Chapter Two

 

 

 

chapter

TWO

 

 

What the…?

I stood at the end of the drive that led up to 24 Porterfield Lane and gaped. With another glance at the Post-it note in my sweaty hand containing Mr. Nash’s heavy scrawl, I took in the numbers and letters before turning my attention back to the brick-covered mailbox that said 24 Porterfield Lane.

Right address.

Shaking my head, I faced the gate. A metal sign hung from it, telling me I’d arrived at Porter Hall Estate, Residence of Entrepreneur Henry Nash.

Holy shit, this was his home. He’d brought me to his house. The place had to span at least fifteen acres just to make up the manicured front lawn. A row of evergreens concealed most of the building from the road, but a couple stories still peeked up above them. And from what I could see, the mansion was huge. I’m talking over ten-thousand-square-feet huge.

I shook my head and pressed the intercom button located on the brick pillar part of the closed gate.

When a female voice flickered through the speaker, asking, “Can I help you?” I cleared my dry throat, growing more nervous by the second.

“I, uh…yeah. Shaw Hollander here to see Mr. Nash.”

“Of course. Come on up.”

Come on up? Were they sure? It didn’t feel as if I should. This kind of place was so far above me, even standing this close to the property felt as if I was doing something wrong.

But one half of the wrought iron steel bars began to peel away from the other half, inviting me inside. My heart gave a wild jolt. What the hell was I doing? Why had I agreed to anything? How was I going to live with myself afterward if he…if he…?

God, I thought I might be sick to my stomach.

Ornamental pear trees lined the driveway and provided a nice shade for me to walk under, but my stomach continued to roll. A clammy sweat stuck to my brow and gathered under my pits. I hadn’t realized 24 Porterfield Lane would be so far out of town and away from my run-down neighborhood. It had taken me an hour and a half to get here on foot, and now I probably stunk to high heaven.

Maybe that would turn Mr. Nash off, and I’d be saved from “servicing” him today. Or maybe he’d require me to bathe first. Fuck, what if he wanted to bathe with me?

I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t…damn it. I was going to do whatever I needed to do…I think. My mother’s life depended on it.

Okay, fine. I had no idea what I was going to do. And that made me more uneasy, not only over what he’d require of me, but how I’d react to it.

Reaching the beginning of the lane, I cleared the pear trees, then more evergreens and—wow—beheld the beauty of the Nash homestead. Porter Hall. Never in my life had I been in a house so nice. I felt too filthy and poor to even stand here, looking at it. With another glance at the soggy note in my hand to make absolutely certain I was in the right place, I straightened my shoulders and marched toward the front door. Didn’t matter if I was freaking out inside; I would face whatever I had to face.

It occurred to me that maybe I should’ve found a side entrance—more of a servant door—to knock on just as this one opened. A woman in her forties smiled out at me. “Mr. Hollander?”

I nodded. “Um, yeah. That’s me.”

She smiled reassuringly. “Come in. I’m Constance, the housekeeper. Mr. Nash is expecting you in his study, if you’ll just follow me.”

“Sure.” After stepping inside, I peered up open-mouthed at the two-story foyer with a grand, curving staircase, a fountain in the center, and—

“This way,” Constance called, jerking my attention from what I swear was a fish tank inlaid into the freaking floor around the base of the fountain.

Hurrying my pace, I almost ran into a naked baby with wings, posing on a pedestal and holding a bow and arrow, because I was still so busy gaping at the goldfish swimming underfoot.

Grateful I hadn’t impaled myself on the statue’s arrowhead, I decided to actually watch where I was going. I followed Constance down the hallway, past more statues, half a dozen paintings, and around two corners until she came to a closed door—a door shaped like an arched cathedral entrance with scrolling metal designs on the wood. It looked like a freaking castle door.

She knocked.

“Come in,” I heard the muffled voice of Henry Nash inside.

Oh, God. Here we go.

Constance opened the door. “Mr. Hollander’s here, sir.”

“Good, good. Right on time. Let him in.”

