Chapter Seven
Kiara
I ran a bath, even though the sound of more water was the last thing I wanted to hear. The thunder still rumbled, but now the sound was distant, muffled by the many rooms and imposing frame of the Brickman Estate. I felt safe, tucked away, in a world apart. The storm couldn't touch the Brickmans, just like the rest of the world.
I slipped into the hot bath and groaned with delight. It was hard to think about how many days I had gone without a shower or clean clothes.
A sudden wave of trauma crashed over me, and silent tears mixed with the lavender bathwater. I felt foolish and weak, but I was finally safe, and the relief was overwhelming. I let it carry me on wave after wave of emotion as I soaked in the ridiculously large, sunken bathtub.
When my eyes finally cleared, I noticed the ceiling of the bathroom reached up into a dome, similar to the little folly chapel far out in the garden, except a skylight capped this dome, and two custom-made shelves held a wide variety of plants up to the light. Ivy cascaded down the stone walls and tangled among the ferns that grew in large urns around the edges of the tub.
"More like a grotto than a bathroom," I muttered, but it came out a relaxed sigh.
There was something to be said for the comforts of luxury.
That thought had me dragging myself out of the bath and toweling off roughly. Of course, it felt good, but that didn't mean that I needed it. No one needed to live the way Teddy Brickman did. His money and his lifestyle made him practically inhuman.
Except for in the kitchen as he struggled to hold the whisk just right. Teddy had chopped the herbs with such studied concentration that his tongue had stuck out the corner of his mouth—that smiling, charming mouth that was always so quick to say just the right thing.
He’d made it seem so sincere.
I wrapped a white, terrycloth robe around myself and ventured into the bedroom. The four-post bed called out to my aching, traumatized body, but I stopped when I saw the royal-blue, monogrammed, silk pajamas. Maybe Teddy was sincere, I thought.
I untied the robe and tossed it over an antique chair. The silk pajamas slipped over my head, and I felt every caress, as if it were Teddy's hands. My cheeks were warm, but my mind was burning with unwanted thoughts of Teddy's lips, curved in another smile, leaning close to sweep across mine.
No, impossible. I shook my head and busied myself by going around the room and dousing the many lanterns. Soon, just the firelight flickered, but the low light only encouraged me to indulge in more secret thoughts.
Was Teddy Brickman really off limits?
That was something I had told myself from the very first time I saw him. Rich boy, not for you. It was an automatic response. I had given in to enough childhood daydreams to know that people like Teddy Brickman took one look at my life and dismissed me.
But Teddy seemed determined to be part of my life. He'd walk through a storm just to convince me to use his home as shelter.
I felt my chest squeeze. That was the problem. I was a charity case to Teddy. He still felt guilty about the cottage burning down. Once he was over feeling bad, Teddy Brickman would forget about me and get back to his jet-setting life. Though, he had talked about how much he hated it.
I paced around the large bedroom once again, just for good measure, but by the time I reached the four-post bed, I was still agitated. I perched on the edge, my feet far off the hardwood floor, and started to recite recipes to myself. It was the only surefire way I knew to calm myself down.
I thought about all the basic recipes Donna Martin made me memorize. How to make dough and bake bread. How to mix and roll out fresh pasta. As I focused on a complicated stew, my favorite relaxation technique, I found myself daydreaming of cooking in Teddy's magnificent kitchen.
The thought took hold, and a devilish voice started to whisper in my ear. I was Teddy Brickman's guest; no one would mind if I took another peak at that heavenly kitchen. No one would mind if I mixed up a coffee cake batter and baked it for the morning. It would be the perfect thank you for me to leave behind.
If I made something for Teddy, then I wouldn't be a charity case anymore. We would be equals.
With a satisfactory plan decided, I slipped into the cloud-like bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.
