Chapter 4 – The Cleaning Fairy

 

“Now?” Cara asks.

After I picked up the kids from camp this afternoon, the boys parked themselves in front of video games.  Cara climbed up and settled on the counter, looking at me in a way she silently wondered what fun we could drum up in the kitchen.  There was no way I could resist her—we got started straight away. 

“Let me see,” I say, touching the chocolate covered strawberries to make sure the chocolate had set.  “I think they’re ready, sweet girl.  Go to town.”

I can’t feed them sugary snacks all week, so today I incorporated some fruit with the sugar.  Cara dunked the berries in melted chocolate and waited impatiently for at least ten minutes.  It must’ve seemed like an hour in her little world since she’s asked constantly if they’re ready to eat.  She was covered with chocolate and licked as much off her little fingers as she used to dip them with.  They didn’t turn out pretty, but I could tell she had fun and today she chatted way more than yesterday. 

“Strawberries are done!” I yell for the boys and it doesn’t take long for them to come bounding into the kitchen. 

I can’t help but be curious about Jordy, Cara and their grumpy father, so I ask, “Does your mom ever pick you up or just your dad?  Is she at work or something?”

Cara doesn’t say a word but Jordy doesn’t miss a beat, “Just dad.  We don’t have to go to our mom’s ‘til Friday.”

Huh.  Cam Montgomery’s divorced. 

Now I can’t help myself, I have to know more, “It’s just you two and your dad at your house?”

“Yeah,” Jordy says.

“We have Ariel and Junwane,” Cara adds.

“Who are they?” I frown.

“Ariel’s our dog and it’s not Junwane.  It’s John Wayne.  He’s the cat,” Jordy explains as he grabs another berry.

“You have a cat named John Wayne?” I ask perplexed.

“Daddy and Jordy like Junwane the cowboy and I like Ariel the mermaid,” Cara explains, with a mouth full and chocolate all over her face.  She’s nowhere near speaking paragraphs, but has offered many complex sentences today.  I’m making progress in the Cara department.

“It’s two names, Cara.  John. Wayne,” Jordy corrects his sister.

“John. Wayne,” she mocks her brother in her little voice, showing the most backbone I’ve ever seen from her. 

I grin, “I like mermaids, too.  Did you get to name your dog?”

She smiles and nods, “She’s a puppy.”

“John Wayne is scary,” Cayden says.

“John Wayne scares Ariel, too,” Cara adds. 

“Why’s he so scary?” I ask.

“He’s not scary,” Noah explains.  “He’s just not happy.”

“He catches mice,” Jordy says.

“He’s scary,” Cayden reiterates,  wearing a serious four-year-old face.  “I don’t like him.”

“John Wayne likes my dad, but that’s it,” Jordy says.

My phone dings with a text as I take another bite.  I frown at my phone, not recognizing the strange number and slide my finger across the screen.

Cam:  This is Cam.  I’ll be late.  Let Cara’s dog out.  Jordy can get in the house.

“It’s your dad,” I say, thinking he’s not just grumpy, but bossy to boot.  “He says he’ll be late.  He wants us to let your dog out.  Can you get us in your house, Jordy?”

“Yeah, let’s go!” Jordy yells.  “We can play video games at my house!”

Me:  Sure.  But only because you asked so nicely, Just Cam.  And by the way, you’re welcome.

I guess I’m not surprised I don’t get a text back, with his winning personality and all.

Noah and Jordy head for the door.  After I get Cayden mopped up, he runs after the big boys and I pick up Cara, holding her so she can wash the sticky off her hands in the sink. 

“Are you going to introduce me to Ariel?”

“Let’s go!” she squeals.

I put her down and she grabs my hand, dragging me out of the house.  We follow the boys who have already raced halfway across the expanse that separates the two houses.  By the time Cara and I catch up, the boys are already in.  We move through his three-car-garage filled with an enormous riding lawn tractor, bikes, trikes, and I swear I’ve never seen so much sports equipment in one place other than a sporting goods store.  There’s equipment from almost every team sport I can think of, he even has those big things football players use to run and hit while trying to push them across the field for practice.  I’ve only seen those on TV.  Most people don’t own them, let alone store them in their garage. 