Stepping aside, Constance waved me into the room, which turned out to be another office, but this one was more oak and carpet with a fireplace than the cold, marble and glass one he had in the Nash Corporation building in town. More paper and books and photos littered this workspace, and even Mr. Nash himself was more casually dressed. He wore khakis and a collared shirt that was nicer than anything I owned but still much less ostentatious than the suit and tie he’d been in yesterday.

“Looks like you found the place okay,” he greeted, waving me forward toward a chair to sit in. He didn’t rise to greet me but remained seated in front of the computer, intently studying something on the screen.

“Yeah. I, uh…sorry. I melted a little on the way over.” Wincing, I spread my arms to show off how much sweat I’d collected.

He fluttered an unconcerned hand, paying my appearance no attention. “No worries. I’m sure you’ll work up an even bigger sweat before the day’s over.”

I paused just before lowering myself into the chair, trying to picture what exactly he meant by that.

Noticing my frozen state and no-doubt panicked expression, he glanced up before his eyes grew. “Oh, hell. We never went into detail about what I wanted you to do, did we?”

I gave a small, silent shake of my head, dreading… This was the moment I’d learn—

“Well, with the rate of repairs we’ve been needing on this place lately, I had general handyman in mind for your official title. But today, I wanted you to work in the roses.”

I blinked, sure I’d misheard him. But did he say handyman?

A handyman, as in someone who did house repairs?

Holy shit, so he didn’t want me to perform any sexual favors for him?

My relief was so profound I almost passed out.

Mr. Nash kept watching me as if he expected a response. Hugging him probably wasn’t appropriate, so I cleared my throat and squinted. “Did you say roses?”

A proud smile bloomed across his face before he began to type something on his keyboard. “Yes. They’re my daughter’s prized possession—aside from her library—so I want her garden to be in tip-top shape.”

Daughter? He had a daughter? I glanced toward a wall full of photos across the room to see it appeared he had a daughter and a son, and a wife as well. I wasn’t close enough to see details, but his children seemed to be in their teens and both had dark hair like him, while their mother was blonde.

“There’s a supply shed out back where you can find all the tools I’m sure you’ll need,” Mr. Nash continued. “I’ll show you where everything’s kept in a minute, but first…” He stamped his finger down on a button on his keyboard, and sheets began to spit from his printer.

Pulling them free, he handed them to me. “Read this over and sign if you agree.”

I took the contract from him slowly, worried I’d find something I didn’t want to see, some hidden clause that really doomed my mother instead of helped her. Then I drew in a long breath and proceeded to read.

What I found was better than I could’ve possibly believed. It was as if I’d drafted the agreement myself, detailing everything I’d ever hoped for. He would provide well for Mom, and even my terms of employment sounded fair and legitimate. He wanted me here eight hours a day, six days a week, but allowed for vacations and holidays and sick leave. It sounded like any regular, valid job.

It was so…well, it was too good to be true.

There had to be a catch. Somewhere.

I looked up, hoping to glean the trap from his expression. But he merely watched me from inscrutable blue eyes.

“I, uh…” My gaze strayed back to the document in my shaking hands. “This all sounds great, actually.”

I swear, a relieved breath escaped him. His shoulders relaxed. But that was the only tell he gave away. Then he nodded and held up a pen.

My attention returning to the words, I tried to find something that ensnared me, that hurt my mom, but I couldn’t. So I held my breath, reached for the pen, and I signed my life away.

No floor dropped open casting me into a dungeon, and no bars crashed down from above caging me in. Nothing dramatic happened at all.

Which only set my nerves more on edge.

Why was this going so smoothly?

“Well…” Mr. Nash took the contract from me and signed it himself, a bit too eagerly if you asked me. Then he glanced up and flashed a congenial smile. “Now that that’s out of the way, let me show you around.”

He stood and started toward the door, already chattering something about roses. “Some of them are rather rare, I believe. They require a little extra care. Isobel—my daughter—could tell you all their names, I’m sure; she’s become quite the expert. And I think she has some books in the shed to help with any question you may have.”