When I awoke, though, there was a blush on my cheeks. The fire and the storm had stayed away, but Teddy was there in my dreams. We were jostling each other in the kitchen, laughing, his smiling lips stealing kisses as I slipped him tastes of a sumptuous meal.
I jumped off the bed and slipped out the door to the wide hallway. On the way through the sitting room, I grabbed my still-soaked clothes and told myself I was really just looking for the laundry. It was just past seven in the morning, but the windows remained as dark as midnight. The storm had settled into a heavy cloud cover as the rain pattered down without pause.
Most of the lanterns had dimmed as their fuel ran out, so I squinted and shuffled my way through the palatial house. At the foot of the stairs, I froze, wondering what I had just heard, then the crystal chandelier above me blazed to life. I covered my eyes as every light in the house was on, and the effect was dazzling.
"Ms. Davies," a formal voice greeted me from the bright kitchen doorway. "May I help you with something?"
Teddy's butler, whom he teased by calling his housekeeper, gestured for me to join him in the kitchen. As I walked closer, Vincent Jeffry spotted the monogram on my pajamas, and he sucked in an audible breath.
"I'm sorry," I said immediately, "I accidentally mentioned pajamas to Teddy and he got me his own. I should have asked you."
Vincent Jeffry let the ghost of a smile chase across his pursed lips. "I've never known Mr. Theodore to be so generous. You are a welcome difference."
"Difference?" A cascade of embarrassment rushed down over me as I thought about the other women who visited the Brickman Estate. There was no way I could compare. They probably had entire trousseaus of perfect outfits. They didn't need to borrow a man's pajamas.
I crossed my arms over my chest and squelched my still-wet clothing. "I was really just looking for the laundry," I said.
Vincent Jeffry waved away my comment. "Clearly, you are more than a guest, Ms. Davies, and I can do much better than dry your, ah, outfit."
He plucked the sodden clothes from my hands and tossed them in a pristine, silver garbage can.
"More than a guest?" I asked. "I'm not a charity case, Vinny. In fact-"
He held up another hand. "We may have sat together at lunch, but I prefer you understand and respect my role in this household."
"I respect your role. I respect your profession. The Brickmans are lucky to have you. Do they know that?" I stopped struggling to get around his rigid frame to retrieve my clothes and slapped my fists on my hips. "And all due respect, but can we at least stop with the formal names?"
Vincent Jeffry threw back his shoulders and gave me a proud stare. "If you respect my profession so much, Ms. Davies, then why do you refuse to let me do my job?"
I had to grin as my old friend glowered at me. "Fine. Yes. What would the almighty butler do in this situation?"
His smile cracked through again as Vincent Jeffry led me down to the laundry room. One entire long wall of the laundry room was lined with doors. Each was a cedar closet with seasonal clothing pressed and stored in perfect lines. Vincent Jeffry pulled open the far closet door and then stepped back.
"What is all that?" I asked. I stepped forward and peered into the walk-in closet.
"This is the Brickman Estate lost and found," Vincent Jeffry said. "I only keep what is too elegant or expensive to give away. We'll have you outfitted in no time."
I backed away. "Oh, no. I'm not putting on used, fancy clothes and parading around like a fool."
He shooed me into the cedar closet and began tossing clothes at me. "Do you really think I'm going to let you look like a fool?"
"These clothes are not me. This one is hand-woven lace, for God's sake." I began to panic. "Can't rich people ever just wear black pants and a shirt?"
My friend took it as a personal challenge. He sorted through a cabinet full of pants until he found a woman's pair in my size. Vincent Jeffry placated me by choosing a soft, blue twin set over a silk, patterned blouse.
"There's even a nice pair of black heels that are your size."
I was lost in the softness of the cashmere twin set. I had never felt anything so soft in my entire life. It was like holding a piece of the sky. "I'm just going to ruin them. Break a heel, tear the pants, or stain the cashmere cardigan. You can't sacrifice these elegant clothes to such a lowly end."
