In the Manor with the Millionaire

“After I get my son to bed, I’ll deal with you.”

He turned away. Though Madeline wasn’t a betting woman, she guessed that her odds of being hired were about a thousand to one. A shiver trembled through her.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” Alma said, “before you catch your death of cold.”

“I don’t have anything to change into. My car is parked way down the road.”

“Come with me, hon. I’ll take care of you.”

Though Alma had stayed in touch, Madeline didn’t remember her as a particularly nurturing woman. Her phone call about this job had been a huge surprise, and Madeline couldn’t help wondering about Alma’s motives. What could she hope to gain from having Madeline working here?

She trailed the small woman up the grand staircase and looked back down at the graceful oval of the foyer. She couldn’t see into any of the other rooms. Doors were closed, and plastic sheeting hung across the arched entry to what must have been a drawing room. Signs of disrepair marred the grandeur of the manor, but the design showed a certain civility and elegance, like a dowager duchess who had fallen on hard times.

Alma hustled her past Duncan’s bedroom to the far end of the long, wainscoted hallway with wallpaper peeling in the corners. She opened the door farthest from the staircase and hustled Madeline inside.

The center light reflected off the crystals of a delicate little chandelier. With dark wood furnishings, somewhat worn, and a four-poster bed with a faded gray silk duvet, this bedroom was the essence of “shabby chic.”

“Guest room,” Alma said as she rummaged through the drawers of a bureau. “This is where you’ll be staying after you’re hired.”

“Hired?” She scoffed. “I doubt it. Blake Monroe can’t stand me.”

“In any case, you’re staying here tonight. It’s not safe for you to be out.” She tossed a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt toward her. “These ought to fit. They were left behind by one of Blake’s friends who spent the night.”

Madeline picked up the ratty gray sweatpants. “I really appreciate this, Alma.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She lowered her voice. “This little town, Raven’s Cliff, comes with a curse.”

“Superstitions,” Madeline said.

“Don’t be so sure. There’s a serial killer on the loose. A couple of weeks ago, he murdered two girls on the eve of their senior prom. One of them was the sister of a local cop. Sofia Lagios.”

Sofia. Duncan had looked at Madeline and spoken that name. “What did she look like?”

“I’ve only seen photographs. But she was a bit like you. Long, curly black hair.”

Duncan must have heard people talking about the serial killer. But why would a six-year-old remember the name of a murder victim?

“Get changed,” Alma said. “I’ll tell Blake that you’re too pooped to talk tonight. In the morning, you can have a nice, professional interview.”

“Great.” She dropped her car keys on top of the bureau. “Nothing sounds better right now than a good night’s sleep.”

BLAKE LINGERED in the doorway of his son’s bedroom, gazing with all the love he possessed at Duncan’s angelic little face. So beautiful. So like his mother. Often, when Blake looked into his son’s bright blue eyes, he saw Kathleen staring back at him. On those rare occasions when Duncan laughed, he heard echoes of her own joy, and he remembered the good times. Only three years ago, cancer had taken her away from him forever.

“Time for sleep, Duncan.”

As usual, no response.

To get an answer, Blake used the rhyming repetition that his son enjoyed. “Nighty-night. Sleep tight…”

“And don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Duncan said.

Sometimes, the kid scared the hell out of him. Tonight, when he’d disappeared, Blake had feared disaster. A fall from the precipitous cliffs near the lighthouse. An attack by wild dogs or animals. Worse, a confrontation with a serial killer. Why had Duncan spoken the name of one of the victims? The boy must have known that Sofia Lagios was dead because he said she was with the angels. But how? How had he known?

Life would be a lot easier if Blake could ask a simple question and get a simple answer, but his son’s brain didn’t work that way.

Duncan stared up at the fluorescent stars Blake had attached to the ceiling in a precise geometric pattern. “I have a friend,” he said. “She sells seashells.”

“That’s great, buddy.” It had to be an imaginary friend. He hadn’t been around any other children. “What’s her name?”

“Temperance Raven. She wears a red cape.” His tiny fingers laced together, then pulled apart. He repeated the action three times. “I like French fries.”

“Where did you meet Temperance?”

“By the lighthouse. She wanted me to play with her.”