“Why do you have so much sporting equipment?” I ask Cara.

“It’s for Daddy’s teams,” she says shuffling ahead of me into the house. 

Jordy said his dad coaches his baseball team, but how many teams could he coach?

Beeps from a security system snap me out of inventorying his garage and I see the kids run in the house.  Jordy turns off the alarm and I follow into a large mud room slash laundry room.  It’s a nice room with newer cabinets and a new-ish washer and dryer.  The room would probably seem even larger if it weren’t for all the stuff.  And there’s a lot of stuff, that’s for sure. 

In one corner, piled high against a bank of cabinets, is a volcano of shoes.  Man shoes, boy shoes and girl shoes.  Apparently they have to dig for what they need, because the volcano is tall and wide, spewing shoes over half the room.  The rest of the floor is scattered with dirty laundry.  I guess Cam doesn’t see the need for laundry baskets when he can simply toss them into piles. 

“Paige!” I hear my name being yelled through another door.  I follow making my way through the muck. 

Cara meets me in the doorway where she’s barely got her little arms wrapped around a Jack Russell Terrier puppy.  And that puppy is whining and wiggling so much, Cara can barely hold it in her arms.

“This is Ariel,” Cara smiles big, clutching her dog tight so she doesn’t wiggle away.  I reach down so Cara doesn’t drop the excited puppy and hold it up to my face. 

“Aren’t you a pretty little mermaid,” I say to Ariel.  Looking down at Cara, I ask, “Where do we let her out?”

“In the backyard, she won’t run away there,” Cara explains as she skips off through the door and I follow.

But the second I walk through the door, I stop so I can appreciate what could be a magazine cover featuring the most beautiful kitchens in all the land.  It’s enormous and not at all what you would expect in a house this old.  The ceiling had to have been ripped out.  It’s vaulted with huge, rugged, dark beams going up the peaks and across, forming triangles with enormous industrial iron light fixtures hanging in between.  There’s a ton of cabinets with contemporary clean lines finished in crisp white around the perimeter of the room.  The huge island in the center of the space is painted a grey so dark, it’s almost black. 

The counters are all dressed in Carrara marble with faint grey veining.  There’s a stainless steel apron sink with a tall pull-down faucet looking out over the backyard with a smaller sink in the island.  I let my eyes wander to the left and see the coolest industrial size double oven and gas range sitting underneath a matching sleek stainless steel vent hood.  Hands down, the best part of the kitchen. 

Wow.  I think I’d be willing to give up my left pinky toe to be able to cook on a stove like that. 

But as kick-ass as Cam Montgomery’s kitchen is, I cringe at what I have to look through to appreciate it.  The sink is piled high with dishes.  And not dishes rinsed and ready to load into his top of the line dishwasher.  They’re dirty and crusted with old dried food.  More dishes and cups litter the counters that haven’t even made it to the sink yet, with fast food cups and wrappers thrown in the mix.  Two boxes of cereal stand open on the island, probably from breakfast and will no doubt be stale the next time they go to eat it.  The side counter, that appears as if it was designed for showcasing pretty kitchen things or hosting a buffet, is heaped with unopened mail and masses of papers.  One corner of the island has been taken over by Cara with crayons, markers and coloring books.  Finally, the stove and oven, which should be honored and kept pristine as a shrine to all things cooking, is filthy with spills and slops from attempts to prepare food. 

Oh, and don’t get me started on the lush dark wood floors.  Filthy. 

I can’t take it.  This kitchen is too pretty and perfect to be treated like this.  I don’t care one single bit whose kitchen it is or that its owner ruined my favorite tank and assumed I was some Sugar Daddy’s hussy.  It’s not the kitchen’s fault Cam can be an asshole, no matter how hot he is.  Or how much hotter he is when he smiles at his kids being a good dad.  Or how soft his goatee looks and now that I know he’s divorced, I can’t help but wonder how it would feel on me even if he is an ass, because Cara made it look like it feels great.  Nope, I can’t take it.

I have to clean this kitchen.

Barely a second goes by after I’ve made the decision to bring this beautiful kitchen back to all its glory, when I hear a hiss from my side making me jump.  I look down to see a dark grey cat, practically matching the color of the island, staring up at me with hazel eyes. 

