We ate, we laughed, we gossiped about a few of our higher-maintenance clients. I considered asking about Carson, but I knew this would be crossing a line. He’d been there for years while I was the new girl. I was relieved that no one here seemed to begrudge me the position of creative director. Now that I knew Miguel had been hoping to give it to Carson, I wondered if any of the staff had felt the same way but no one seemed to be upset. Then again, free food and booze could buy some loyalty. Right?
We were on our third drink when Shanna stood and announced, “It’s hot tub time. Who’s in?”
I felt my pulse throb. I’d been checking on the big house occasionally and had yet to see any signs of life. Was it possible that I’d picked the one night to have a shindig when Mr. Daire wasn’t home? Well, hell.
We all took turns changing into our swimsuits, except for Trent, who declared he was not hot tub material but would act as lifeguard instead. Darkness had fallen as we left my house and crossed the yard to the raised tub. It was glowing purple and emitting steam. I barely had enough towels for everyone but again, no one seemed to care.
Christian had grabbed the wireless speaker so the tunes cranked while we all sank into the glorious heat. A sing-along broke out with Lizzo’s “Good as Hell,” and I was enjoying myself so much, I forgot about the purpose of the evening, to draw my landlord out of his lair.
All too soon, at half past ten, Trent announced that he had to get home to the wife or risk sleeping on the couch for the weekend. The others agreed that they had to go, too. Everyone had plans for the weekend and it was time to head out.
We left the hot tub, grabbing our plastic cups as we went. I pulled on my robe, letting everyone else change first. I stood on my front patio shivering as I waved good-bye. When their cars disappeared from sight, I turned and went back into my house. It felt empty and quiet in the aftermath of the party.
I glanced at the open French doors and saw Sir. He was sitting right in the middle of the doorway, licking his chest like he always did before he entered. The boy had manners, and he didn’t seem put off by the fact that I’d had a party; at least, there was no reproving look on his face.
“I suppose you’re hungry?” I asked.
He stopped licking, blinked at me, and strolled inside.
I’d bought canned cat food at the store earlier. While it wasn’t a huge monetary investment, it was acknowledgment that I’d become attached. I wasn’t sure how I was going to convince Mr. Daire to let him keep visiting, but the truth was, I might actually move if Daire said I had to give Sir the boot.
I opened the can and dumped the contents into a bowl. It smelled fishy. I put it on the floor and then filled a bowl full of water and put that down, too. Sir did not hesitate but began to eat with gusto.
While he satisfied his hunger, I cleaned the house to a peppy Katy Perry song. There wasn’t much to clean since the food and booze had been decimated. I filled the garbage, loaded the dishwasher, and saved the rest of the chores for tomorrow.
On my way to bed, I glanced up at the big house. There was no sign of life. I tried not to be disappointed that my preemptive strike had failed.
* * *
I spent the next morning wiping down my counters and floors. I was so into my chores that when there was a knock on the front door, I jumped. Could it be Mr. Daire? I glanced down. I was still in my pajamas, and I had twisted my hair up into a ball on the top of my head. This was not the look I wanted when I met my curmudgeon of a landlord.
I pulled my hair band out and fluffed my sleep-flattened hair. Realizing I had no time to change, I tightened the belt on my robe. I hurried to the door and yanked it open. I wasn’t sure what I had expected. An old man with a walker? The hot guy? Jackson? It was neither of those. Instead, it was the Guzmans.
“Sorry to bother you,” Mr. Guzman said. He looked pained as if being here made him extremely uncomfortable.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I was just cleaning.”
Mrs. Guzman beamed in approval. “Excellent. I told you she was responsible.”
Mr. Guzman rolled his eyes. I got the feeling I had been the topic of a disagreement for them, and I felt bad about that. I glanced at their hands. They weren’t holding a letter.
“No note?” I asked, just to confirm.
“No.” Mrs. Guzman shook her head. “You’re wanted at the house.”
“Oh,” I said. She and I exchanged a look of understanding.
“Also, I brought you some muffins.” She held out a small basket.
“Thank you,” I said. “Very thoughtful of you. Won’t you come in?”
Mrs. Guzman stepped forward but her husband shook his head.
“You’re wanted at the house immediately,” he said.
I grinned. “Of course, but I have to change.”
They followed me inside. Mrs. Guzman suggested a nice dress while Mr. Guzman raised his hands in the air as if perplexed by us both. I had been summoned. Clearly, to him, an outfit was not as important as answering the summons in a timely fashion.
I was very quick, leaving Sir, who was still on the bed, to the comforts of the house while I was gone. The walk to the main house was brisk with Mr. Guzman, striding forward as if we were late for an appointment, which I suppose we were, given that I should have met my landlord when I moved in. In my opinion, we were weeks late for this meeting but that was me.
We cut across the backyard, walked around the pool and the hot tub, which still had puddles of water surrounding it from my guests. Following the walkway through the line of citrus trees to the wide veranda, we climbed the steps and entered the house through the back door.
I was overcome with curiosity. I desperately wanted to see how Mr. Daire lived. Was his house all dipped in gold on the inside with ostentatious displays of great wealth? I wasn’t so naïve that I didn’t know that his house, located in the premier Biltmore area, was worth several million dollars, and by several, I do mean double-digit millions.
There are no words to express my disappointment when I entered what appeared to be a great room and found nothing but a utilitarian gray leather couch with matching armchairs, a bland coffee table, and an enormous television. That was it.
There was no art on the walls. No art of any kind, in fact. I’d have been thrilled to see a statue, a sculpture, a drawing done in crayon by a precocious child. Truly, anything. Instead, it was as barren as a tomb that had been looted.
Mr. Guzman led me through several more rooms. All were equally plain. Black, gray, and white were the only colors, and there was nothing that signified that anyone actually lived here. No clutter, no abandoned shoes, nothing. We went down a long narrow hallway. I could hear metal clanging, and I had the sudden irrational fear that Mr. Daire was waiting for me holding a broadsword with which he planned to lop off my head. Perhaps I’d had one too many whiskey sours last night.