Chapter 1 - The Laundry Room Goddess
Almost twenty five years later……..
I cannot believe my eyes when I see a big bulky body in black carrying a shield looking through a little window at the top with a gun trained on us. Yep. That’s right. A gun trained on us. The shield reads POLICE in white letters across the front and the big person yells, “Stop. Get your hands up where we can see them!”
Megan stops immediately letting out a high scream and I walk right into the back of her bumping her forward. We teeter on our heels, finally find our feet, but strangely enough we don’t put our hands up. Rounding the corner charge more big bodies in black wearing helmets, vests scribed with POLICE, donning black and gray camo pants with big black boots. But most importantly, I should note once again, they all have guns. Pointed. At. Us!
“Put your hands up.” the guy in front screams again, even more impatiently. Seemingly our hands finally listen to our brains because we both put our hands up, me still somewhat in back of Megan. “Move, hands to the wall, now,” he bellows. Our bodies finally wake up and we both shuffle to the wall.
“What is going on?” Megan screams, at the same time I ask no one in particular, “What the hell?”
“FBI and ATF,” a loud voice says, coming from behind us. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”
Megan, finally finding her bitch from within and I’m thinking she didn’t have to dig deep, replies, “You can’t just barge into my house.”
“Ma’am, we have a Federal Warrant to search your home so settle down, we’re gonna be here a while,” he replies with an irritating tone.
“How did you get in?” Megan demands.
“Lady with the vacuum,” was the big guy’s only answer.
“I can’t believe it. I’m firing them all!” Megan says, turning her face to the wall.
Ohmygoodness.
My heart is beating through my chest. I mean, I’m an interior decorator for heaven’s sake! How does this happen, standing in the hallway of my high school friend’s house with my hands against the wall? The past few years I’ve gone out of my way to make sure my life is mundane, if not seriously boring. I’ve lived through some not fun times and believe you me, I’ll take mundane any day of week.
“We’ve gotta secure the area,” the voice informs us. “But first I’ve gotta ask, do either of you have any weapons?”
“Of course not,” Megan throws her answer over her shoulder with a dirty look. “I have three small children, do I look like I would carry a weapon?”
“Oh shit,” I mutter under my breath and squeeze my eyes shut as I drop my head between my arms.
“What? You have a weapon?” Megan screeches at the same time the air in the room goes tense.
“Um,” I open my eyes to look up at her shocked face and then over my shoulder, “I have a permit?” I say, but my answer comes out as a question to the big group of men dressed in black. “It’s in my purse, here I’ll get it for you,” I take my hand away from the wall to go to my silver and cream purse still hanging from my shoulder. When all of a sudden, my wrist is in a vice grip pulled tight behind my back and I can’t help but let out a surprised scream.
“Don’t move,” a new, deep and raspy voice comes from in back of me. I find myself pressed flat with my chest against the wall, my other wrist joining the vice grip of the first, forcing my head to the side with my cheek to the wall. “Why are you carryin’?”
“Ah…well,” at a loss for words, trying to take in my new precarious position. “I always have my gun with me, I have a Conceal and Carry Permit, it’s in my purse with my gun. Look for yourself.”
My purse is roughly yanked down my shoulder, the vice grip barely loses hold to get it off my arm. I can see him toss it to someone in back of us before I hear the clanking of metal when suddenly I sense them, cold and hard on my wrists. I suck in a breath and feel the metal biting into my skin, only to realize I’ve been handcuffed.
“What?” my panicked voice whispers in a high pitch.
“I cannot believe you have a gun,” Megan enunciating every syllable using all the drama she can muster, I’m sure. “You brought a gun into my house. You are crazy Gabrielle Carpino! Cra-zee!”
I can’t concentrate on Megan’s drama. This is because all of the sudden I feel big, warm hands on my shoulders, sliding slowly down the sides of my cream silk tank, dipping under my breasts pressing just hard enough to make me shiver. The big hands hesitate slightly before pressing down my torso, rounding my waist, over my hips and down the front of my thighs covering my gold pencil skirt with the cute little kick pleats along the back. I pull in a lung full of air when those hands glide over my ass and I feel warm hands come up my bare legs, one at a time, under my skirt on the inside of my thighs, causing an even deeper, very audible gasp.
“She’s clear,” the deep voice drawls.
I am yanked around, the big hand now tight but not quite painful, on my bicep and starts pulling-pushing me down the hall. I looked up and to my right to the profile of the man dragging me through Megan’s house. He’s tall, he has a good five inches on me in my heels. He’s taken off his helmet so I can appreciate his very dark hair, almost black, cut short but left a little longish on the top with a wave making it messy, I’m guessing from his helmet.