Blake didn’t like the sound of this. The lighthouse was under construction, dangerous. “Was Temperance outside? In the rain?”

Duncan turned to his side. “Seashells, seashells, seashells…”

“Goodnight, son.”

Blake left the door to his son’s bedroom ajar. Duncan wanted it that way.

Blake wanted to find out what had happened tonight, and there was one person who could tell him. He’d seen Alma escorting that very wet young woman down the hall toward the guest room. What was her name? Madeline? She might be able to give him information about Duncan’s supposed new friend. Blake tapped on her door.

“Alma?” she called out. “Come on in.”

Blake strode inside. “We need to talk.”

Wearing baggy sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt, she stood in front of the mirror above the antique dressing table. Her long black hair fell past her shoulders in a mass of damp tangles. As soon as she spotted him, she grabbed her black-framed glasses and stuck them on the end of her straight, patrician nose. “Mr. Monroe. I thought we might have our interview tomorrow.”

He’d almost forgotten that she was here to apply for a job as his son’s tutor. “I need to know what happened tonight. Duncan mentioned someone named Temperance.”

“I didn’t see anyone else,” she said. “There aren’t any other houses nearby, are there?”

“We’re isolated.”

“That could be a problem.” She pushed the heavy mane away from her face. Her complexion was fresh, with rosy tints on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Behind those glasses, black lashes outlined her eyes. An unusual color. Aquamarine.

“Problem?” he asked.

“Not having neighbors.” She gave him a prim smile. “Surely, you’ll want Duncan to have playmates.”

“He doesn’t do well with other children.”

“I know,” she said. “He told me.”

Like hell he did. His son’s conversations were limited to discussions of simple activities, like brushing his teeth. Or repetitions. Or numbers.

She continued, “He was worried that you’d be angry because he was…how did he say it? Inappropriate.”

That sounded like Duncan. “His teachers said his behavior was inappropriate. The word stuck in his mind.”

“Everybody’s like that. We all tend to remember the words that hurt. To let criticism soak in.”

His son wasn’t like everybody else. Far from it. But he appreciated the way she phrased her comments, and Duncan seemed to like her. Maybe Madeline Douglas would be a suitable tutor, after all.

He crossed the room and took a seat in a carved wooden rocking chair, one of several handmade pieces in the manor. “Show me your résumé and recommendations.”

When she gestured toward the window, the graceful motion of her wrist contrasted the baggy black T-shirt. “All my papers are in my car, which is still down the road.”

“Where you ran into Teddy Fisher.”

“I didn’t want to mention this in front of Duncan,” she said, “but Dr. Fisher had a handgun.”

Not good news. He hated to hear that the local loons were armed. Fisher had tons of money and a decent reputation as a scientist with his own laboratories in Raven’s Cliff. He came from a good family; his father had been a Nobel Prize winner. But Teddy’s behavior went beyond eccentric into borderline insanity.

The main reason Blake had taken this job—a step down from his typically high-profile architectural assignments— was because he wanted to get Duncan out of the city into a small-town environment where the pace was slow and distractions were minimal.

“Teddy Fisher owns the Manor,” he said. “But he’s not supposed to visit without notifying me. I’ll remind him.”

She gave a brisk nod. “If you like, I can tell you about my qualifications.”

“Do it.”

She started by rattling off her educational achievements, special recognitions and a bachelor’s degree from an undistinguished college which had taken six years because she’d been holding down a job while going to school. For two years, she’d taught second grade at a parochial school. “Then I started substitute teaching in some of Boston’s inner-city schools.”

He held up his hand, signaling a stop. “Why did you leave a full-time position to be a sub?”

“Alma might have mentioned that I grew up in the foster-care system.”

Vaguely, he recalled some comment. “She might have.”

“I was a throwaway kid. No one expected me to amount to much. But I had a teacher in third grade…a wonderful teacher. She wouldn’t let me shirk on my assignments, made me work hard and kept after me to do better. She noticed me.”

Behind her glasses, her eyes teared up. “She changed my life. By working in inner-city schools, I felt like I might make that kind of difference.”

