Two weeks later

Within a week of receiving the letter, I quit my job at the café. I had worked there for many years, and I promised to come back, but I couldn’t leave them hanging, I didn’t know how long I would be away.

Before I quit my job, I called Wild House and spoke to Mr. Francis Whitewater, who came off quite polite and well spoken. He said that my duties at the Wild House would consist of acting as a personal assistant, answering emails and phone calls, and maybe participating in light cleaning and nursing. When I asked about the nursing aspect, he was very brief and practically refused to give out details, but said that someone had to be taken care of, but the nursing duties are mild. Nothing like the ones I had to perform for my mother.

After I had agreed to go on the phone, he sent me an email with the work contract, which I had to sign and return before I could go. I read through the contract carefully, and was surprised to learn that I was actually going to get paid for this job. Four times more money than I made at the café, and I would also be provided with a one bedroom apartment in which to live on the property.

After all the details were ironed out, I finally told Momma what I was going to do. I didn’t tell her about the initial letter, but I did say that I got a new job and it was more than five hours away from her, somewhere in central California. Without missing a beat, she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a warm and encouraging hug.

“I’m so so happy for you, Brielle,” she whispered into my ear, her voice cracking. “I’m so happy that you’re finally starting your life out. Going somewhere new. I will definitely come visit you soon!”

Come visit me? I had no idea if this was allowed or proper or acceptable. I didn’t know anything about this place, but I agree.

“Yes, that will be great.”

I still had a few months until then to figure things out.

---

To get to the Wild House, I had to take a plane to Chino, California, then a car. I was planning on driving, but Mr. Thompson insisted that I did not need a car there. I didn’t believe him, of course. There’s no place in California that doesn’t require a car, except maybe the city of San Francisco, but I eventually and reluctantly agreed. Momma and I have only one car, and we share it. I can’t take it away from her.

In the baggage claim area of the small local airport, I meet my driver. We drive for some time down a lonely two-lane road leading somewhere into the desert. Desert mountains rise on either side of us, near the horizon. This isn’t an unfamiliar sight. I’m used to the nature that far-flung places in the wilds of California have to offer.

During the drive, I try to talk to the driver, but he offers very little in the way of information.

“I don’t know, miss. You’ll find out when you get there,” he says over and over again. That’s his canned response to almost every question I have about this whole experience.

We turn off the main highway and onto a lonely desert road. My heart starts to pound and matches the bumps in the road that we drive over. The car isn’t your typical sedan. It’s a tall Jeep, which is meant for off road. Just as I thought that the road couldn’t be any more off road, we turn onto an actual off-road road. There are no signs, but the driver turns to the left at the sandy fork in the road. Now we’re driving through the desert. Across its wide expanse and over little shrubs and around tall creosote bushes that dot the area.

Finally, somewhere in the distance, I see a large house. It’s actually in the middle of nowhere. As we get closer, I make out the beautiful tall white columns that give it grandeur and stature. There are two large white lion statues at the gate. The driver pulls to the intercom and pushes the button.

“We’re here,” he says. The iron-wrought gates open and let us in. The lions don’t move, but continue to stare somewhere into the distance, probably wondering the same thing that I am at this moment: how the hell did we get here?

The driveway is expansive and circular, and the driver pulls up right to the steps of the mansion. I’ve never been to the White House, but this house looks just like it. The columns are a pristine ivory color. How the hell they keep them so white in the middle of this dusty desert is beyond me.

“Go on up,” the driver says when he comes around and opens my door.

“What about you?” I ask. I don’t know him, but I don’t want him to leave. I have no idea what awaits me inside. I look at my phone and see that I don’t even have one bar! There’s absolutely no reception here.

“Oh, I’m not going in there, miss.”

There? Why did he say it like that? My heart starts to pound harder. It’s so loud, I can barely hear my own thoughts in my head.

The driver gets my two modest suitcases out of the trunk and takes them up the few steps to the porch. The porch is made of beautiful polished wooden slats, and it seems to wrap all the way around the building.

There are two imposing double doors before me. The driver picks up the large metal door knocker and slams it into the door. After two knocks, the door finally opens.

“Ms. Brielle Cole,” a small older gentleman says. He’s dressed up like a butler from Downtown Abbey.

“My name is Mr. Francis Whitewater, it’s my pleasure to meet you.”

I shake his extended hand.

“May I help you with your bags?”

I nod, leave one bag on the porch and go inside with the other one.

“Let me show you to your room,” he says walking past me.

When I enter the lobby, my mouth drops open. The ceilings are close to 20 feet high and gorgeous natural light permeates the space. The desert sun is rather harsh outside, but in here the temperature is a cool and comfortable 75 degrees, without a whiff of central air. There’s a beautiful round marble entry table with a bouquet of flowers in the middle of the entry room the size of a ballroom and two winding staircases frame the table on either side, leading up to the second floor.

“What a beautiful…house?” I say. House doesn’t seem like the right word. Mansion? Castle?

“Thank you. I’ll let, Mr. Wild know that you approve.”

“So, Mr. Wild? Is that who requested my presence here?” I take the opportunity to ask.

“Yes, of course. I thought that was clear from the letter.”

