Chapter Two
When you come to a fork
in the road, take it.
— Yogi Berra
Not quite eight thirty. Damn.
Keely tried to take her time as she drove along the narrow macadam road leading uphill in an area of Whitehall formerly known as Egypt. Actually, it was still known as Egypt to the natives, just as other parts of the township were referred to as Stiles, Cementon, West Catasauqua, Mickleys, and Fullerton. That was a lot of names for one township, and the changeover, mostly done to suit the U.S. Post Office, had ended with six “Main Streets,” all in different areas of Whitehall.
Keely was driving along Egypt’s version of Main Street now, or she had been, until the signposts inexplicably changed to Main Boulevard, then to Old Main Road, and then to no signs at all. A person could get very lost trying to find Sadie Trehan’s almost-a-mansion.
That was why Keely had made a dry run the day before, and it was why she was early now, because she had actually remembered the route. She was partly proud of herself, partly wondering if it was worse to be thirty minutes early or thirty minutes late.
She had two choices: Stop at the doughnut shop at the next corner and show up with either powdered sugar or strawberry jelly on her blouse, or turn right at that same corner and head up the hill to Sadie Trehan’s house, arriving before the appointed hour of nine A.M.
The doughnut lost and Keely turned right, carefully navigating in Aunt Mary’s classy black Mercedes with the teardrop headlights. Since all that Keely had ever navigated was her now departed Mustang and, lately, the New York subway system, she had to keep fighting down the feeling that she was piloting a very large boat.
“But a boat that makes one hell of an impression on the customers,” Keely reminded herself aloud as she took a left into the sweep of driveway that wended uphill, through about an acre of trees, then circled in front of Sadie Trehan’s house. “Of course, not as much of an impression as one’s own interior decorator talking to herself. So shut up, Keely, and watch the road.”
The car definitely did look good, sitting in the driveway of the huge tan brick house after she’d wriggled the key out of the ignition. Keely got out, stood glancing at the house, trying to decide if it had been meant to be modern while trying to look old, or meant to look old while trying to appear modern.
The windows were huge, including one enormous oriel window in front of what had to be a two-story foyer, a crystal teardrop chandelier roughly the size of the Mercedes visible through the glass. There were at least five separate roof lines, jutting here, jutting there, indicating cathedral ceilings, probably a lot of skylights. The front door was dark brown; the gutters were real copper.
According to Sadie Trehan, the house consisted of approximately twelve thousand square feet on two main living levels, and the fifteen rooms were all completely empty, ready to be decorated.
Megabucks here. Megabucks. And 50 percent of 10 percent of megabucks was... megabucks.
Not that the house didn’t appeal to Keely artistically. Not that she wasn’t itching to get inside, talk to Sadie Trehan, get some idea of what the owner might be looking for in the way of colors, of furniture, carpets, drapes. The interior decorator in Keely was excited, hoped to be creatively challenged.
Yeah. Sure. All that good stuff.
Megabucks, megabucks, megabucks. Good-bye MasterCard bill, hasta la vista Visa, bury that old Discover Card balance. Megabucks, megabucks, megabucks.
“Stop it,” Keely scolded herself as she climbed the three shallow steps to a pleasantly wide front entry. “Concentrate on the job, for crying out loud. Topiary in pots. That would look good, flanking either side of the double doors. And maybe some geraniums, for color. And a doormat. God, the woman doesn’t even have a doormat? What’s fifty percent of ten percent of a doormat running these days?”
She pushed the doorbell, then stepped back a pace, straightened her shoulders, ran both hands down the front of her very stylish, if three-year-old navy suit. She looked good, she looked professional, and if she had to agree to hang miniature, glow-in-the-dark plastic pickles from the foyer chandelier to make Sadie Trehan a happy camper, she’d do it, because there was no way in hell she was going to blow this job.
One of the front doors opened a crack and a male head was exposed. The head had dark blond hair with a curious, lighter blond streak a little above the left temple. The hair was thick, and sort of shaggy. The eyes were a quite wonderful cobalt blue. The nose was straight. The cheeks were tan. And the mouth was open.
“Whaddya want?”