I can’t help but think he looks good with helmet hair.
My eyes move down to his jaw, strong and square, even from the side. His complexion is dark, but not like he’s spent time in the sun. No, it was more like he has a hint of Latin or Hispanic in him, but like me, not fully ethnic. All of this, coupled with a day or two of stubble is such an appealing concoction that I can’t pull my eyes from him.
Since I’m gawking at the man dragging me through Megan’s house, I’m not paying attention to where he’s steering me so when my heel catches on an area rug, I stumble forward. I feel myself yanked back up and righted on my feet by the big guy as he mutters, “Careful.”
I look back up and he is glaring down at me now, with eyes so brown they look like melted dark chocolate. His dark heavy brows are frowning, but I can’t take my eyes off the ultra-dark lashes framing those melty eyes, thinking most women would kill for those lashes. Still not fully paying attention, I find myself yanked around, a-freaking-gain and pushed slash tossed with my ass landing on a sofa in Megan’s formal living room. As he stalks away, I try to pull myself up straight with my hands still cuffed behind my back and find myself breathing hard.
Only Megan Harper would get me into such a ridiculous state of affairs. I mean, just fifteen minutes ago I was standing in her new laundry room (which I designed, by the way), watching a whole different version of ridiculousness play out in front of me. Thinking back over my morning as I sit here in cuffs for the first time in my life, I cannot believe I am where I am right now.
My morning started with Megan squealing, “It’s amazing. Perfect. I cannot believe how much I love it!”
My eyes move to the right to see my outrageous high school friend squealing, bouncing on her Manolo Blahnik hot pink, sling back strappy heels relishing the finishing touches of her new and absolutely ostentatious laundry room. I exhale, praying for patience as my head turns to follow the path of my eyes to fully take in Megan Harper, still bouncing on the newly installed tumbled marble travertine floors. Standing in a laundry room that would rival some of the most amazing kitchens, I scrutinize my handy work, months of handy work, look back over to my friend and with a small smile reply, “I’m so glad you’re happy, Megs.”
“Happy? Happy?” she bursts. “I don’t know how we ever made do with the old one.”
Seriously?
It was all I could do not to roll my eyes.
You see, Megan Harper and I went to high school together back in the day. She was from a fun, happy, middle class family and we always ran in the same circles though we were never BFFs. Now she exaggerates our friendship, stating I was the BFF she couldn’t have managed her high school years without, but whatever. That’s Megan. Dramatic. She always has been and it escalated to epic proportions when she married into money. We went our separate ways for college, her going to the University of Kansas, me staying close to home.
At KU, she caught the eye of her husband, Trevor Harper, who to this day creeps me way the hell out. He comes from money, apparently lots of it. He majored in partying and loose girls, but Megan was “in love” the minute she met him and caught his eye.
He’s not bad looking, taller than average but not tall, ashy blonde hair that is borderline over styled and his body is nothing to sneeze at, either. He and Megan work out with a trainer three times a week, so he stays fit and she stays boney thin which she says he likes and she tells me how much he likes it way more than I like it. He never graduated from KU, or anywhere else for the matter, but apparently does well enough at whatever he does to set his wife and three little kids up in what you can only call for the size of my hometown of Omaha, a “McMansion”.
They reside in a 7,300 square foot home (Megan told me) just outside of town, sitting on 15 acres with a tennis court and pool. Although it is almost thirty years old, it was mostly renovated when they purchased it 3 years ago. The Tudor style home, faced with light stone and dark heavy trim is sprawling and inset in a mass of trees so far off the road, you would never know it’s there. It’s late August, so the English Ivy is still in full bloom creeping up one side of the house where the long winding lane leads you to a side load four car garage, with an additional two detached from the house. I have no idea what Trevor does to support such a lifestyle. All Megan ever says is, “…investments, side businesses, ya know, stuff like that.”
Like I said, what-e-ver.
Megan is a couple inches shorter than me, I’m five-seven but my four inch snake skin print heels boost me close to five eleven (they’re no Manolo’s, but I still think they kick sexy shoe ass). She’s also way skinnier than me. I’m not blind to the fact I have lots of great curves, but with those curves comes a body that doesn’t like carbs and needs exercised routinely to keep my curves in the right places, if you know what I mean. Megan has very blonde hair with roots that always look perfect. I, on the other hand, have embraced my natural dark blonde thick locks for what they are and seem to make it work in a Jennifer Aniston kind of way. Well, when she has dark blonde hair, that is. It seems to work with my olive skin tone that I get from the Italian side of my family, so I go with it.
