Passionate Pleasures (6 page)

“You have nice manners, Mr. Blair. I charge fifteen dollars an hour. I’ll do your cleaning, the laundry, and if you want to leave me a list, I’ll do the shopping once a week for you. Hank at the IGA will set up a house account for you. I’ll come in twice weekly. Tuesdays and Fridays if that’s suitable.”

“Yes,” Tim said. “Are you an angel?” He smiled at her.

Mrs. Bills chuckled. “Doris Kirk said you had charm, and you do. Now finish your roll and coffee and get dressed. With no curtains on those windows everyone in Egret Pointe will be talking. This is a small town, Mr. Blair, and gossip is the chief entertainment in a small town. Since we’re agreed I’ll go home and get some cleaning supplies. I don’t imagine you thought to pick up any yesterday afternoon at the IGA.”

“Guilty as charged, ma’am,” he replied.

She nodded. “Be dressed by the time I get back, which will be in fifteen minutes, Mr. Blair. I don’t live far.” And then Mrs. Bills was gone out his front door.

Timothy Blair laughed, genuinely amused. Mrs. Bills was a character for certain, but he knew right away that she was a godsend, and they were going to get along. He suspected that even if she had had his cell phone number she wouldn’t have called. She would have come because she wanted to get a look at him, evaluate the situation. If she hadn’t liked him, she wouldn’t have offered to work for him. Timothy Blair realized that he was very lucky. He would remember to thank Doris Kirk.

By the time the movers arrived that afternoon, closer to two than one, Tim noted, Mrs. Bills had washed all the windows, vacuumed the floors, dusted the woodwork and the bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, and cleaned the bathroom and the entire kitchen.

“Martha Torkelsen kept a clean stove and fridge,” Mrs. Bills observed, “but the house has been shut up for almost six months now. You know where you want the furniture placed?”

“Pretty much,” Tim said.

“Do you have carpets?” she wanted to know.

He nodded. “Too many for this house, I’m afraid. I had them cleaned and wrapped before the movers came. I had the cleaner mark the sizes on the wrapping.”

“Good,” she said. “They can unload the carpets first. I’ll tell you which one will fit the living room, which one your bedroom. What are you going to do in the old dining room? Will you need a carpet in there? And what about a runner for this hall? The floors will be ruined if they don’t have a runner.”

“I’m going to use the smaller room as a study,” he said. “And no, I don’t have a runner. Is there somewhere I can go and purchase one?”

“I’ll take you myself as soon as the movers have left,” Mrs. Bills said firmly.

When the van from the city pulled up, his angel, as Tim had begun to think of Mrs. Bills, was outside immediately, directing it to back into the driveway. And then she took complete charge of the movers. “I’ll want the carpets before you take a single thing off of that truck,” she said.

“No can do, lady,” the driver said. “Them carpets was loaded up first.”

Hands on her ample hips, Evie Bills looked up at the driver. “Now, my dear,” she said in reasonable tones, “I can’t have you bringing furniture into the house with no carpets to set them on. You’re putting the cart before the horse. I’m sure you can get those carpets out for me, and then set the rolls on the drive so Mr. Blair and I can see which go where. Some will have to go into the cellar, as this wee house isn’t as big as his apartment in New York, is it?” She smiled at him.

The van driver considered her words.

“And when you boys are finished, I’ve a nice plate of sandwiches just made, for I expect you’ve had no lunch yet, and a fresh batch of cookies I baked this morning for you,” Mrs. Bills said.

The van driver laughed. “All right,” he said. “I expect we’ll get to those sandwiches and cookies a lot faster if we do what you say, lady.”

“Indeed you will,” Mrs. Bills agreed.

“Mike! Pete! Get them carpets first, and lay the rolls in the drive. The lady will tell you where they go,” the van driver said with a chuckle.

Timothy Blair watched in amazement as Mrs. Bills handled the rough movers with all the skill of a lion tamer. The carpets were unloaded, and the cleaning woman identified which ones would fit in the three rooms needing them. None of them would clash with the upholstered furniture. One, an antique green Chinese floral, would go in the living room. A dark red-and-blue antique Persian rug was laid in his study; a beige-and-blue Oriental rug fit perfectly from wall to wall in his bedroom. The three remaining carpets were directed to the cellar.