I nodded. Rose-care books would be awesome since I knew next to nothing about roses. Or flowers. Or any plant in general. I’d killed a cactus once.

We exited the office and took a short hallway until we reached the back of the house, where we entered what seemed to be a salon or sitting room of some sort with one wall made entirely of glass, facing the backyard.

“One entrance into the conservatory where the roses are is through those doors right there.”

I blinked at a set of French doors that led into what looked like a glass-domed corridor that connected to a greenhouse shaped like a massive gazebo.

“Wow,” I breathed, stepping closer and needing to see more.

Drawn to all the beauty, I reached for one of the French doors to enter the conservatory, but Mr. Nash waved me in a different direction. “The supply shed’s out back, this way.”

I followed him, but not before taking one more look into the rose garden. There were some climbing rose vines, some bushes, and rows of long-stem, varying from white to pink to blood red, yellow, and lavender, peach, and purple. I swear I even saw a black rose. Just looking at them filled me with a sense of magic.

I’d never been a flower person before, and I didn’t have the first clue how to take care of them, but suddenly, I was excited about entering that garden.

“These doors will be unlocked during your work hours so you’ll be able to come and go as you please.” Pulling open a sliding glass door that led directly outside onto a bricked patio, Mr. Nash started toward a row of pruned hedges that opened up into what looked like a maze.

Once we entered it, however, it was basically a straight shot—with one turn—that led to the shed he’d mentioned. A keypad of numbers kept the door locked. Mr. Nash quickly tapped in the code before swinging it open and stepping inside to turn on the light. I followed hesitantly, only to blink in awe. If I were a gardener, this was exactly the kind of dream shed I would want. All the hoes and rakes and…just, the whole place was neatly organized and top of the line. And yes, thank you, God, there was even a small shelf of books about roses.

“Well, I’ll let you to it. Lunch is at noon.” Already backing out of the shed to leave me to my duties, Mr. Nash waved me goodbye and disappeared.

I gaped at the empty doorway where he’d last stood and shook my head, a little lost. The man wasn’t much for detailed instructions, was he?

Amazed they had all this gardening stuff and no full-time gardener, I ran my fingertips across the hanging handles of shovels of all shapes and sizes, then moved toward the books.

Books I could do. I used my library card well and had learned over the years that if I could just check out the right book, I could usually fix most problems in my apartment. Feeling a little more optimistic about my future, I pulled down Roses for Dummies and got to learning.

It seemed the roses had already been picked, purchased and planted, so I skipped ahead to the watering, mulching, fertilizing and pruning chapters. As I read, I gathered supplies I thought I might need: watering can, clippers, miniature shovels and a small bag of potting mixture. Then I piled everything into a convenient little rolling cart I found sitting against one wall and wheeled it from the shed.

Back outside in the broad daylight, I squinted. There were three different openings to the hedge path from here. I couldn’t remember which one we’d taken to get back to the house, or which one I should take now to reach the conservatory.

Great. I was lost. Shading my hand over my eyes, I decided the far right should take me in the general direction I wanted to go. So I went that way, only to end up at the edge of the house, but not where I’d started, and not close enough to the rose garden to get me inside.

Strangely enough, however, a boy played outside, using sidewalk chalk to color a picture of…what the hell was he drawing? Maybe some kind of dying animal with blood gushing from its side and an arrow sticking out of its back.

It didn’t look right, whatever it was.

I shook my head and jerked my gaze from the disturbingly morbid sketch. “Hey, kid.”

The boy jumped and looked up, hopping to his feet and backing away from me as if I were the scary one.

No idea who he was; he looked too young to be Mr. Nash’s son from the photos I’d seen, plus he had white blond hair, the complete opposite shade of the young man in all the pictures in Mr. Nash’s office. But he was here, so he’d have to do.

Wanting to appear as nonthreatening as possible, I smiled and waved. “Hey. Sorry for bothering you, but do you know how to get to the rose garden?”

That must’ve been the wrong question to ask. His face drained of color. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t go there.”