He liked her earnest compassion. She sure as hell had the empathy needed to work with his son. But did she have the training? Blake wasn’t accustomed to settling for second best. “How much do you know about autism?”

She picked up a straight-back wooden chair and moved it close to his rocker. When she sat, she leaned forward. “What can you tell me about Duncan’s behavior?”

“On the behavioral range of autism, he’s considered to be high-functioning.” Blake had taken his son to a cadre of doctors and therapists. “Initially, we tried drug therapy, but Duncan didn’t respond well. The specialists call his condition a form of hypersensitivity.”

“Which is why he doesn’t like to be touched.”

“When he touches someone, he says that he knows what they’re thinking.”

“Like a psychic.”

“Don’t go there,” he warned. It was difficult enough to manage Duncan’s illness without the extra burden of some harebrained, paranormal philosophy.

“I’m trying to understand,” she said. “When I found Duncan in the woods, we had a coherent communication. More important, he reacted to me. He looked me in the eye, and he smiled. That behavior isn’t consistent with what I know about autism.”

Her presumption ticked him off. For the past three years, since his wife had died, he’d struggled with his son’s condition. They’d gone through brain scans, blood tests, physical and psychological diagnostics…. He rose from the rocking chair. “Are you an expert?”

“No, but I can see the obvious.” Instead of cowering, she stood to confront him. “Duncan is smart. And he cares about what you think. He wants you to love him.”

Her words were a slap in the face. Tight-lipped, he said, “This interview is over.”

WITH THE ECHO of the door slamming behind Blake still ringing in her ears, Madeline collapsed onto the bed. Disaster! She’d infuriated Blake and blown her chance at this job. Truly a shame because she thought she might work well with Duncan, and she found herself drawn to his father. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t be? Blake was gorgeous and intense. Unfortunately, he despised her.

She shifted around on the bed. Before she went to sleep, she needed to use the facilities.

Since there was no adjoining bathroom with this bedroom, she had to go into the hallway. Poking her head out the door, she checked to make sure Blake was nowhere in sight. One doorway stood ajar and light spilled into the corridor. Duncan’s room. She tiptoed past.

“Madeline?”

Peeking into his room, she said, “You remembered my name. Hi, Duncan.”

“Will I see my friend again?”

She had no right to be here, no justifiable reason to talk with Blake’s son. But she couldn’t turn away from this troubled child. Slipping into his room, she pulled a rocking chair near his bed. “Is her name Temperance?”

“Temperance Raven.”

“Like the town,” Madeline said. “Raven’s Cliff.”

“Temperance lied to me about the town being named after her daddy in 1794. But I don’t care. Lots of people lie. Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

“Hang them up on a telephone wire,” she responded. “You like rhymes.”

“Temperance gave me a present.” He rolled over on his bed and picked up a smooth, white shell.

Madeline grinned. “She sells seashells.”

“By the seashore,” Duncan concluded.

Though their conversation scattered in several directions, they were communicating. Instead of telling him that she liked his room, she pointed up at the ceiling and recited, “Starlight, star bright. First star I see tonight.”

He watched her with an intensity that reminded her of his father. “Finish the rhyme.”

“Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”

He parroted the rhyme back to her perfectly. Not once, but three times. Then he laughed.

Hearing a sound near the door, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Blake standing in the hallway. He stepped away too quickly for her to decide if he was angry about her talking to Duncan. And, frankly, she didn’t care. This wasn’t about him.

“Duncan,” she said, “I know a very long rhyme. A poem about baseball.”

He nodded for her to continue.

“You’d like baseball. It’s all about numbers.” She drew a diamond in the air as she talked about the bases and the pitcher and the batter. “Four balls and three strikes.”

“Three strikes and you’re out,” he said.

“You’re right,” she said. “This poem is called ‘Casey at the Bat.’”

He lay back on his pillow to listen while she recited the poem she’d memorized in fifth grade. The rhyming cadence lulled him, and Duncan’s eyelids began to droop.

When she had finished, he roused himself. “Again.”

She started over. By the time she finished, he was sound asleep.

