Holiday Escort Read online

  I changed clothes then went digging through the online yellow pages. I looked up storage centers and called several, then called one back and made arrangements over the phone. I had paperwork to sign, but I had a place reserved that was big enough for my things. Then I called the moving company I'd previously arranged and told them they'd be taking my things to the storage center instead of home. They were coming Thursday morning, the day after tomorrow.

  I called Mom. "Hey, Mom." I told her about the job.

  "This sounds very strange. Are you sure she is on the up and up?"

  "She's a lawyer, Mom. So probably not."

  She laughed.

  "I'll be fine. I'm calling to let you know I won't be moving in right away. I hope you aren't upset. She's paying me a lot and maybe it will lead to some good contacts."

  Most of my stuff was already boxed and ready to go. My clothes were already in suit cases and garment bags. I had borrowed from my parents and had managed to stuff almost everything into the bags I owned or borrowed. I had a couple of large garbage bags for sweaters and other things that wouldn't wrinkle. I carried or rolled everything down to my car, taking several trips, then made a trip through the apartment, looking for things I would need. I grabbed my laptop and a few other things and locked up.

  Karen lived in Plymouth, an upscale, outer ring suburb of Minneapolis. I punched her address into my phone, reviewed the route, and began working my way there. On the way, I thought about the job.

  I thought about being what was effectively her servant but decided it wasn't really any different than being her personal assistant. I'd be doing a lot of the things I'd done for Marsha over the years. And she was paying me a lot of money to do it.

  As for being her fake girlfriend, I wasn't so sure how I felt about that, but I would figure it out.

  Things were looking up.

  * * *

  Karen's house wasn't quite a McMansion, but close enough. From the street it looked like a large, two story house with a three-story garage. But it had a walk out basement, which means in back, it was a monolithic structure extending three floors above the ground. The yard, like all the yards in late November, was grey, but she had extensive landscaping done, and I bet the yard was stunning in the summer months.

  I pulled up in front of the garage then wondered; which side does Karen want me to use to park my car? I got out and used the code to open the door and considered my choices. The garage door opener worked the large, two-car door. The third stall, the one to the furthest left, had no opener, but that stall was consumed by the accoutrements of yard care. I decided to park in the center stall, pulling as far to the left as I could, offering a large amount of room for Karen to pull in. If she preferred the stall I had just taken, I could move my car.

  The entrance from the garage into the house was unlocked. As soon as I entered, I heard the beeping from the alarm. I punched in the code and the beeping stopped.

  I gave myself a tour.

  The first room, the entrance from the garage, was the laundry room. Sink, washer and dryer to the left, closet to the right. Stepping through that room I entered the kitchen. I stopped and stared.

  The kitchen was amazing. Spotless and amazing. There was a large center island with a sink and a cook top. Above the island was a glass and stainless steel hood. She had a wall-mounted double oven and a huge refrigerator. Two doors from the kitchen led into a pair of pantries. One held cooking equipment; pots and pans, a variety of electrics, that sort of thing. The other was for food and was half empty.

  There was an informal dining area right next to the kitchen which immediately opened into a fabulous great room, meticulously decorated, if perhaps somewhat sterile. Past that was a room Karen clearly used as a home office. Also on the main floor was a second entertaining area and a formal dining room.

  I headed upstairs. The upstairs was basically two wings separated by a catwalk overlooking the great room on one side and the front foyer on the other. One wing was clearly Karen's room. I snooped very lightly. The other wing held a full bathroom and two bedrooms, both fully furnished. I walked back and forth between the two bedrooms and wondered which one I was supposed to take. Finally I decided to take the one with the biggest closet.

  I headed back to the main floor, then decided to investigate the basement. I descended the stairs and stopped, stunned.

  Her basement had nine-foot ceilings, and the largest room was fully finished as a dance hall. There was one more bedroom, a bathroom, the utility room, a large storage room, and a small closet that was being used as a wine cellar. I stared at the bottles for a moment before going back to the dance hall.

