Chapter 1 Something was Different
The Caretaker
Something was different.
He waited a moment for the room to stop whirling around and for the ceiling to come into focus. Yes, there it was – that was his ceiling - a soft white with a couple of hairline cracks, something unavoidable when you lived in an aging building that was settling in. But, it was his ceiling, his very own bedroom ceiling. It wasn't some strange ceiling or, a more familiar sight, the floor tile in his bathroom. He wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth and considered sitting up.
Something was different.
His head hurt, but then it always did when he woke up. He rubbed his nose bridge hoping to soothe out some of the radiating waves of nausea and pain. It didn't work.
Oh, there it was. The reason he had come to. Pain in his bladder.
He needed to pee.
He gritted his teeth and sat up on the edge of his bed steeling himself, knowing that the pain and nausea would well up and take over his very consciousness. He held his breath and waited for it to subside to a dull pounding.
Something was different.
In the minutia of moments thereafter, he realized that he was wearing only his boxers and a t-shirt. He had no memory of taking off his shoes, his socks, his pants or his shirt. He shrugged, the tiny action sending an icepick of pain deep into his skull, nails-on-a-blackboard pain.
Now, what was it that he had been trying to do?
Oh, yes, the full bladder.
He considered, planning out his route to the pot. He didn't immediately see his cane so he would have to use the furniture for support. Fortunately, the furniture had all had been strategically placed for just such an occasion.
This wasn't his first rodeo.
He waited a moment building up his courage. Taking a deep breath, he moved as rapidly as he could, standing as he could on the floor and leaning forward to grab the nightstand, then stepping over to the dresser and then to the chair and finally grasping the doorknob of the bathroom. From there he could get to the sink and then the toilet. He sat, not trusting his ability to stand and successfully relieved himself without soaking his boxers, the seat, or the floor of the bathroom.
From there it was another dull frantic effort back to the bed. He was sitting on the side of the bed debating his next move.
"Oh, you poor thing."
He heard someone talking.
He'd had hallucinations before, particularly when he'd mixed drugs and alcohol. But he didn't think he was drunk or high at the moment – quite the opposite. He was painfully, clearly, unrelentingly conscious.
There was a waft of fresh air, someone was moving. He tried to focus.
Petite, brunette, soft, feminine, lace and draping linen, neutral pastel colors, a faint delicate scent. He heard the faint tinkling, dulcet notes of the glass armonica playing the Sugar Plum Fairy. A dainty little thing.
"Given how you were last night, I would have been surprised if you'd been doing all right this morning. I've gone ahead and got some things together for you. It'll just be a moment."
Well, that was what was different.
He hadn't been sitting on the bed very long when the little tinkling flit came back in.
"Drink this," she directed him, handing him a tall glass of thick red liquid.
It tasted about like sweat, he thought after a swallow. With a little heat. A Low C, slightly flat. But it felt good on his throat so he dutifully downed it.
"It's my special Morning After. I mix it up for my Papa often. Now," she handed him a piece of toast. "You may want to take a couple of bites of this. It's whole wheat toast with just a little honey. It'll help settle your stomach. You don't have to eat the whole thing."
He took a few bites, the sweetness appealing to him, a nice B Natural.
"Aspirin?" he managed to ask hoarsely.
"Oh no," the little creature shook her head. "Aspirin would just make you feel better."
What?! Did that mean no aspirin?
It so hurt to think.
"Now just stay right there," she told him and then she surprised him by climbing onto the bed, kneeling behind him. "Just close your eyes and relax," she directed him.
Bossy little thing. But he sat still. The next thing he felt were her fingers gently massaging his temples and forehead. She had put some sort of menthol ointment on them and he found himself breathing deeply. It was a warm, pleasant smell that was seeping into his brain, a soft soothing violin solo. Her little fingers were strong yet gentle, moving in little circles, soothing him like he had failed to do for himself earlier. In time, she worked her way down over his scalp and down to his neck and shoulders and he felt his aches and pains fading. He was nigh to melting into her. He probably moaned a couple of times – it felt sooo good.
"Now lie down and rest," she told him softly, climbing out of the bed and helping him settle back down. "Let me work on your feet." And the next thing he knew she was continuing her massage with each of his feet, working on different pressure points leaving him relaxed and calm. It felt so good that if his blood had been sentient it would have rushed to his penis and he would have creamed off, but his blood being sluggish, he drifted off instead.
Waking Up
When he woke this time, the blinds had been drawn and the room left in afternoon shade. The overhead fan had been turned on and a light breeze wafted through the room. The apartment was quiet but, somehow, he sensed she was still there. He looked around, aware that the pain had greatly rescinded and he was able to sit up without cringing. He spotted his cane, left leaning up against his nightstand.
There was a note on it: Clean towels and clothes are in the bathroom.