Megan looks up with a face full of mock-shock, “You rock Gabrielle Carpino. You’re going to be listed in the ‘Laundry Rooms Hall of Fame,’ known as the ‘The Laundry Room Goddess,’ and when people Google laundry rooms, nothing will come up besides ‘Gabrielle Carpino, Laundry Room Legend!’” At this point, her hands were on her hips with full on Laundry Room Attitude and her very bleached blonde hair was seriously being tossed around.
Trying not to be snarky while laughing at the absurdity of it all, I try to throw a genuine smile her way and elect to go with, “Meg, girlie, it means a lot to me you’re this happy.”
I mean, the room does rock, if I do say so myself. The lightly distressed cream cabinets that cover the perimeter of two walls are custom made, with the above counter cabinets going clear to the twelve foot ceiling, all dressed with heavy iron knobs and pulls. The top rows of square cabinets have inlayed iron and seeded glass for display. I know, I know, display in a laundry room is a little OTT, but these cabinets are sweet and deserve to be shown off. Currently, they are displaying silver service trays, muted crockery in sages, yellows, reds, blues, plums with bits of brown and black showcasing designs of everything from sunflowers, fruits and even a rooster.
Because the space is so large, I added a four foot by eight foot island in the middle of the room made with matching cabinetry, but instead of cream they are stained a brown so dark they appear to be streaked with ebony. Over the island hangs a huge, oblong chandelier. It. Is. Awesome! It’s crafted of dark heavy iron with scrolls and swirls, tons of little lights woven in with just enough crystals hanging to soften the edges to balance out the heaviness of the iron for an almost feminine feel. The chandelier, which is just for show is an amazing center piece, but the halogens inset in the ceiling give off the real light of room.
The third wall houses a bank of six locker style cubbies crafted out of the dark stained wood, one for each member of the family with one extra just in case Megan decides she “needs another baby”. At six feet tall, each locker is wide enough for three hooks, a bench to sit on to slip shoes on and off with a cubby underneath for storage. Above the hooks is another shallow cubby, each with electrical outlet for charging devices or other small incidentals. Next to the bank of lockers are two dark stained cabinets built to look like armoires with doors that open to the floor. One houses sweepers, vacuums, ironing essentials, rods for hanging damp clothes and other such household items that I am sure Megan has never used herself! She has her house professionally cleaned once a week with a girl coming an additional time for “touch ups,” Megan’s description. The second armoire is stocked to the gills with decadent gift wrap, ribbon, bows and boxes of crafts for the kids.
The counter tops are polished travertine as Megan simply couldn’t find a granite that she could live with. They are light with gorgeous veining of browns, greys and blacks that run along the two walls of base cabinets, housing a deep farm house porcelain sink on the long wall.
It might be weird, but I have a thing about sinks and this one is seriously the bomb. Single basin, so deep and wide you could bathe a medium size dog in there easily (not that Megan is going to do this, of course). It’s finished off with a tall, arched faucet with a pull down spray nozzle.
The counter tops turn the corner to the short wall of the room and continue over the front load, stainless steel washer and dryer. The heavily tumbled marble travertine tiles on the floors are laid in a Venetian pattern and are three shades darker than the counter tops.
The counters are spotted with seeded glass apothecary jars, a gift from me, of all sizes and shapes filled with items such as clothes pins, cleaning powders and cleaners. I am sure Megan will never use any of them, I’m not even sure she even does her own laundry, but they’re super cute and cried out to me when I saw them because they matched the seeded glass perfectly in the upper cabinets.
Megan, in her hot pink sundress to match her perfect shoes, goes on, “Seriously, you don’t charge enough. It’s amazing!”
This does make me roll my eyes because I charge plenty for my decor services.
“Please, Megan. You’ve paid your invoice, you know that’s not true. I just stopped by with the final touches, do you like the apothecary jars?” I asked. At the end of any project, I always find a little something-something for the space as a gift to my clients, a thank you from me.