"Enough," Vincent Jeffry barked. It was hard to tell what shocked me more, his sudden outburst or what he said next. "I can't stand to hear you badmouth yourself another second.
“You're Kiara Davies. You're the girl who marched right up to the principal and told him how unfairly the math teacher was treating us. You're the girl who stood up when the crowd was making Julie Schumacher cry. You're a Davies, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that."
"You're right," I said, following meekly as he showed me where to change in the laundry bathroom. "I am proud of who I am. I just know that I don't fit in here."
"Yes, you do." Vincent Jeffry grabbed both my shoulders. "You've been invited to the Brickman's home for every party and holiday they have ever hosted. Mr. Brickman thinks the world of your family and always had me send a personal invitation to your father."
My throat closed up. "He never told me."
Vincent Jeffry's eyes softened with sad understanding. "I should have sent them directly to you. Your father was too busy. Oh, Kiara, it's all my fault!"
"Well, invited or not, I don't feel right taking clothes I can't afford." I tried to shove the perfect outfit back at him, but Vincent Jeffry shut the door in my face.
Then, he called through the door. "You are always invited. Your family has a standing welcome at any time. Your father never took advantage, but that doesn't mean you can't accept the kindness. It's not charity, Kiara; it's your neighbors looking out for you."
I faced the mirror and tried not to believe him. I had just recently realized the bond my father had with Teddy's family, and it felt surreal. They had been the faraway, elegant family living in their forty-room mansion. The world over the fence, completely different from my own, down to each blade of manicured lawn.
Now, not only was I inside the Brickman Estate, but I found out that I had always been welcome there. I could have knocked on the door any time and found it opened wide. I was the only one who assumed I was not welcome. My pride and stubbornness had gotten in the way again.
I looked at my choices and laughed at myself. Either I could wander the elegant mansion in a ratty, destroyed outfit, or I could borrow some clothes and be a decent guest. I got dressed and went out into the laundry room to hear what Vincent Jeffry would say.
"Welcome to Brickman Estate, Ms. Davies," he said with a broad smile.
"Thanks, Vinny. Now, how about some breakfast?"
"Right this way, Ms. Davies. The Brickmans take their breakfast in the morning room," Vincent Jeffry said as he led me upstairs.
He tried to shoo me down a hidden servants’ hallway towards the formal rooms, but I pushed back. "What's wrong with the kitchen? I wanted to make everyone a coffee cake, something to say thank you. I'll clean up after myself."
He blocked the narrow passageway and glanced nervously over his shoulder towards the kitchen. He wanted to avoid that area, but he wasn't going to say why.
"You don't want me to go in the kitchen because you think I'm going to spill something on these nice clothes, don't you?" I asked to provoke him.
"No, it's just-"
I slipped past him and headed for the kitchen. Then, I saw what Vincent Jeffry wanted to keep hidden. The Brickman's personal chef, an up and coming rock star in the culinary world, was slumped in the chair by the fireplace. Toast sat neglected in the toaster, getting cold and chewy. The egg carton sat open and ignored on the kitchen island. The young man smelled of booze and drooled a little while he slept.
I was more shocked by how Vincent Jeffry tiptoed around the slovenly worker. If it had been anyone else, there would have been sharp condemnation and an instant firing.
"Is he really so great?" I asked at my normal volume.
He flapped his hands to quiet me down. "His name gives the estate a certain cachet, even if most of his food lately has been, ah, uninspired."
I snorted and clanged the kettle in the large basin sink. "Looks like he's ruining his good name right now," I observed.
"Chef Nolan is supposed to be a genius," Vincent Jeffry said in a defensive tone.
I eyeballed the ingredients. "Chef Nolan is lazy and hungover."
The young chef woke with a start when I banged the kettle down on the eight-burner stove top. When his blurry eyes focused on me, he gave a lecherous smile that made my skin crawl. Then, he saw Vincent Jeffry, and his eyes narrowed.