It was a question. It was an accusation. And the man, although drop-dead gorgeous, didn’t look exactly sane.
Keely couldn’t help herself; she stepped back yet another pace, pressing her hands to her chest. “Me? What do I want? Um... nothing, I guess. I thought Sadie Trehan lived here. My mistake.” She waved her hands at him. “Just... just go back to whatever it was you were doing. Well, gotta go. Sorry.”
She turned to retrace her steps to the Mercedes, wondering if she’d narrowly escaped a serial killer or just a guy who really, really didn’t like mornings.
“Wait!”
Keely stopped, made a face. She’d always been too damn obedient. Probably a side effect of those three years in the Girl Scouts. Aunt Mary had always said that was a mistake, and had cost her a small fortune paying for cookies into the bargain.
Keely turned around, slowly, to see that the man had stepped out onto the porch. He wasn’t just an angry head anymore. Now he was an angry head with a long, lean body attached to it. And he was wet, or at least his left shoulder and the front of his shirt were wet. There were small white lumps in the wet. And he smelled bad. He really smelled bad.
“I... I really have to go,” Keely said, backing toward the car. “I have an appointment, and I’m going to be late.”
The man was at the bottom of the steps now, walking toward her, one finger pointed at her face. “I know who you are. You’re the interior decorator, right? Sadie hired you.”
“You...” Keely cleared her throat. She’d been so hoping she’d gotten the wrong address. “You know Ms. Trehan?”
Nodding his head, the man said, “Yeah. Sadie’s my aunt, and she hired you to get me some furniture. But I thought you were a man.”
“Really,” Keely said, reminding herself that she was a woman who had walked down Forty-second Street to take the bus to Allentown from the bowels of the New York Port Authority. She didn’t scare easy. If this guy wanted to talk, she’d talk. “Why a man? Do you think only a man can decorate a man’s house? Do you always make assumptions?”
The man’s tanned and handsome face split in a grin that sent slashing creases into his cheeks. “Me? Make assumptions? A minute ago, lady, and I’ll bet I’m not wrong, you were thinking I was about to pull you inside the house and practice my Anatomy One-oh-one course on you.”
This conversation—could anyone call this a conversation?—was getting more bizarre by the minute. “You’re a doctor?”
“Ah, another assumption. No, I’m not a doctor. And, although I like guessing games as much as the next guy, I don’t have time to stand around, watching you try to figure me out, remember where you might have seen my face before today. My ego’s riding low enough as it is.”
Keely tipped her head to one side, trying to digest all he’d said. “Your ego? Why? Am I supposed to recognize you or something?”
“Or something.” He pushed a hand through his hair, pulled it away, and cursed at the clump of something white and squishy he’d come away with. “Never mind. Just to set you straight, Sadie Trehan is my aunt, and she lives over the garages out back. I’m the owner of the house, Jack Trehan. Jack Trehan? Still doesn’t ring any bells for you, does it? Mort’s right—how soon they forget. Man, I’m sure having one hell of a morning. Look, maybe we can do this another time, okay? I’m... I’m sort of busy right now.”
“Plastering the ceiling?” Keely asked. “What
is that all over you?”
Jack Trehan wiped his hand on his khaki slacks. “Trust me, you don’t want to know. But like I said, we’ll do this another time. Maybe in a month or two, something like that.”
“A month or—no!” Keely took a quick breath, tried to calm herself. If this guy owned the house, then he was her client. Her only client. Furnishing a place of this size would give her enough money to get out of Dodge and she was bound and determined to get out of Dodge and back to Manhattan. “Surely, Mr. Trehan, you don’t want to live here another month without any furniture? Your aunt told me the house was empty. I mean, are you really living in an empty house?”
Jack Trehan pulled a face. “It isn’t as empty as it was about an hour ago,” he said, then shook his head. Then he looked at Keely, looked at her closely. “You really want this job?”
Keely lifted her eyes heavenward for a moment, then swallowed down hard. “Yes, Mr. Trehan. I really do want this job.”
He looked at her for long moments. “What do you know about babies?”