Leaving his door ajar, exactly the way she’d found it, she went down the hallway to the bathroom. Like every other part of the house she’d seen, the room was sorely in need of fresh paint. But it seemed clean and had an old- fashioned claw-footed tub. Fantastic! One of her favorite pastimes was a long, hot soak. And why not? It wasn’t as if she could make Blake Monroe dislike her even more. Besides, she didn’t know when or if she’d ever have the chance to luxuriate in a tub again.

As she filled the tub, fears about her uncertain future arose. No money. No job. No home. She had only enough gas to get back to Raven’s Cliff. That would have to be where she started her new life, maybe working as a waitress or a short-order cook. She had experience at both from when she was putting herself through college.

Stripping off the sweatpants and T-shirt, she eased into the hot, steamy water.

Damn it, Marty. This is all your fault. Her brother had popped back into her life just long enough to wreck everything. When he’d showed up, she should have thrown him out on his handsome butt. Should have, but didn’t. Water under the bridge.

After a nice, long soak, she climbed out of the tub, somewhat refreshed, and padded down the hallway to her “shabby chic” room.

The door was open, just the way she’d left it. But something was different. At the foot of her bed was the canvas suitcase that had been in the back of her car. Had Alma trudged all the way down the road to get it? She opened the flap and took out a nightgown.

“Madeline Douglas.”

She turned and saw Blake standing in the doorway. He tossed the keys to her car to the center of the bed. “You shouldn’t leave these lying around.”

“I didn’t.” The keys had been on top of the bureau in her room. Inside her room! Even if the door was open, he shouldn’t have barged in uninvited.

“You’re hired,” he said without smiling. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

The door closed behind him.

Chapter Three

The next morning, the skies outside Madeline’s bedroom window were clear, washed clean by the rain. And she tried to focus on the sunny side. She had a job and a place to live. Working with Duncan provided an interesting challenge. For now, she was safe.

The dark cloud on her emotional horizon was Blake Monroe. A volatile man. She didn’t know why he had changed his mind about hiring her and decided it was best not to ask too many questions. He didn’t seem like the type of man who bothered to explain himself.

Entering the high-ceilinged kitchen, she smiled at Alma, who sat at the table, drinking coffee and keeping company with a morning television chat program on a small flat- screen.

“I’m hired,” Madeline announced. “I can’t thank you enough for telling me about this job.”

“Congrats.” Using the remote, Alma turned down the volume. “How about lending me a hand with breakfast?”

“Sure.”

She turned and confronted a mountain of dirty dishes, glasses, pots and crusted skillets that spread across the countertop like a culinary apocalypse. It appeared that Alma hadn’t wiped a single plate since they’d moved into this house.

How could anyone stand such a mess! Madeline rolled up the sleeves of her daisy-patterned cotton shirt, grabbed an apron that was wadded in the corner of the counter and dug in.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Alma said. “Even as a kid, you were good about cleaning up.”

Maybe even a teensy bit compulsive. “Is that why you thought of me for this job?”

“I don’t mind having a helper.” Alma shuffled toward the butcher-block island and leaned against it. Though she was completely dressed with hair and makeup done, she wore fuzzy pink slippers. “Did you sleep well?”

“Took me a while to get accustomed to the creaks and groans in this old house.” Once during the night, she’d startled awake, certain that someone had been in the room with her. She’d even imagined that she saw the door closing, which made her wonder. “Does Duncan ever sleepwalk?”

“Not as far as I know, but I wouldn’t be surprised by anything that kid does. Or his father, for that matter.”

“Is Blake difficult to work for?”

“A real pain in the rear.”

Yet, he put up with the mess in the kitchen. “How so?”

“In the past year, he went through two other housekeepers and four nannies.”

“Why?”

“His lordship is one of those dark, brooding, artistic types. Real moody. Gets caught up in a project and nothing else matters. He forgets to eat, then blames you for not feeding him.” She patted her sculpted blond curls. “It’s not part of my job description to keep track of his phone calls, and most of the business contacts go through his office in New York. But if I forget a phone call, he blows a gasket.”

“He yells at you?” Madeline was beginning to feel more and more trepidation about this job.

“Never raises his voice,” Alma said. “He growls. Real low. Like an angry lion.”