“I’ll have Mr. Bills come in and build you some racks,” Mrs. Bills said. “Those carpets have to be off the floor. This is a good, dry basement, but still.” She then proceeded to have the furniture off-loaded into the driveway bit by bit, while Tim indicated which would go in which room. Mrs. Bills had those pieces set aside in one spot on the little front lawn. The rest of it was left in the drive.

When the truck had been completely unloaded, Mrs. Bills sent Tim back into the house so he might show the movers where the living room furniture should be placed, then his study, and finally his bedroom. The rest was taken down into the cellar for storage. Her method was surprisingly efficient and quick. When they had finished, Mrs. Bills brought the moving men sandwiches and cookies as she had promised, along with paper cups of iced tea.

The van driver said, “Hey, lady, you want to come along with us on our next job? I don’t think we ever got a truck unloaded so fast. And thanks for the lunch. Me and the boys don’t usually get treated so nice.”

“You’re good workers, all of you,” Mrs. Bills said with a smile.

Tim then tipped the men and thanked them while Mrs. Bills gave the driver a bag of her cookies for the road. “You really are an angel,” he told the cleaning woman.

She chuckled. “Get into my car, Mr. Blair, and we’ll go get that runner for your hallway. It’s not quite four, and the carpet shop doesn’t close until five thirty.”

She didn’t take him into the village, but rather drove the several miles to the nearby mall. In the carpet store they found a plain beige hemp runner with a geometric design woven into it for the center hall of the house. He purchased it

“Just right!” Mrs. Bills approved when they had gotten back to the house and laid it down on the polished wood floor after she had mopped it free of the movers’ shoe prints.

“Now you don’t have to pay me today, but so you know, it’s eight hours. Once a week, on Fridays, will be fine. Find the draperies and curtains you want hung. I’ll send my mister over tomorrow to put up your rods. I opened the box marked bed linens and made your bed, Mr. Blair. And I’ve left those cinnamon rolls for your breakfast in the morning. Good afternoon. See you Friday!” And she was gone out the door.

Timothy Blair went into his now perfectly arranged living room, and sat down with an audible sound of relief. Rowdy came and put his head in Tim’s lap with a sigh. Tim laughed softly. “Well, boy,” he said, “here we are. This is home for at least the next two years. I know I did the right thing resigning as assistant headmaster at Kensington Academy. David Grainger was going to remain headmaster there till hell froze over. And then the board would have considered me too old.” He scratched the dog’s head. “Better we make a fresh start out here in the boonies, but from what I can see, Egret Pointe isn’t too bad a place to be. I just hope its citizens aren’t all like that starchy librarian we met yesterday at the IGA. Still, it was nice she was worried about you, you old faker.”

Rowdy whined, looking up at Tim with liquid chocolate eyes.

“Yeah, she was kinda hot for an older woman, wasn’t she?” Tim mused. “Maybe we should pay a visit to the library and find out what kinds of programs she offers for the Middle School students. We all know reading is the key to everything, but with all the distractions these kids face today—cell phones, BlackBerrys, texting, and Twittering—a lot of them forget books. We don’t want that to happen now, Rowdy, do we?”

Rowdy barked as if in agreement with Tim. The man stood up and began to look about him. It was amazing. Yesterday this house had been empty, devoid of an inhabitant. Now it was all furnished again. He needed the draperies and the curtains up, true. And there were boxes to be unpacked, but he could fix himself a meal and he would sleep in his own bed tonight, not on the floor in a sleeping bag. With a few more hours of daylight left on this latesummer’s day, Tim began to unpack the book cartons and immediately saw a problem.

An only child, he had inherited his family’s co-op apartment in a prestigious old prewar building in the city. The apartment had had a big wide foyer, a walnut-paneled formal living room with a working fireplace flanked with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a formal dining room, a kitchen with a butler’s pantry and maid’s quarters with a bath, a paneled library with a second working fireplace and built-in bookshelves, four large bedrooms, and four bathrooms. It was a corner apartment facing west and north over the park. It was the only home he had ever known.