“You must be John Wayne,” I assume. 

The cat instantly hisses again, making me flinch.  Holy shit, Cayden was right.  John Wayne is a little scary.  I’ve never had a cat, we only had dogs growing up, but I usually like all animals.  I’ve had a few friends with cats and they’ve always been nice, even if they were a bit persnickety. 

“I’m going to clean your kitchen,” I inform John Wayne.  “You may not like it, but you’re just going to have to deal with it.  I have to bring it back to life.  I can’t help myself.”

I didn’t know a cat can meow with attitude, but I’m pretty sure John Wayne just gave me lip in cat-speak.  Even little Ariel stills at John Wayne’s meow before burrowing into my arms.  I know I’m small and petite, but I’m an adult and a human for goodness sake, there’s no way I’m going to let a cat boss me around.

“Go away,” I bite out giving my foot a little stomp, making poor Ariel flinch in my arms.  John Wayne turns and flips his tail with attitude to stalk out of the kitchen toward what must be the family room. 

Well.  Cam Montgomery certainly keeps an interesting home.  Enough of John Wayne, I have a kitchen to clean. 

I turn to yell, “Cara?”

“Yeah?” she sings as she skips back into the kitchen.

“Here, sweet girl,” I say handing her Ariel.  “Take your little mermaid outside and play with her so she can run off some energy.  Don’t let her come back in until she’s done all her business.  I’m going to clean your kitchen.”

“Why are you gonna clean the kitchen?” she asks with a little frown playing on her face since I doubt anyone has ever cleaned this kitchen in its existence. 

“Because a messy kitchen makes me sad,” I answer and she looks up at me with big eyes.  I grin, “Not to worry.  Go take care of your puppy and then you can keep me company.  We haven’t talked about camp yet.  I want to hear all about it.”

“Okay,” she half-heartedly agrees as she hefts her puppy in her arms and turns toward the back door. 

I turn to stare at the massive project in front of me, remotely hoping John Wayne leaves me alone.  Pulling in a breath to prepare myself for the task ahead, I move to the sink and hope Just Cam owns some cleaning products, not to mention a broom.  A mop might be pushing it.  I’ll just have to go back and get Sophia’s. 

*****

I walk out of the administration offices of Highland High School and move to the front door so I can finally make it home.  My busy day turned to shit this afternoon when I got a call that my starting quarterback was arrested last night at a party.  He was drunk off his ass, along with a few of his cronies that are also on my team, but they’re nowhere near as talented as Michael Gheer.  Not only were they drunk off their asses with plenty of other people, the police found half of a pound of marijuana and a small bag of Rohypnol on him. 

What a clusterfuck.

As talented as my star QB is, he’s dumber than a box of rocks and thinks he can do whatever he wants without consequence because he can throw a pigskin with acute accuracy.  It doesn’t hurt that I’ve trained his receivers well, making him look good.  He’s always skating on thin ice with low grades, barely keeping him eligible to stay on the field.  As the years click by, and he’ll be a senior this coming fall, I’ve heard he’s been partying it up more than ever. 

Last night made it official, getting caught and having his ass carted to jail for underage drinking and possession of drugs.  He’s lucky he doesn’t turn eighteen until October, but who knows if they’ll charge him as an adult.  Just because he’s got some big name colleges looking at him, he thinks he’s immune to the law.  I remember what it was like being recruited by those same colleges, but there was no way my parents would allow me to act like an entitled jackwad. 

I wanted to bench him the first half of the season.  He was caught underage drinking with pot and the date rape drug, for fuck’s sake.  The Principal and Athletic Director overruled me, insisting on allowing him to come to summer training and benching him for the first three weeks of the season, practice and games.  Gheer’s parents begged and pleaded with administration to go easy on him.  His shit deserves worse, who knows if he’ll learn his lesson.

I look at my watch and realize I’m hours late picking up the kids from Sophia’s sister.  Thinking about Paige Carpino for some reason makes me shake my head, pisses me off and makes me hard all at the same time.