"Trying to replace me, you stuffy bootlicker?" Chef Nolan asked. He heaved himself up from the chair and wove his way over to the kitchen island. "Not that I condemn your choice. Pretty lady to look at in the kitchen might be nice."
Vincent Jeffry drew himself up, almost a full foot taller than the upstart chef. "Ms. Davies is a guest, and you will treat her with the proper respect."
Chef Nolan's bloodshot eyes glowed a little brighter, and he sidled around the kitchen island. "Then let me help, my lady. Perhaps you would like a shot of Turkish coffee. It's a tricky preparation, but I can show you."
"No, thank you," I said, repulsed. "How about you tell me what's for breakfast?"
The young chef sniffled as he turned to the kitchen island and the scattered ingredients. "Omelets," he said in a dull tone.
"We had omelets late last night. Not feeling inspired?" I asked.
Chef Nolan gave Vincent Jeffry a nasty look. "How can I be when the butler here keeps killing my creativity? I don't mean to shock you, my lady, but this servant is a tyrant. He drives us all like slaves and then complains that our work is uninspired."
I bristled at his accusations. Chef Nolan was relying on the cachet of his name to excuse his behavior, but to point a finger at someone else was inexcusable. If I had been any number of Teddy's friends, I would have taken the complaint straight to him and demanded that Vincent Jeffry be put in his place.
I locked eyes with the hungover young man. "Vincent Jeffry has a long and impeccable work history, plus his personal connections to the neighborhood and families here. You've chosen the wrong person to try to blame for your inadequacies."
"What, are you slumming it with the butler?" Chef Nolan spat at me. "I don't need this job. I should be in Manhattan, working in my own restaurant."
I marched to the side door and pulled it open. "Good luck. Without a recommendation from the Brickmans, you may find it difficult to get financing, but people say that inspiration comes from hard work."
Vincent Jeffry stepped forward, and I was afraid he would ingratiate himself to the lazy chef just to keep the peace. Instead, Teddy's butler towered over the other man and stuck a finger straight in the middle of Chef Nolan's chest.
"Your roast beef was inedible, your filleting techniques are a disgrace, and you wouldn't know a wine pairing from a bottle in a brown bag. On top of which, you were slow, rude, slovenly, and prone to infantile tantrums. You are no longer welcome here, Mr. Nolan," Vincent Jeffry said.
Chef Nolan started to open his mouth, but I cut him off. "If you have one shred of decency left, you will use it to keep your mouth shut. Leave now and maybe you can salvage some of your reputation. God knows it doesn't look like you have much else."
Chef Nolan stormed out the door, and we shut it behind him with a sigh of relief.
A sigh that turned to a gasp when we turned around and saw Teddy standing in the kitchen door. Then, he smiled and said, "Are we making omelets again?"
Vincent Jeffry waited for a lecture on the hiring and firing of famous chefs. I waited for Teddy to notice my new outfit. He strolled to the cabinet and pulled out a coffee mug. I rushed to fill the French press and finish brewing the coffee.
"You know, it might be good for me to know how to make my own coffee. Can you show me?" Teddy asked.
"Turkish or regular?" I asked.
Vincent Jeffry smothered a laugh, then smoothed out his countenance. "Mr. Theodore, I apologize for letting Chef Nolan go. I promise we will have a decent replacement before this weekend."
Teddy nodded absently as he scooted around the kitchen island to hover over my shoulder. "I trust you, Vinny."
Vincent Jeffry pursed his lips at the nickname and left us to our coffee lessons.
"First, you should know where your coffee grinder is," I said.
Teddy followed me down the kitchen counter. "I think maybe first I should know what a coffee grinder looks like," he joked.
When I reached for a fresh bag of whole coffee beans, my sleeve brushed Teddy's arm.
"You look lovely, by the way," he said in my ear.