  I walked across the floor. It was a sprung floor! I kicked off my shoes, stretched for a moment, then did a half-remembered ballet dance pass across the floor. I hadn't done it in fifteen years, I wasn't wearing proper clothing, and I barely remembered the dance, but it felt amazing.

  I walked around the room and marveled.

  One wall was mirrored with a ballet barre mounted firmly to it. At the end of the room were built in cabinets holding a stereo system. She had a computer connected to the stereo, so I presumed all her music was on the computer. I looked in the cabinets and found rows and rows of CDs, all of them dance music. It was organized by style. The largest shelf was devoted to Tango.

  I stared at all of it then closed it all up, turned the lights off, and headed back upstairs, carrying my shoes.

  I stepped into the kitchen and considered. I pulled out my phone and Karen's business card and sent her a text message. "OMG. The dance floor. OMG. OMG. OMG."

  I sent a second text, this one somewhat more serious. "Do you care which bedroom I take? If not, I'll take the one in back; it has a larger closet. But maybe you prefer hiding me downstairs."

  I got a response to the first message. "LOL. Wish I could see your expression. Glad you like it.

  Then I received, "Take whichever bedroom you like."

  I texted once more. "Is there a wireless network?"

  The reply said, "Password is BackOcho". A back ocho is a tango dance move.

  * * *

  It took me an hour to move my stuff to my bedroom and unpack. I moved my bathroom things into the bathroom, but stored it in the available drawers rather than leaving it all over the counter like I normally do. Then I looked around.

  The decorating sucked. Okay, it didn't suck. It was very tasteful. The entire house was tasteful. But it was boring. It was sterile. I hated it.

  She had told me to decorate for Christmas. I'd talk to her tonight about it.

  I went back downstairs and started digging through the kitchen.

  Karen had every kitchen toy imaginable. And none of it looked like it got much use. The pantry barely held the basic staples such as flour and sugar. The refrigerator held evidence of leftover take out food and a few old bottles of condiments. In one cupboard I found an extensive collection of tea. There was a coffee maker but I didn't find any coffee in any of the cupboards, the refrigerator or the freezer.

  I texted Karen again. "Goldie Fox slipped into the bear's home but all the cupboards were bare."

  Her reply came. "LOL. Goldie Fox, hmm? Fill the cupboards, keep receipts." A second reply came. "Buy things you know how to cook. I don't."

  I wrote back, "What was your old girlfriend's name?"

  "Jessica. Difficult subject. Busy now."

  I took the hint. I snooped through her office and found a pad of paper. I did an inventory of the cupboards and decided the only thing she didn't need was tea. It took me an hour to prepare a list. I used my computer to find the local grocery store.

  By the time I was done at the grocery store, I was pulling two carts around with me. I basically bought everything, including fresh meat and produce for three nights' worth of meals. I accepted an offer to bring the groceries to my car. The total was a little over three hundred dollars.

  I got home and organized the pantry and the refrigerator while putting everything awa
y. It was four PM. Dinner at seven. That means the chicken in the oven at five-thirty. I did the rest of the planning, then prepped everything and put it in the fridge, ready to go.

  Finally, I had a chance to sit.

  Karen said she wanted a girlfriend without the sex and the complications. But she wanted her house to be warm and inviting. I decided fake girlfriend who had been running around all afternoon and was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt wasn't quite what she had in mind. I took a shower and primped for a date. I put on a skirt, nylons, and blouse, then did my hair and very light make-up.

  Promptly at five-thirty the chicken went in the oven. Everything else could wait until Karen got home. I set the dining room table for two, complete with candles and linens then curled up on the sofa in the great room, book in hand.

  At seven, the timer went off for the chicken. Karen wasn't home. I lit the candles anyway.

  At seven fifteen, I turned the chicken down to the lowest setting in the oven.

  At seven forty-five, I turned the oven off entirely.