“Never would have thought to put them there myself. Looks like a magazine, I cannot wait for Trevor to see it. He’s out of town this morning, had a quick trip come up at the last minute and left right before you got here. My girls are here cleaning so I will get them in here and show them around. The kids will be back soon from the park with Pam and we are going to get their stuff loaded into the lockers.” As she walks around the island still admiring her new room, she turns to me, “My next project is their playroom in the basement. As soon as Trev gives me the ‘all go’, I’ve got to get on your calendar. I don’t know if it’s too much to hope for, but it would be great if we could have that done by Christmas. I’m thinking Pottery Barn-ish, ya know, but Gabby-style. I’m sure you can come up with something even better. Why you ever went into accounting, I will never know.”
Just when I was about to pretend to check my calendar, knowing full and well there is no way I can fit that project in before Christmas with the five others I am currently working on, we heard the ruckus. The ruckus that led to me being cuffed and tossed upon Megan’s sofa by the tall, dark, big guy with messy (note: sexy) hair.
As I calm down while retracing my crazy-ass morning, I’m finally able to take in the activity around me. There has to be six to eight of these police-like guys prowling around in and out of the room. I look across the entry way to the dining room to see Megan’s three cleaning ladies seated in dining chairs separated by a good amount of space, all looking pale and freaked. I find myself wondering if I look the same, all the while, wondering where they put Megan.
“Miz Carpino?” a voice comes at me.
I look up to see an older man in his black macho police uniform. He’s big in a way that you can tell he could still take down a bad guy even though he’s carrying some weight that isn’t muscle. His salt and pepper hair is short and the smile lines coming out from his eyes make him seem a little less scary in his black formidable police getup.
“Yes?” I respond.
He’s walking toward me holding my purse, what looks like either my driver’s license or Conceal and Carry Permit and my little Bodyguard Smith and Wesson 380. If you could call a gun cute, mine would be super cute. It’s small, fits my hand well and almost every purse I own. Gun manufacturers have begun making guns in different colors in recent years to attract women buyers. But this gun was a gift from my uncles and even though there was this little pink handgun I had my eye on, they put all three of their right feet down simultaneously and denied me the pink little gun. They said this is the one I need, it has a good safety, a laser and a long trigger pull that my uncle Gino said, “You’re gonna have to mean to pull that trigger, sweet girl, no accidents with that trigger,” but added, “besides, we’re men and hunters, Gabby, we’re not buying a pink gun.” So there you go. I own a black gun. But black matches everything, right?
“Your C and C checks out, but we gotta keep this until we’re done here and if you’re released, you can have it back,” he tersely informs me.
“If I’m released? If I’m released? What’s going on? Am I under arrest? And why am I handcuffed? I know my rights,” I semi-yell, finally getting my wits about me, shooting off every thought that pops into my head.
“We’ve gotta warrant to search the home and land. Agent Ortiz will be around in a sec to ask you some questions. If he clears you, you can go,” he answers.
“Can I call someone?” I shoot back.
“Maybe in a minute,” Salt and Pepper returns.
“Well, I know my rights,” I decide haughty is the way to go. “I’m not answering any questions until I call my attorney. I’d like to make that call now…please…if I may.”
I could try and be haughty all the live long day, but in the end my mother’s southern manners that are so deeply ingrained win out.
Salt and Pepper looks down and his lips barely tip up as he replies, “Sure. You can call your attorney.”
The way he says it I’m surprised he didn’t hold up both hands making little air quotes with his fingers. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he found me amusing.
“Thank you, my phone is in my purse,” I inform him and he starts rummaging for my phone.
“Ortiz,” Salt and Pepper yells while digging through my purse. “This one wants to make a call, can I uncuff her? Says she won’t talk to any one until she calls her,” and he looks up before finishing, “attorney.”
Yep, he’s clearly making fun of me now so I give him a glare and small frown.
“Yeah,” I hear coming from around the corner. I look up to see Hot Helmet Hair, who also must be known as Agent Ortiz. Hmm, maybe I was right about the Latin in him. “Just don’t let her move, we’ve gotta find out why she’s here.”
Salt and Pepper comes over with a ring of keys, I turn as ladylike as I can in my pencil skirt with my hands cuffed behind my back and he bends over to unlock me. Since I’ve never been cuffed before, I never would have thought that removing cuffs would feel so damn good.
He hands me my phone, I slide the lock on the screen, go to my favorites, find who I need and hit call. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I pull myself up to full posture and cross my legs hoping to muster a bit of decorum after being squished up against a wall, searched for weapons and cuffed. Looking up, I see Agent Ortiz and Salt and Pepper towering over me. Agent Ortiz is observing me with a cocked eyebrow and incredulous look.
Dropping my head to find some make believe privacy, I say the only thing I can say when Tony answers, “Hey…um…I’m in a tiny bit of a situation.”