Subtle hint that. He lifted his arm and sniffed himself. Yeah, pretty ripe. He did need a shower, plus his mouth tasted like damp dog. He grabbed the cane and gingerly gimped his way into the bathroom.
The bathroom had actually been one of the selling points of the apartment. It was quite large with a partially sunken tub (with working massage jets) set in one end in front of large window and in another corner, there was a separate shower. It was completed by a comfy sitting area that was positioned under some heat lamps.
He sat in his special chair in the shower, his damaged leg making it difficult for him to stand to get the soothing spray to run down his body. But in the chair, the hot water poured over his head, his shoulders, oh, it was all good. He shampooed his hair and thoroughly washed himself off. He also sat and brushed his teeth while still sitting under the warm spray. Once out, he dried off and found clean clothes already laid out on one of the comfy chairs in the order he would need to put them on, underwear on top, pants, t-shirt, and socks, all on the chair in the bathroom. He slowly dressed himself, discarding his dirty clothes onto the floor. He limped out into the main room of his apartment.
It was a spacious place, with his bedroom, the large full bath and a smaller partial bath suitable for guests and visitors, a good-sized kitchen, a living room area, one smaller bed/office room and a very large open area facing the street. The open area had floor to ceiling windows and he used it for his studio. He looked around blinking his eyes against the bright afternoon sunlight.
Things had been picked up in the living area and the kitchen. It looked . . . it looked . . . clean.
"Well, there you are," the little creature with the soft voice greeted him. "Hungry?" she asked.
"Coffee?" he croaked, hopeful.
"Certainly." And then she bustled herself back into the kitchen. He followed her and had to stop and look around yet again. The heap of empty and half-empty takeaway boxes was gone. The piles of dirty pots and pans were gone. The stacks of dirty plates and cups were gone. The stash of processed little coffee cups was gone. The floor wasn't sticky. He looked around.
He didn't remember that he had black granite counter tops and a large wooden butcher block island. He didn't remember he had an acid stained concrete floor and ultra-modern stainless steel appliances.
But there it all was.
"It's nearly three o'clock. I thought you might be wanting something to eat," she told him and proceeded to dip him out some soup from a large pot. "I cleaned out your fridge and made a soup with the usable leftovers vegetables." She set the bowl on the little kitchen table.
He thought, I'm up at three o'clock? I had vegetables in my fridge?
She opened a cupboard to get a fresh k-cup to brew him some coffee. "Sugar, Splenda, milk, cream?" she asked.
"No," he answered watching her blearily.
She had mousy brown hair done up in a messy bun and big blue eyes. Layers of clothing encased her figure and he couldn't tell if she was slender or dumpy probably dumpy. She was very young. Too young for him.
"Here you go," she set the coffee down in front of him. "Anything else?" she asked.
"Kahlua," he told her.
Wordlessly, she went into another cupboard, a high cupboard, climbed onto his rickety step ladder and brought down the tall brown bottle. He watched her from the corner of his eye, trim ankles, the skirt clinging to a shapely leg okay, probably not too dumpy. She handed off the tall brown bottle to him. He poured in a very generous amount and handed her back the bottle. She returned it to the cupboard.
Seeing that he was settled in, she continued, "I need to wash your sheets. I've already done a couple of loads of laundry but I'm ready for another." She started to go out the kitchen.
"Wait," he said and she stopped. "Did you do this?" he gestured to the kitchen.
"I did," she confirmed.
And then she was gone.
He slurped the soup – pretty good stuff and drank his coffee. He was feeling - almost human again. He walked back to his bedroom.
She was in there, bustling about, making his bed up with fresh sheets. She'd already whirlwinded through the bedroom, collecting his dirty laundry. She was humming a pleasant little tune oh god! she was humming. She didn't notice that he had come in and was watching her. When she turned and came face to face with him, she stopped.
"Oh, I didn't know you were there. I should be finished in here in just a moment," she told him brightly.
He stood where he was, blocking her exit.
"Miss," he finally began.
She stood waiting.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She giggled. She actually giggled. "I'm Belle French," she told him.
That wasn't enough.
"Who . . . what . . . why are you here?" he finally formulated a question.
She smiled at him gently. "You don't remember, do you?"
He shook his head.
"You asked me to come here," she answered.
"Did I propose?" he asked suspiciously, suddenly very much on guard.
"Oh, no, well, not marriage, if that's what you're asking." She was still smiling at him. "My father is Maurice French, Moe French."
She was met with a blank stare.
She continued, "He owns the Crown of Thorns, the florist business on the ground floor. He's a bit in arrears for his rent. You offered him a deal."
Oh lord, what kind of convoluted, sick, disgusting deal had he offered the florist? Surely the old pervert wouldn't have bartered his daughter for his rent?