Babies? Keely nearly swallowed her tongue. She’d been asked a lot of questions by clients. Her background, where she’d gotten her degree, names of other clients who could be used as references... even if she was opposed to decorating around small video cameras hidden in one stockbroker’s bedroom. She’d declined that job, then kicked herself for her ethics, considering she’d been two months behind in her rent at the time.
But never, never, had she been asked what she knew about babies.
“Babies?” she repeated after a moment. “What do I know about them?”
“Yes, Ms. McBride,” Jack said, looking back over his shoulder, toward the open doorway. “Babies. What do you know about them?”
Keely wet her lips. “Well... they come in two sexes, pink and blue...”
“Okay, forget it,” Jack told her, waving her off. “It was a bad idea anyway. Come back in a month, Ms. McBride, maybe two. Maybe never.”
“Wait!”
Obviously Jack Trehan hadn’t had obedience drummed into him by the Boy Scouts or anyone else in authority, because he didn’t wait. He just kept going, heading back inside the house.
Keely caught the door just before it closed and barreled inside with him. “Why do you want to know if I know anything about babies? If I said I did, would it make some difference somehow?”
She stopped talking as Jack turned around and grabbed her by her upper arms, holding her in place. She wanted to look around, had caught a glimpse of a vast emptiness, but she had a feeling now was not the time to start waxing poetic over chintz and valances. “You’re hurting me,” she said instead.
Jack dropped his hands. “Sorry. I just didn’t want you to... well, never mind. We can talk here.”
“Here being the foyer,” Keely said, looking up at the chandelier. “Nice light. Pity you can’t sit on it. Where do you sit, Mr. Trehan?”
“The answer to that ought to be obvious, Ms. McBride,” Jack said, a crooked smile making him look suddenly boyish and not half so scary. “Now answer my question, please. What do you know about babies?”
Keely got the sudden impression that her answer would determine whether she’d be furnishing this house (and making megabucks) or sitting on her own rump, twiddling her thumbs while waiting for some suburban wife with more money than taste to show up asking her to find a footstool in mauve satin for her poodle, Fluffy.
“I know enough,” she answered at last. “I’ve got a Girl Scout badge in child care.” Actually, she’d earned only two badges, one for swimming and another for making some dumb basket out of Popsicle sticks. She really hadn’t been a very good Girl Scout. But there was no reason for Jack Trehan to know that. “Why?”
Before he could answer, both their heads turned at the sound of a loud wail coming from somewhere deep in the house. “Damn it!” Jack exploded, turning to trot toward the sound.
Keely followed, her eyes flashing left and right as she passed along the wide hallway, looking at the white-walled, empty rooms to either side. She actually stopped when she saw the area definitely designed to serve as a formal dining room, marveling at the snow-white pillars, the raised parquet floor, the entire wall of windows looking out over the grounds. What she could do with a space like this!
Another wail brought her back to her senses, and she continued on her way, entering the enormous kitchen in time to see Jack Trehan on his knees in front of a huge wicker wash basket, saying, “Aw, come on. Don’t cry, M and M. Please don’t cry.”
Her mouth closed, her tongue poking at the inside of her left cheek, Keely tiptoed closer, then peered over Jack’s shoulder to see the red-faced, really unhappy infant propped in a seat that was stuck inside the basket. Now she knew why his shirt was wet and lumpy, and why he smelled so bad. The baby was just as soggy, and smelled twice as bad. “Just when you think you’ve seen everything...” she said, shaking her head. “Yours?”
Jack’s head jerked around as he looked up at her, his blue eyes flashing dangerously. “No, not mine. And stop smirking, because this isn’t funny.”
“Yes, it is,” Keely contradicted. “I mean, trust me... this is funny. She’s got great lungs, doesn’t she? I’m assuming it’s a girl. Pink blanket. Where’s her mommy?”
“Out of missile range, unfortunately,” Jack grumbled, trying to insert a pacifier in a rosebud mouth that was open wide enough to play garage to a Mack truck. “Damn it! I held her, fed her. What’s her problem?”
Keely’s experience with children wasn’t extensive. It wasn’t even close to extensive. She’d been orphaned young, an only child, and raised by her Aunt Mary, who hadn’t married until two weeks ago, at the age of fifty-seven. She’d baby-sat a time or two, years ago, but never for an infant.