What? “Why not?”

“A monster lives in there. Half her face is melted off. She eats the thorns from the roses so she can spit them at people, stabbing them in the neck to slice their throats open until they bleed out and die.”

O…kay.

Somehow, I’d stumbled across one of the children of the corn. Nice.

Lifting my eyebrows, I drew my own step in reverse. Time to retreat. “Dude, that’s gruesome.”

Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.

He gave a serious nod. “It’s true. My mom’ll tell you she’s real too.”

“Oh yeah?” Relieved he wasn’t claiming he’d sprouted from Satan’s cabbage patch but instead actually had a mother, I glanced around for this wise, all-knowing parent of his. Maybe she could tell me how to get to the conservatory. “Who’s your mom?”

“The cook,” he said, puffing up his chest as if that were the most important title in the house. “She’s worked here for fifteen years. She knows everything about this place there is to know. So…don’t go into the roses. You won’t come out alive. Lewis, the groundskeeper, doesn’t even go in there.”

Aha! So this place did have a gardener. I knew it.

I took a second to ponder why I was being sent to garden then, when Mr. Nash already paid someone to maintain the place. But if Lewis refused to go into the roses, as the kid had said, maybe it was rumored to be haunted or something, and that was where I came in. Then again, why wouldn’t Mr. Nash just hire a new groundskeeper who wasn’t so scared and superstitious? Then I stopped pondering the whys. It wasn’t my place to question strange, rich people and their strange, oddball orders. I was just here to do what I was told and save my mom.

Nodding gravely to the boy, I said, “Thanks for the warning, kid. But I think I’ll take my chances. Which way?”

He looked at me as if he’d never see me again because I was headed forth to my death, then he lifted his hand and quietly pointed toward another opening in the path of bushes.

“Thanks.” I nodded and got out of there before some of his creepiness started rubbing off.

Fortunately, he’d steered me in the right direction. I landed right at the outdoor entrance into the glass gazebo. Propping the door open, I carted my supplies inside and then paused to breathe deeply.

But fuck me, it smelled good in here. You didn’t have to be a flower enthusiast for this garden to amaze you. It was like the holy shrine of roses. A hallowed kind of reverence filled my chest. Haunted or not, I liked it. It felt peaceful and yet revitalizing.

Suddenly intimidated because I didn’t want to mess anything up in such a perfect place, my hands shook as I flipped back to the pages about rose care. The more I skimmed, however, the more confused I became.

These roses didn’t need a lick of my attention. They were all in excellent condition as if someone already tended to them. Maybe the creepy kid had been wrong, and Lewis, the groundskeeper, came in here hourly to care for them.

Still… What the hell?

I frowned and slid my finger along the silken petals of a blood red rose. Perfectly pruned, weeded, and watered. It was as flawless as a flower could get.

But I couldn’t go tell Mr. Nash they didn’t need anything, could I? What if he fired me for lack of work to do, or because he thought I was lazy and lying about the roses not needing care?

I looked around again, searching for anything to water, or clip, or re-soil. It was crazy how every single flower seemed to be thriving.

Maybe this was some kind of test, and Mr. Nash wanted me to fail. What if he’d never intended for me to work for him, and the contract I’d signed to save my mom was being burned in the fireplace in his office as I stood here like a dumbass with nothing to weed?

Confused and worried, and growing a little angry, I scowled at a wall full of pink vine roses growing to my right. But they were honestly too pretty to be glared at, so my mood settled.

I bet Mom would love them. She was a fan of pink. And flowers. Plus, these were the good-smelling kind. I’d be a good son if I brought home such a flower to her. And it seemed as if they grew in abundance, not as if they were one of the rare breeds Mr. Nash had spoken of. So I reached for a bloom to pluck it from the vine without even thinking beyond how much it’d make my mother smile.

Behind me, a voice growled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Jumping half out of my skin because I’d been certain no one had been in here with me, I whirled around only to gasp, “Shit!”

The creepy cook’s son hadn’t been lying.

In front of me stood an irate woman with half her face melted off.