stalker, he returns my license.
“Mr. Waters’ house is straight ahead. It’s at the end of the street. You can’t miss it.”
I read the tag on his jacket and say, “Thank you, Carl.”
Carl smiles back at me. “You’re welcome, Ms. Michaels.”
I drive through the metal gates as they open for me. I’m in awe as I drive past the homes in Drew’s neighborhood. They are massive! I could fit my entire apartment in the garage of these homes. Fancy and exotic cars are parked in the driveways and I spot pools and tennis courts in the backyards.
“Good grief,” I mutter as I pass a home with a five-car garage.
As opulent as these homes are, Drew’s house puts them to shame. His home is three stories tall and made of grey stone and brick. Lights from the ground level shine upward and illuminate the exterior of the house. I believe the style of the home is a Tudor, but more modern than the ones I’ve seen before. Well-manicured shrubs and rose bushes line the front of the house. Two large planters sit on either side of the stone steps leading to the front door. It’s an impressive home to say the least.
I pull my car into the circular driveway, unsure of where to park. I stop my car and cutoff the engine behind a black Mercedes SUV. I look at the clock: 9:30 p.m. I’m early, but it’s better than being late.
I take a deep breath. “Let’s go girl,” I say to myself as I grab my purse and overnight bag.
My legs are like Jell-O as I walk up the steps to the front door. I glance over my shoulder at my white Civic. I consider jumping back in it and getting the heck out of here. The thought of being debt free compels my finger to push the doorbell. I hear a loud “bing-bong” from inside the house.
Expecting Drew, I’m surprised when an older gentleman opens the door.
“You must be Julie!” he says with a grin.
“Yes, I’m Julie,” I say sheepishly.
“Come on in!”
The man takes my overnight bag from me and starts walking away. I step over the threshold and close the front door behind me.
My greeter stops at the foot of an ornate, wooden staircase and places my bag on the third step up.
“I’m Arthur. Everybody calls me Art.”
Art has a big smile and his white hair is combed perfectly. Brown, wire-framed glasses sit over his bright blue eyes. He is wearing a red flannel shirt tucked into blue jeans and is donning brown loafers.
“Nice to meet you Art. Are you Drew’s butler?”
Art chuckles. “Drew thinks I am, but I’m his father.”
I blush with embarrassment. “Sorry.”
“It’s quite alright. You want something to drink?”
I’m not sure what to say. I’m not thirsty, but I don’t want to be rude. “Sure.”
“Follow me.” Art takes off again. I quicken my pace to keep up with his long stride.
Afraid Art will think I’m nosey, I try to be discreet as I steal brief glances around Drew’s home. The rooms we pass as we walk down the hallway are dark, but I catch a glimpse of what I think is an office, a formal sitting room and a bathroom.
For as opulent as the outside of the house is, the inside is pretty basic. Don’t get me wrong, the wood floors are beautiful and everything is nice. Usually though, a home like this has expensive art work and lavish décor. Drew’s home isn’t like that. It seems comfortable and inviting, not at all stuffy or pretentious.
“Have a seat,” Art offers as we enter the kitchen.
“Wow,” I say, marveling at Drew’s kitchen.
Unlike the rest of his house, Drew’s kitchen looks like something out of a magazine. White cabinets with grey marble countertops; stainless steel appliances; a professional grade stove; and large bay windows in the eating area. Six dining room chairs covered in ornate black fabric surround a large wooden table with a finish so dark it’s almost black itself. There are three bar stools sitting in front of a large marble island. It’s easy to see Drew spared no expense in here.
After an internal debate, I take a seat at the island on one of the black leather bar stools.
“My son has an obsession with food,” Art tells me as he opens the refrigerator door.
“I bet he eats a lot.”
“Yes, he does. But it’s all healthy stuff you and I would turn our noses up at.” Art scans the refrigerator. “We’ve got soda, apple juice, orange juice and water. Any of those sound good to you?”
“I’ll have a water please.”
Art grabs two bottles of water and hands one to me. He leans on the opposite side of the island. “Drew should be home soon. He’s out with one of his buddies.”
I take a sip of water. “Okay.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence between us, for me anyway. I come up with a few questions I could ask, but I don’t want to overstep any boundaries.
“Do you like to fish?” Art asks finally.
I smile at his random question. “I don’t know, I’ve never been.”
Art feigns horror. “You’ve never been fishing?”
“No. Never.”
Art puts his bottle of water down. “Well, that’s not acceptable. Drew has a pond on the back two acres of the property. We’ll take you.”
I’m not sure what to say to this. Does Art know why I’m here? Or does he think I’m a personal assistant?
I go with, “Sounds like fun.”
We grow silent again. I pick at the label on my water bottle as I struggle to come up with something to say.
“This is awkward, isn’t it?” Art asks.
I giggle. “Yes, it is.”
“Are you nervous? About tonight?”
Ah, so Art does know my job description.
“A little,” I admit. “I have no idea how to make someone fall asleep.”
“My trick is talking about my day. Knocked my wife out every time.”
“I’ll give it a shot,” I say with a smile.
Art starts to speak, but stops himself. After a moment of contemplation, he tries again. “My son is a tightly wound person. He needs a calming force in his life, something to make him stop and take a deep breath every once in a while.”
Before I can respond, I hear the front door open. I tense up as two male voices fill the hallway.
“It appears my son is home,” Art says.
We both turn to the kitchen doorway. Drew and his friend walk in a moment later. They stop talking when they see me sitting at the island. The two men exchange a glance before Drew’s companion steps forward to introduce himself.
He is much shorter than Drew. The sleeves of his white button-down shirt are rolled up, no doubt to show off the fancy watch on his wrist. His jet black hair is slicked back with gel and the grin on his face is unsettling.