He took a breath and braced himself. "Wha . . . what was this deal?"
"You said you needed a . . . a caretaker. And you wanted . . . me."
His head had started to hurt again. How drunk had he been?
"You would reduce my father's rent if I agreed to move in here and keep your place clean, cook, and launder and such. I would earn a salary and everything would be on the up and up," she continued, explaining the arrangement he'd offered.
"A salary?" he asked.
"Oh yes. You said a thousand a week, but," she dropped her voice, "I really think you were very drunk when you made that offer." She was still smiling at him.
"Oh yeah." He had a sudden thought, "Where did you move into?" He was racking his brain as to where this little caretaker would be sleeping in his apartment.
"I'm in a little back room that I think you've been using for storage. There's an old sofa in there that will serve as a bed for the time being. I'll have to do some cleaning up, but I think it will work."
"You're in the back bedroom?" That would never do. Not that he ever used his back bedroom, but that would never do. He couldn't have a young woman staying in his apartment.
"That's where you shoved me last night," she explained and went around him, arms full of dirty laundry.
"I did?!" He had no memory of any of this.
"Listen," she told him as she continued on her way to the little laundry area off the kitchen. He struggled on his cane to stay up with her. "You really do need some help here. This place was a complete sty. I mean, I can understand clutter. I can understand messiness. But this place was filthy. Rotting food, scum lines in the toilets, a layer of lord knows what on the kitchen floor, trash to the ceiling. It was a health hazard. And you certainly can't afford to expose yourself to any more health risks. Not given your lifestyle."
She walked off while he was digesting her words. It took him a moment. "Whaaa? What do you mean, given my lifestyle?" he asked, trying to catch up to her and taking umbrage at the insinuation in her words.
She stopped what she was doing and looked hard at him. "You were so drunk you don't remember hiring a maid. You were so drunk it took you until past three in the afternoon to sleep it off." She closed the washing machine and set it to run. She then reached down and was about to begin to empty the dryer.
He considered. The place did look better. But he had some things he had to get straight. He couldn't just have this little slip of a girl come in and take over.
"Well maybe, maybe I have . . . some issues. It's part of my artistic temperament," he agreed reluctantly, ignoring when Miss French rolled her eyes. "We need to have some guidelines, some rules . . . uh . . . some boundaries."
She stood and waited.
And waited.
She was very patient, giving him the gentlest of smiles.
He was obviously floundering.
Finally, she sighed. "Very good, sir. When you think of what you want to say, let me know." And she turned her attention back to the dryer bending over to remove the clothing.
He was momentarily distracted by a shapely rear, evident even through her layers of clothing. Okay, definitely not dumpy. He shook himself. "Okay, listen." He felt like he needed to say something, anything. "When I'm in my studio, you are, under no circumstances, ever, at any time, are you to interrupt me. In fact, you are not allowed into my studio, not to sweep or dust or anything. Understand?"
She looked at him quietly. "As you wish, sir." And then she went on about her business.
"And I won't tolerate being nagged about my. . . my lifestyle choices." He was really feeling a need to at least appear to be in charge.
"Of course, sir," she called back to him as she left him stewing in the kitchen.
He checked and made sure she was otherwise engaged and then got a second helping of the soup. He ate it over the sink.
The Manager
She didn't even bother to knock, the door bursting open without any prelude.
"Are you ready?" the woman called out after barging through the front door. Belle peeked out from the hallway to see who had just blown in. The woman was gorgeous, dressed completely in black, a killer chic LBD with black patent pointy-toed stilettos with no jewelry, no furs, just impeccable makeup and hair. She was stunning.
"Rum! Get your ass out here!" the woman called out and then she stopped, stunned. "Oh, my lord! What happened in here? It looks like a clean bomb went off!" At that point, she spotted Belle. "Who are you? You're not his usual type."
"She's my maid, if you must know," Rumson Stiltskin chose that moment to come out of his bedroom, now dressed in a dark gray Armani suit with a dark gray shirt and a silver tie. There was a pop of burgundy in the jacket's handkerchief pocket. He had shaved right before dressing and combed his hair. He was carrying a mahogany gold-tipped cane.
"Well, you look good," the woman complimented him. "Damn good. I half expected you to be passed out on the floor of your bathroom lying in your own vomit. Come on. We've got that gallery showing to get to."
"Miss French, I'll be back very late. Don't wait up," he called back to his maid.
Belle took a deep breath when the man stepped out of the apartment, feeling herself relaxing for the first time since late last night.
She figured he'd gone out on a date – apparently, women dropped by the apartment to pick him up. She sat down and took a deep breath.
How had she gotten herself into all this?
She had known of this man by his reputation. A genuine renaissance man – writer, musician, painter. He'd made his mark on the world in all those occupations.
Oh, she knew how she'd gotten herself into this. Knew only too well.