With Blake’s overgrown dark blond mane and intense hazel eyes, a lion was an apt comparison. As Madeline rinsed glasses and loaded them into the dishwasher, she said, “I looked Blake up on the Internet. He does amazing restorations. There were interior photos of this gorgeous hotel in Paris.”

“Paris.” Alma sighed. “That’s what I expected when I signed on as a housekeeper four months ago. Trips to Europe. Fancy places. Fancy people. La-di-dah.”

“Sounds like a lovely adventure.”

“So far, I’ve been at the brownstone in Manhattan and here—Maine. I mean, Maine? The whole state is about as glamorous as a lumberjack’s plaid shirt.” She paused to sip her coffee. “Let’s hear about you, hon. How’s your big brother, Marty?”

At the mention of her brother’s name, Madeline almost dropped the plate she was scrubbing in the sink. “We’ve kind of lost touch.”

“Good-looking kid. A bit devilish, though. Didn’t he get into some kind of trouble with the law?”

She heard Duncan counting his steps as he came down the hall to the kitchen and assumed his father wasn’t far behind. “I’d rather not talk about Marty.”

“It’s okay.” Alma patted her arm. “I won’t say a word.”

Duncan preceded his father into the kitchen. His clothing was the same as last night: a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt and jeans. At the table, he climbed into his chair and sat, staring straight ahead.

Alma went into action. She measured oat-bran cereal into a clear glass bowl, then measured the milk. She placed them in front of Duncan, then fetched a pre-chilled glass of OJ from the fridge.

Neither she nor Blake said a word.

Madeline assumed this was some sort of ritual and didn’t interfere until Duncan had taken his first bite of cereal. Then she took a seat opposite him and watched as he chewed carefully before swallowing. She smiled. “Good morning, Duncan.”

He said nothing, didn’t acknowledge her presence in any way.

Blake cleared his throat. When she looked at him, he shook his head, warning her not to rock the boat. She rose from her seat and went toward him. Seeing him in the morning light, she noticed the lightly etched crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the unshaven stubble on his chin. He dragged his fingers through his unruly dark blond hair. His careless grooming and apparent disarray reminded her of an unmade bed that had been torn apart in a night of wild, sexual abandon.

She intended to discuss her plans for Duncan’s lessons. After his interest in the “Casey at the Bat” poem, she’d decided to use baseball as a learning tool. There were other things she needed to ask Blake about, such as her salary, rules of the household and teaching supplies. But being near him left her tongue-tied.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and said, “Do you have a baseball?”

“I can find one.”

Her cheeks were warm with embarrassment. Seldom was she so inarticulate. “Other supplies? Pencils and paper?”

“Everything you’ll need is in a room at the end of this hallway. It was once a conservatory so there’s a whole wall of windows. Until the renovations are done, we’re using it as a family room. Alma can show you.”

She stammered. “I-is there, um, some kind of schedule?”

He lifted an eyebrow; his expression changed from arrogant to vaguely amused. He stretched out his arm and pointed to the wall beside her. “How’s this?”

Right in front of her nose was a three-foot-by-two-foot poster board with a heading in letters five inches high: Duncan’s Schedule. The entire day was plotted in detail.

“I’ve found,” he said, “that Duncan does best when we stick to a consistent routine.”

She pointed to the slot after breakfast. “Quiet Time in Family Room. What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it says. Duncan likes to spend time by himself, and all his toys are in the family room. Usually he plays computer games.”

The next slot said Lessons. “How do I know where to start?”

“Duncan’s last tutor left a log that detailed her teaching plans and Duncan’s progress. She wasn’t a live-in, and I can’t say that I was happy with her results.” He glanced toward the housekeeper. “Is that coffee hot?”

“Piping.”

He went to the coffeemaker and filled a mug. “Well, Alma, it’s nice to see that you’re finally cleaning up in here.”

“I aim to please,” she said. “Breakfast in your studio?”

“Eggs over easy, wheat toast and bacon.”

With a nod to Madeline, he left the kitchen.

Though his back was turned, she made a “bye-bye” motion with her hand. Oh, good grief. Could she possibly be more of a dork?

Alma chuckled. “Got a little crush on his lordship?”

“Of course not.”

“He’s a handsome thing. And he’s even taller than you are. Probably six foot two or three.”