“No,” I shake my head. “The letter wasn’t very clear about much. The thing is, Mr. Whitewater, I don’t even know who Mr. Wild is. I have no idea why he wants me here. Or what he expects me to do.”

Mr. Whitewater turns to face me. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to insinuate by that, Ms. Cole, but you are not expected to do anything that you are not 100% willing and interested in doing. Mr. Wild invited you here as a guest. There is nothing sinister about his intentions.”

I nod politely. I’m trying to understand, but rich people have a way of saying things that don’t make sense. Supposedly, I’m only here as a guest, but the letter was also quite clear about a certain debt that had to be paid. So what would happen if I didn’t pay it?

Mr. Whitewater led me through the foyer, the gigantic living room with even taller windows, which looked out to the expanse of the desert in the background. The windows were so large, floor to ceiling, and clear that I felt like I was walking outside.

“You probably have some problems with birds here,” I say. I don’t know why I bring this up, but large floor to ceiling windows always make me wonder about birds.

“How do you mean?” Mr. Whitewater asks with a grave expression of concern on his face.

Now, I’m totally regretting bringing anything up at all. Me and my stupid mouth!

“Well, it’s just that, the windows are so big and crystal clear…”

He stares at me, waiting to continue.

“I just think that you probably have a lot of birds flying into it.”

Mr. Whitewater takes a moment to consider the situation. “You know, come to think of it, yes, we do. It’s almost every morning or so that I find one or two dead birds laying on the back porch.”

“Oh, how sad,” I say. “Well, I guess that’s something I can try to fix.”

Mr. Whitewater smiles at me. “Perhaps, perhaps.”

“You don’t think so?” I ask. I’m usually quite good at reading people. Waitressing for seven years has taught me that if nothing else, but I find Mr. Whitewater difficult to read and analyze. Perhaps, it’s his English accent that’s throwing me off.

“No, not at all. I just wasn’t sure that would be part of your job description.”

“I’m not sure either, but I was told that I am here to be a personal assistant and caregiver of the place. Perhaps, within the scope of those duties, I can make some time to try to prevent the deaths of one or two birds per day.”

I don’t mean to be smug and condescending, but as soon as these words come out of my mouth, I realize that I am. Luckily, Mr. Whitewater lets it slide.

I follow him to the left wing of the house, past the kitchen the size of three doublewide trailers, without another word.

“Well, here we are,” Mr. Whitewater reaches into his pocket and gets a keycard. He slides it into an opening on the card reader and then hands it to me.

“This is your room. And this is your card.”

We walk into a spacious one-bedroom suite with a full entry way leading to the living room and a large bedroom. The living room and bedroom are separated by French doors and there’s also another pair of French doors leading to the private patio outside of the bedroom.

“Wow, this is beautiful.”

Mr. Whitewater puts down my bag.

“I’m glad that it’s too your liking.”

“Yes, definitely. Thank you.”

Mr. Whitewater starts to leave, but turns around.

“Oh yes, I almost forgot. Mr. Wild is expecting you for dinner at 6 p.m. There are dresses and shoes in the closet. And you are, of course, welcome to wear your own clothes as well.”

I nod, but he doesn’t let me off the hook that easily.

“Can I tell him that you are coming?”

“Yes, of course,” I mumble.

Of course, I know that I’m supposed to meet this Mr. Wild at some point. I just didn’t think it would be so soon. No, not so soon. It’s not soon. It’s in a few hours, and I thought I’d meet him right away. I just didn’t think that it would be so formal. Dinner? Why doesn’t he just come up here? Or I could come to his office? I don’t know if I can manage a whole dinner.

After Mr. Whitewater excuses himself, I open the closet. The closet is almost as big as the bedroom!

I’ve seen these closets before. Walk-in closet with shelves lining all three walls and a large island in the middle. On elegant, real wooden hangers, I find five dresses. Pink, red, black, blue and green. Each one is more beautiful than the others. One is knee-length made of chiffon. One is short and tight with built in bra cups. I run my fingers over the dresses and inhale the luxury.

Below the dresses, I find 10 pairs of different kinds of shoes. All pristine, never worn, without one scuffed up bottom. The heels vary in size, and I quickly try on each one. The flats are the most comfortable, but the high heeled five inch heels with red bottoms make me feel most like a woman.

“Oh my God! What am I doing here?” I say out loud walking out of the walk-in closet. “People don’t do this for nothing. Why does he want me here? To live here?”

Crazy, anti-social thoughts flooded my mind. He wants something from me, and whatever he wants isn’t easy to get. But what? I shake my head. I don’t know.

I sit on the couch and put my feet up on the soft upholstered coffee table. I need to decide what to do. Hours crawl by, but I am still at an impasse. Finally close to 5:45, I decide that I will go downstairs and find out what this is all about. I’m a guest here, at least so far, and I will act like a guest. But I won’t do anything that I don’t feel comfortable with.

I look at the dresses hanging in the closet. They are beautiful, of course, but I’m not a charity case. I don’t know who this man is, and I need to retain some power in this relationship. I open my suitcase and look for the best thing that I have. Jeans are too casual. Besides, I don’t really have any without any holes in them. T-shirts are also too casual. Aha! A button-down shirt and a pair of khakis. Practical. Professional. Not too sexy. Not sexy at all, actually.