“Maybe...” she said, dredging her brain for an answer. “Maybe she’s... wet?”
“Yeah, well, I tried to find a bib or something, but I couldn’t, and she kept trying to eat the paper towels.”
“No, not that kind of wet. I can see that her little dress is wet—and why would anybody dress an infant in dark purple? I meant her other end.”
“Her other—? Oh.” Jack, still holding the pacifier, sat back on his haunches, looked like he might be getting ready to make a break for it, head for the hills. “Oh, well, isn’t that great?” He looked up at Keely. “How bad do you want this job, Ms. McBride?”
Keely already had a feeling this question was coming, and she was prepared to lie her head clean off if that was what it took. “Let me see if I have this right, okay? Are you saying, Mr. Trehan, that you’re going to judge me on my child care techniques, rather than on my résumé?”
His closemouthed grin and raised eyebrows answered her question even before he added, “Yup. That’s what I’m saying.” He stood up, stepped away from the basket. “This is my cousin’s baby, Magenta Moon... I’ve been calling her M and M, which is pretty bad, but nothing’s as bad as Magenta Moon. She just arrived about an hour ago. I’m... I’m going to be taking care of her for a while—am taking care of her.”
Keely winced as M and M began howling once more. “Taking care of her, are you? You could have fooled me.”
Jack’s tanned cheeks turned a remarkable brick red, an angry red, as if he was considering joining M and M in a tantrum duet. “You know what, Ms. McBride? You’re a wiseass, and I don’t think I like you. So forget about it. I withdraw the offer. I’m just going to go call some... some service or something.”
“No! Don’t do that,” Keely said, quickly bending down to unstrap M and M from her seat, then pick her up before she could regain her sanity, before she could remember that she was, by and large, deathly afraid of babies. “Look, see... I’m taking care of her,” she said, bouncing up and down with the infant, holding M and M at arm’s length. “Aren’t I, baby?” she asked, exactly one second before M and M smiled, burped, then upchucked all over Keely’s suit and legs. Even her shoes.
Keely gaped at Jack Trehan, horrified
. “Look what she did!”
“Yeah, I see it. Great aim, huh?” He grinned. “A guy could get to like this kid. Welcome to my world, Ms. McBride. Clean her up—and yourself—and you’re hired for the duration.”
Keely sat M and M back in her seat and began looking around for some paper towels, finding a roll next to the sink. “Define duration, Mr. Trehan,” she urged, wetting a wad consisting of about six feet of towels under the tap.
“Until the house is furnished, and until I can find someone else to take care of M and M. I’m sure I can find somebody, but for now, Ms. McBride—you’re it.”
“Oh happy day,” Keely muttered under her breath, swiping at the front of her suit with the wet towels. “Oh, yuk! I got some under my fingernails. Yukka, yukka, yuk!”
“Yeah, that pretty much says it. Have fun, Ms. McBride. I’m off to take a shower. I’ll bet you want one, too, but I live here, so I get to go first. Life’s like that, not fair at all,” Jack said, then turned on his heels and left the room.
“Jack Trehan? Jackass is more like it,” Keely muttered under her breath as she watched him go, knowing he wouldn’t be any help if he stayed, and then looked down at M and M, who was crying again. “If you think that’s going to make my heart break for you, you’re way wrong, kiddo,” she warned the child. She spread her arms as she approached the basket. “This is—was—my best suit.”
M and M stopped crying, looked up at Keely. Smiled.
“And don’t be cute,” Keely warned, wagging a finger at the child. “Being cute won’t help you one bit, little girl, not when you smell so bad. Trust me, I’m not a soft touch when it comes to cute.”
M and M grabbed at her bare toes, caught one foot, and aimed it toward her mouth as she watched Keely with her huge blue eyes.
“Okay, so I’ll admit it. That’s cute. I sort of like that. But it’s not adorable, so don’t get a big head, all right, because you have a long way to go before I forget about the suit. This is just a job, and you’re nothing more to me than a means to an end,” Keely said, sighing as she knelt on the floor, looked at M and M, and tried to decide which end to clean up first.