  At eight fifteen, I took the now dried out chicken out of the oven, cut it up, retrieved the salad from the refrigerator, served myself a salad with chicken spread over it, then bagged up the rest of the chicken for the refrigerator and washed my dishes.

  At nine-fifteen, I heard the garage door open.

  I got up from the sofa, setting the book aside, and waited for her in the kitchen. She came in, shedding things in the foyer, and stepped into the kitchen. She looked terrible.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "This is why I don't do well with most girlfriends."

  I nodded. "Did you eat? Dinner isn't quite what it would have been two hours ago, but it's not ruined. I'll need to heat some of it up."

  She looked at me. "You dressed for a date."

  "Thank you for noticing." I looked at her. She really looked terrible. "Are you okay?"

  "Yes. Legal emergency at work. I can't talk about it."

  "Did you eat?"

  "No. Anything you have would be fine. A sandwich?"

  "I can do better than that." I walked over to her and took her purse away from her, setting it on the island, then took her hand and pulled her to the dinette table. I pulled a chair out and pushed her into it.

  From the formal dining room I retrieved the candles, still burning, and set them on the dinette table. I set her place setting in front of her but kept her plate.

  She stared at everything then looked at me.

  "You prepared a romantic meal."

  "You said you wanted a welcoming home. You said the holidays were a stressful time for you. I was trying to make the home welcoming."

  "Aren't you angry?"

  "Karen, you're paying me to be a rather odd version of your personal assistant. And I told you; I am the best in the city. A personal assistant who gets mad at her boss can't make that claim, can she?"

  I turned my back on her and prepared her dinner. I set it down for her and asked what she wanted to drink. I retrieved the water she requested then sat down with her.

  "You aren't eating?"

  "I ate an hour ago. I'm keeping you company."

  She picked up her fork but looked at me. "I'm so sorry. You went through all this work."

  "For the record I want to point out that I am not responsible for your guilt trip."

  She smiled. "Noted." She slowly began eating her dinner.

  * * *

  Afterwards we moved to the great room. She looked haggard and exhausted. We sat at opposite ends of the sofa. I reached down and plucked her feet from the floor, placing them in my lap.

  "What are you doing?"

  I ignored the question but removed her shoes. Then I began massaging her feet for her. After that, she didn't protest. Her eyes closed and she whimpered a little in appreciation.

  "Boss," I told her once she had relaxed a little. "Your house is wonderful."

  "Little ol' lawyerly me hears a 'but' attached to the end of that."

  "The decorating is tasteful."

  "But?"

  "Sterile."

  She laughed. "I know. Jessica had the house decorated wonderfully. It hurt too much to look at it after she left. I hired someone to come in and change it. This is what I got."

  "So I have permission to do whatever I want for Christmas."

  "Keep it tasteful."

  I smiled. "I used to do Marsha's house."

  "I know," she said.

  "What is my budget?"

  "Spend whatever you need. Keep receipts and I'll reimburse you immediately."

  I thought about it. "So if I spent five grand, that would be fine?"

  She opened her eyes and looked at me. "Is that what it would take?"

  "I'm finding out whether you're serious about 'whatever it takes'. And how lavish do you want it?"

  She closed her eyes. "That sounds high, but use your judgment."

  "Seriously?"

  "Seriously."

  "Do you want a tree?" she did. "Real tree, not fake?" She did. "Garlands?" Yes. "Lights?" Yes. "I'm not putting up exterior lights myself. I'll hire someone to do it."

  "I like when they're all one color," she said. "And not gaudy."

  "I'll handle it." I paused. "Are you religious?"

  "No. Are you?"

  "I worship Mother Earth."

  She opened her eyes at me, possibly to judge whether I was being serious. I was. She nodded and closed them again. She let me massage her feet for several minutes then said, "I need to give you the schedule. For events between now and January first. There is paper in my office."

  I got up and retrieved the pad I'd used in the kitchen, then sat down and put her feet back in my lap.