Born to older parents—his mother was in her mid-thirties and his father over fifty when he appeared on the scene—he had first gone to school in the city, then to prep school in New England, and finally college in the same region. From the time he was eight until he was sixteen, he had spent his summers at Mohegan Camp for Boys in the Adirondacks. The summer he was seventeen he had accompanied his mother to Europe for three months. His father had joined them in Tuscany in mid-August.

Timothy Blair had loved his parents. They weren’t at all disappointed when he decided to teach English. And they were proud when he gained the position of assistant headmaster of Kensington Academy. His father hadn’t retired until he was eighty, and he hadn’t died until a year ago. His mother had died three years earlier of bone cancer.

It was after she died that Tim had moved in to watch over his increasingly frail but still mentally acute father. He had been living previously in a condo he owned. He had, on his father’s advice, sold it and simply put his profit in bank CDs.

The law firm in which his father had been a named partner saw to the probate of his parents’ will. And there Timothy Blair suddenly found himself, rattling about in a large apartment, stuck in a dead-end job. It didn’t matter to him that he had money in the bank, and would have a helluva lot more when he sold his folks’ apartment. He was bored, and bored was not good. And then one of the lawyers in his dad’s old firm, a man with whom he played squash once a week, told him of a job opening out of the city.

“My cousin, Joe, and his wife live in this cute small town called Egret Pointe. The principal of their Middle School has to retire. She’s expecting quintuplets. They’re looking for a new principal. Think you might be interested?”

“Why would you ask?” Tim said.

“Hey, buddy, you’re bored. I can tell,” Ray Pietro d’Angelo said. “We both know you’ll never be headmaster at Kensington. Your folks are gone. You need a fresh start. Egret Pointe is a nice town. My cousin, Joe, is on the school board. Want me to give him a call?”

Why not?
Timothy Blair had thought to himself. It couldn’t hurt to interview. He didn’t have to take it if they offered. “Sure, go ahead, Ray.”

“Hey, as my wife would say, what can it hurt?” Ray replied with a grin.

And so Timothy Blair had driven out to Egret Pointe in late June to interview.

He had liked the school board. They had liked him. As the assistant headmaster of Kensington Academy he had the experience the school board needed. He was young enough to appeal to the kids and the parents. With a Master’s in school administration and management, and a doctorate in English literature, he had possessed far more qualifications than they could have hoped for, and they offered him the job on the spot. He accepted without hesitation because deep down something told him this was the absolute right thing to do.

He returned to the city and gave his notice. His headmaster was surprised but understood. He was smart enough to know that he was eventually going to lose Tim Blair. Tim was too smart to be content in an assistant headmaster’s position forever. Good opportunities didn’t come around that often. He wished his former assistant luck. And now here Timothy Blair was, two months later, sitting in the living room of a little house on a street called Wood’s End Way in a town called Egret Pointe.

Rowdy whined, looking toward the door. “Okay, old boy. You want your walk,” Tim said. Standing up, he went to fetch the dog’s lead, the pooper scooper, and bag. There was still plenty of light as they walked down the street. Neighbors were out watering lawns, sitting on porches.

“Good evening, Mr. Blair.”

“Welcome to Egret Pointe, Mr. Blair.”

“That’s a fine-looking dog, Mr. Blair.”

Voices called to him as he and Rowdy strolled by. “Thank you,” he replied. “Good evening. Say thank you, Rowdy.” Rowdy tilted his head, his floppy ears cocked, and he barked.

“Why, isn’t that just the cutest thing?” a woman on a porch said.

How on earth did they know his name already? Tim wondered. And then he remembered Mrs. Kirk’s remark about gossip being a form of entertainment in small towns. He grinned to himself as he walked along. A small short-haired Jack Russell terrier bounded off a lawn, yapping. Tim stopped, giving Rowdy a soft command as he did. Rowdy sat down immediately, patiently waiting for the terrier to calm itself.

“MacTavish, come!” A gray-haired woman hurried from a house. “I am sorry, Mr. Blair. Jack Russells are so territorial. Ben,” she called to a man obviously her husband, “come and get MacTavish. My goodness, how well behaved Rowdy is. I’m Gloria Sullivan.” She smiled, holding out a hand. “I teach seventh grade.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Sullivan,” Tim said, shaking the woman’s hand.

How the hell had she known Rowdy’s name?