I opened my mouth to confess about the laundry room lost and found, but realized it didn't matter. It was a simple and easy compliment. "Thank you," I said. "Now, do you really want to learn how to make breakfast, or were you just being nice?"
Teddy chuckled. "What I'd really like to learn how to do is crack an egg one-handed. Can you do that?"
We abandoned the coffee grinder in favor of the already brewed coffee and the ingredients Chef Nolan had left scattered on the kitchen island. It was disconcerting how close Teddy was to me—and how every accidental touch shot through me like a current of electricity.
"I used to make frittatas and egg bakes just so I had an excuse for practicing cracking an egg one-handed," I told him.
Teddy brushed my long hair over my shoulder as he watched me take an egg from the carton. "Where did you learn to cook?"
"Donna Martin. She was the head cook for the big house on the other side of my property. She used to use me as an assistant during all the big, holiday meals," I told him. "Though, now that I think about it, I bet she was just tricking me into her kitchen like I was a stray dog. It's not easy for my family to get together for the holidays."
Teddy shook his head at my “stray dog” comment, then brought the focus back to breakfast. "So, what would Donna Martin make of all this?"
"Well," I said, pouring Teddy a cup of coffee, "we had omelets last night, so I think we should make savory pancakes and sausages this morning."
"I had savory pancakes once," Teddy said. "In Tuscany."
"I've never been to France, but Donna Martin schooled me in French cooking. First, we're going to need some herbs." I led him to the small, bright conservatory just to the left of the side door. There were rows of fresh herbs growing in polished terracotta pots.
Teddy eyed the darkened windows. "Glad we don't have to go out to the garden. I'm not sure I can handle any more stumbling around in the storm."
I plucked a few bunches of herbs and turned back to the kitchen with a sigh. "I suppose the rain is going to stop my cleanup work."
"Good, then we can both take a day off. It might take the whole day for me to learn the difference between those little green leaves."
It felt wonderful to move freely around the Brickman's big kitchen. I pushed up my sleeves and marveled again at the softness of the cashmere. It was a completely different world than the now muddy pit of charred debris I had been facing. I knew it was weak, but I let the rain be my excuse to enjoy myself just for a little while.
Teddy was a surprise. He helped where he could and watched every move I made. Our conversation ranged from cooking to travel to growing up on Long Island.
"I remember my mother making scrambled eggs," Teddy said as I slipped the savory pancakes onto two plates. "She always added cheddar cheese, just for me."
"How old were you?"
He scooped up the plates. "Four or five. We had a little hotplate she used to plug in by the sink."
I wondered why his memory didn't match the outlandish space of the Brickman kitchen, then noticed he was walking towards the door with the two plates. "Wait. Where are you going?"
"To the morning room. Vinny would be insulted if we didn't take our repast there. He's set everything up to impress you."
"Impress me?" I scoffed. "He knows he doesn't have to do that."
"Fine, then don't be impressed," Teddy joked as he led the way to the morning room.
It was impossible not to pause in the beautiful archway. The morning room was a long, narrow space dominated by a wall of high windows. White lace curtains as delicate as silken spider webs stood out starkly against the storm-gray sky. Two places had been set with sterling silverware and fine china. Teddy plunked our plates down on top of the delicately patterned china and then held my chair out for me.
"It's much more pleasant when there's actually sun. You'll see tomorrow," Teddy said.
"Tomorrow?" I gulped.
He poured me a glass of champagne from the ice bucket stand next to his chair. "It's supposed to storm all day and into the night. So, how about we make lunch plans, as well? I've always wanted to know how people make Monte Cristo sandwiches."
I looked at the threatening clouds. They rolled by, held at bay by the delicate lace curtains and the bright, sparkling chandeliers of the morning room. Teddy held up his champagne flute, and I gave in.
"To the storm," I said.
"I've never been so grateful for bad weather in my life," he toasted with a smile.
I felt another frisson of electricity from that smile and knew it was more than the storm building up between us.