  She opened her eyes and looked at me. "Are you flirting with me?"

  "Yes."

  "I thought you were straight. Flirting is a bad idea." She started to take her feet back.

  "It's just flirting," I said, hanging onto her feet. "I am hoping your feet feel good enough to dance with me. Assuming you want us to look natural together when we go out."

  She relaxed and let me keep her feet, but didn't comment.

  She dictated the schedule to me, entirely from memory. She had four events scheduled at her home, including a New Year's Eve party. There were four other office-related events she was attending.

  "There is a computer in my office."

  "I saw it."

  She told me her password. "I keep my entire mailing list on it, categorized by relationship. I want Christmas cards sent to everyone on the list." She paused. "Marsha said you used to sign her name, that you could actually write in her handwriting."

  "I told you, I'm the best in the cities."

  "Can you do mine?"

  "I'll need a several page sample from you as well as an entire page of your signature, both formal and informal."

  She opened her eyes and looked at me. "I'm a terrible human being."

  "Because you're asking your fake girlfriend to fake your Christmas cards for you?"

  She laughed. "Yes." She closed her eyes again. "Personal notes to anyone who looks like they might be close."

  I started quoting what I would write. "To whom it may concern. Seasons greetings. Karen The Too Busy."

  She laughed.

  We discussed the other things I would need to know. I was amazed at how easily she made decisions and how much she was trusting me with her entire life.

  She took her feet away from me. "Do you have dance shoes?"

  "Already downstairs waiting for me."

  She led the way to the basement. We both put on dance shoes, then she walked to the stereo and turned things on. Tango music began to spill from the speakers.

  "Daring choice," I told her. "Tango electronico. I would have expected something more traditional from you."

  She didn't say anything but instead turned around and began walking towards me in time to the music. She didn't take a direct path, but circled around me before pulling me into her arms. I immediately le
aned against her. I leaned slightly with my head so our foreheads were touching, slightly off center, looking over her right shoulder, she over mine. She was an inch or so taller than I was, so we fit perfectly.

  We did a quick weight shift, putting me on my left foot, then she stepped forward.

  She was a good lead. I was a much better dancer than she was, but she was a better lead than I would have been, and she was good. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the dance.

  It had been months since I'd been in someone's arms. She was warm and soft and strong. It felt really nice.

  The song ended. I held onto her. Another song began, and we were dancing again.

  We didn't talk. We just danced.

  It felt so good to be held by her. It felt so good to be dancing again. Even if I was a fake girlfriend, it felt good to be in a relationship, even a fake relationship, with someone I enjoyed dancing with.

  The song ended. She tried to pull away, but I held on, so we ended up performing a volcada. It was poor taste to do so after the music was over. I giggled. She stepped back up to me.

  "Cheeky girl," she whispered in my ear.

  "You don't owe me another dance if you don't want to," I told her. "If you step away from me again, I'll let you go, but otherwise I'm happy to dance all night."

  She had lost track of which foot I was on, so she offered a weight shift. I was hooked, my right foot hooked behind my left ankle, so when she shifted, I didn't. She did another weight shift.

  "I can't tell what foot you're on."

  "Sorry. You ended the last song with me hooked. I'm on my left." I tapped her shoulder with my left hand for emphasis.

  She stepped forward and we were dancing again.

  "You're better than I am," she said.

  "You're a better lead than I am," I said. "And the only girlfriend slash boyfriend slash boss I've ever had who could tango. These are nice dances for me."

  She laughed quietly.

  At one point in the dance, she hesitated. I think she'd lost the music. But to me a hesitation is an invitation for an embellishment. I leaned into her and wrapped my leg around hers. She caught her breath and I smiled into her ear.

  "If you can't handle it, don't invite it," I told her playfully.

  She stepped forward, causing a secada, which turned into a molinete. I don't think she was expecting that, but she went with it. "Did I lead that?" she asked.