She surprised the shit out of me Monday when she swung the door open and it was the same woman who walked into me last week and ended up wearing my drink.  And I can’t help but remember just how well she wore it.  I know I was in a bad mood that day dealing with my accountant over business from The Shed, but I can’t say I felt bad about ruining her shirt.  She gave me an eyeful, and even though she’s about as big as a minute, the eyeful she gave me was fucking perfect. 

But her throwing attitude with me the last couple days proves just what a pain in the ass she probably really is.  And hell if the sight of her, topped with her attitude, doesn’t have a bizarre effect on me.  An effect I can’t decide if I like or not.  I don’t think I’ll ever forget her pissed-off, wearing my drink with her shirt plastered to her body giving me every clue what she has to offer.  Her being a wiseass over text with me today calling me “Just Cam” pissed me off too, but hell if it didn’t make me smile at the same time. 

Don’t get me started on her hair, and fuck me, when she smiles at my kids she’s downright gorgeous.  I have the itching desire to bury my hand in her head of long dark wavy hair to feel if it’s as heavy as it looks.  All those curves with that tiny waist, the hair, topped with her fiery attitude?  I can’t get her out of my head.

There’s something wrong with me.  I guess it’s been too long since I’ve had a woman.  My hand isn’t gonna cut it much longer.  But it’s impossible to meet a woman who isn’t a bar tramp or skank when I have my kids all but four days a month.  And if I have another single-mom cougar hit on me during a parent teacher conference, sporting event, or hell, even at The Shed, I’ll come undone.  I don’t shit where I live and the last things I need are parents or clients running their mouths about me or my business.  I’ve seen it happen to others.  It’s not worth the lay, no matter how tempting.

Shit, I can’t even have a one night stand three states away with an old fling.  I tried that months ago when I was home with the kids to visit and have paid the price ever since.  I dated Carrie in high school and she’s divorced, too.  We hooked up after an event at my parents’ house and now she won’t leave me alone, calls and texts all the fucking time.  I answered in the beginning and after telling her I don’t have the time for a relationship, she kept at it.  Now I’m ignoring her completely, but the woman just doesn’t get it. 

Nothing is fucking simple.

I pull my Expedition up my drive, thinking I need to clean out the garage and bring the rest of the equipment to The Shed so I don’t have to park outside anymore.  I make my way through the shit, wondering when I can carve out time to do that as I hit the house.  But I’m forced to still myself as soon as I open the door to the laundry room. 

I still because I can’t help from breathing deeper through my nose.  I tip my head to the side and frown.  It smells different. 

I move through the dirty laundry that I hate more than anything, but stop again as I get to the door of the kitchen.  That’s when the smell assaults me.

It’s bleach.  But with lemons.  Sort of antiseptic.  But not like a hospital.  I think I even smell vinegar.  Maybe even oranges.  Definitely citrus. 

I step through the door and can’t believe my eyes. 

It’s clean.

And not clean like I clean it before my family comes to visit because I have no choice but to clean it.

It’s fucking clean.

I stand here and take in my huge ass kitchen that never looks any different than it did before I left the house this morning.  I don’t think it’s looked like this since the remodel was done and the last contractor walked out my front door.  The floors are clean, the counters are cleared, the sink is empty and I can tell from here, it’s been scoured.  There are two piles neatly stacked on the island, one looks to be miscellaneous papers and the other unopened mail that’s been collecting for a week. 

“Meow,” I hear and look down.

“Hey Duke,” I say.

He sits and swishes his tail up, back and forth as he looks at the kitchen too, probably as surprised as I am.

“Did she clean my kitchen?” I ask Little Duke.

“Meow,” he answers.

“Shit,” I sigh and throw my duffle on the polished marble island.  The musical notes on my fancy dishwasher rings through the silent house, alerting me the cycle is finished.  She even started more dishes.  What in the hell do I do with all this?

I move to the fridge and when I open it, I’m stopped in my tracks for a third time.  She even cleaned out my fridge.  The old food and takeout leftovers are gone, it’s even organized.  I reach in, grabbing two beer bottles that are perfectly lined in three rows on the top shelf.  Even the fucking labels are facing the same way. 

I turn back toward the garage and head out to see my kids.  And to find the cleaning fairy.