He looks at me and then he looks around, taking in the opulent room. “You know, Selah would have hated it. She wanted a big old mansion on Grandma’s street. Somewhere she could hobnob with the rich and judgmental. Sure, this place is shiny and cost a lot. But without the right zip code and neighbors to impress, what’s even the point?”
“So we won’t invite Selah to move in with us. That’s decided,” I say. “But what about you?”
“Do you really like it? Really truly?”
“It’s like its own little world,” I say. “A modern-day castle in the middle of the city.”
“Does that make me Prince Charming?”
“Yes. And I am the poor common girl with bitchin’ taste in T-shirts who has caught your eye.”
“You’ve caught more than that and you can be the queen of my castle any day.” His smile is slow and glorious. And he’s so close, it’s hard not be a little dazzled. “Alice, you’re not freaking out anymore.”
“I am not freaking out anymore.”
“Good.” His gaze is the very definition of serious. “I want this to be our home.”
Not sure Beck’s ever even had a real home before. Or at least not for a long time. As he said, living in a hotel isn’t quite the same. And it’s not as if his father (may he rest in peace) or his mother seem to have made much room in their lives for him. Catherine, his grandmother, is somewhat terrifying and ditto with her mausoleum of a mansion.
I smile. “Okay then.”
Mrs. Francis is our new housekeeper. She is short, cheerful, and around fifty. Due to the place needing to be kept show worthy at all times for sale, the previous owners had kept her on and recommended we do the same. A cleaning crew also comes through three times a week. Beck can happily continue not picking up after himself. (That is a lie. I will do it because it drives me crazy otherwise.) Mrs. Francis has the staff we borrowed from the Heritage to move our personal belongings under complete control. The woman is an organizing aficionado. She’s also sorted new sheets and towels and so on for us and made a pot roast for dinner. There’s even a couple of thick pillar candles on the dining table for atmosphere. Once dinner is served, she retreats into the staff quarters in the front half of the ground level, where I presume Smith is also, and Beck and I are alone.
“Grandma has a staff of eighteen including gardeners,” comments Beck, apropos of nothing.
“And?”
“It’s okay for us to have two, beloved. You’ll get used to it eventually.”
“I don’t want to.” I lift my glass of white wine. “May this lifestyle always happily weird me out.”
“But is it happily weirding you out?”
I think it over. “Yes, it is. I might still get nervous or anxious sometimes, but that’s just me.”
“Okay then.” He taps his crystal glass gently against mine. “Here’s to our first night in our new house.”
I take a sip. “Oh, I meant to ask you, why are charities thanking me for funding their programs and inviting me to events?”
“Actually, that reminds me,” he says, pushing a lock of hair back from his forehead. “Would you do me a favor?”
“What kind of favor?”
“I was hoping you’d just say yes,” he admits with a frown.
“I’m sure you were.”
“With the inheritance and everything, I’m in need of someone to head up the philanthropy side of things. Penny’s been helping me set up a charity foundation and she suggested that you’d be an excellent choice for director.”
“Director?”
“You’d be the public face and have the final word on what happens,” he continues, cutting into potato and green beans. “There’s money put aside, but someone needs to meet with the charities, decide where and how we can help. What do you think? Probably only take a couple of days a week. You could fit it in around what you’re doing for The Crooked Company.”
“Shouldn’t you hire an expert?”
“I trust your judgment and I’d prefer to keep it in the family, so to speak. People appreciate a personal touch when it comes to these sorts of things,” he says. “Besides, you’re good with people; they like you. Imagine how much more they’re going to like you when you’re giving them money.”
“But I sucked at that luncheon. Your grandmother still isn’t talking to us.”
He swallows his food. “Only if by sucked you mean completely rocked it. And Granny will give in and forgive us eventually. I think it quietly pleases her when people don’t do what she wants. Gives her something to bitch about at tea parties.”
“Doesn’t that woman own like half of Elliot Corp.?”
“Not quite that much,” he says. “And it doesn’t mean she doesn’t love a good tea party.”
“You want me to do this?”
“Yes. But, of course, it’s your call.”
I think it over. “That’s why Penny gave you a weird look at The Downstairs Bar when I mentioned my dislike of charity luncheons.”
He shrugs. It’s pure avoidance. What a sneak. “Question is, do you really hate the events, or did that one in particular just freak you out due to Granny’s evil machinations?”
“Good question. I’ll ponder it.” I cut up some meat. “You’d think all of the years in customer service would make me more people friendly as opposed to less.”
“Not sure if it really works that way. Plus, people.”
“True.”
A low resonant tone echoes from the front of the house. Next comes the soft sound of footsteps followed by conversation. One half of the conversation, however, isn’t soft or discreet. It’s loud and strident.
“Where are you two?” yells a familiar female voice.
“Having a romantic dinner on the first night in our new house,” yells Beck. “Fuck off.”
Emma marches in with Matías close behind and Mrs. Francis trailing in their wake.
“I tried to explain to her that this might not be the best time,” says Matías.
Our housekeeper just stands there looking mildly flustered.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Francis.” I say to the flustered lady with a smile. “Thank you.”
“No matter what this woman says”—Beck points at his sister with a stern face—“never give her a key or the security code, Mrs. Francis. Promise me on your life.”
Emma scoffs. “Like I can’t strong-arm Smith into giving them to me.”
“He’s twice your size,” mocks Beck.
“Doesn’t mean he’s not afraid of me.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Elliot.” The housekeeper disappears once more. Having staff is odd. I bet she’s great at getting rid of door to door salespeople, but feisty Elliots are a different kettle of fish. Whether she’ll want to put up with us long-term is the next question.
“This is nice.” Emma turns in a circle, inspecting the place. “Never been a big fan of modern art, but the black on white brush style in that piece is interesting. Love the high ceiling. And you can’t hear cars or the city sounds at all; the soundproofing is excellent.”