My Fair Lacey

Chapter 2

"No Cannolis"

The young woman looked at herself in the mirror.

She'd been right majorly put out with Mr. - Professor? - Gold's insistence that she get a shower. It wasn't like she was lice-infested – although, she had to acknowledge, she might have been. But, for sure, she certainly wasn't dirty.

As grim as her life often was, and it was, she took some pride in her personal hygiene.

But, she sighed, she knew if she wanted his help, she'd have to play his game.

So standing in a really large bathroom, already fogging up with steam from the shower, the young woman stood and hung her head over. Putting her hands on her neck and using her fingers, she peeled off the over-sized blonde wig. Curly, dark brown hair tumbled down over her shoulders. She sat on the commode to shuck off her boots and then she shed the leather ensemble. She stepped into the shower, luxuriating in the hot, steaming steady stream of water and the vanilla-spice scented soap and shampoo she'd been given. It was all so much better than the tepid trickle of water and coarse white soaplets she had access to in her motel room.

Remembering what the professor had demanded, she then scrubbed her face. Stepping out, her hair dripping, she wrapped herself in the plush, too-big-for-her white robe Ms. Potts had set out for her. She picked up her clothes, shoes, and wig and went back into the bedroom that she'd been told would be hers. Ms. Potts was waiting for her.

"My, my, you clean up very pretty," Ms. Potts said approvingly.

The young woman blushed but then addressed the housekeeper. "I know they ain't much, but I gots a few thangs back at th' hotel. Clothes an' shoes an' some make-up, couple o' wigs an' a book I had from me mum. Them's all I got in th' world. An' I needs to get meself checked outta th' room. Rekon, it'd be okay if'n I run back over thar an' get me thangs?" she asked.

Ms. Potts had taken possession of the leather clothing and was busy folding them and setting them into the bottom drawer of the dresser. She turned to the young woman. "All you have in the world, honey?" The older woman seemed to soften. "If you have the address and a key, I can send Mr. Dove, that's Mr. Gold's driver, over to settle your bill and get your things tomorrow morning. Will that work for you?"

The young woman gave a sigh of relief. "That would. It's just a couple o' thangs. Thank ye ever so much."

"Well dear, if you're going to stay here, I want you to be comfortable. I keep the household to a routine which isn't easy, given Mr. Gold's . . . activities . . . and such."

"Is he as good as he sez he is?' the young woman asked Ms. Potts nervously. She was, after all, taking a big risk with this.

"We-ell," Ms. Potts considered. "He is rather remarkable, I'll give him that. But he can be just a . . ." she hesitated before finishing, "a tad unpleasant on occasion."

The young woman smiled, "I kin put up wid a 'tad unpleasant.' Thank ya', Miz Potts."

"It's all right dear," Ms. Potts assured her and looked her over speculatively. "Maybe you're just the thing he needs," and she smiled at the very different person who now sat in front of her. "Will you be wanting something to eat?"

"Yes, ma'am if'n I cud. I done had a taco fur lunch but it's been awhile," the young woman shared.

"Then come on down when you're ready. I'll tell the gentlemen and they'll wait for you." And Ms. Potts stepped out of the bedroom.

Alone now, the young woman looked at herself in the large mirror. Without the armor of her makeup, her wig, her heels, and her brazen clothing, she looked younger and . . . and even innocent. She felt very vulnerable – and this was an uncomfortable feeling. She'd been taking care of herself since, well officially since she was eighteen, but really since her mother had died when she was twelve. She'd adopted the tough image to protect herself and to navigate the seedy world where she lived. She'd been successful.

What had she gotten herself into?

She'd worked hard to develop her hotsy-totsy persona. It helped her get clients. It gave the impression she was street-wise and savvy. She was tough even if there was a frightened little girl inside of her.

And now this Gold character, he was insisting she ditch all of this, all the armor that she had carefully constructed and built up both to protect herself and to enable her to earn a living.

It was scary.

Oh, she'd looked him up – of course, she had. He was a professor at UNC-Asheville and had published about a gazillion books, including a few New York Times bestsellers. On paper, he looked like he could do what he'd said he could.

When she'd heard the man talking about passing her off as a shmancy swish at the Governor's Ball, it had sparked something. She'd half expected him to toss her out, refusing to consider her proposal. At best, she'd thought he might agree to her offer and she'd have a lesson, maybe two, a week, enough for her to make some real changes, enough that she might be able to get a different job.

But now he'd blown up everything – she'd really just wanted to change how she talked. Now, if he was going to help her, she'd have to quit working and devote everything to him.

What if things didn't work?

She'd decided that even if she committed to this, she still wanted to get her few possessions to keep with her – just in case, things fell through. She had worked hard to amass her limited wardrobe and she certainly wasn't ready to leave her stuff behind. If this . . . what had he called it – an experiment? . . . imploded, she'd certainly want her old clothes back.

She bit her lower lip. She did think (hope) that if things didn't work out, she would be able to get back with Keith. It wasn't like she had a regular client base – just a steady one.

She stopped a moment and looked around. She was sitting in a plush little chair in front of a matching old-fashioned, dark-wood, honest-to-Jesus dressing table with a huge mirror. It was one of those that women used to sit at to put on their neck cream and brush their hair out with a hundred strokes.

She sighed again. These were nice digs. The professor was obviously rolling in it. Behind her was a gorgeous big wooden bed covered with a silky looking cover with about eight color-coordinated pillows all over it. And there was a large window with thick curtains that looked out on the street. Yeah, it was nice, real nice.

She looked at herself again. She wouldn't have recognized the girl in the mirror. She looked younger and, she thought, plainer, much too plain. Without her wig and makeup, she didn't stand out. And without her padding, she just had her B cups. And without her heels, she was short. She was too short.

Well, screw it all. Time to face the music. Dressed in the luxurious, oversized bathrobe one of Professor Gold's? she went back down the hall and down the stairs to the living room where Professor Gold and his nice friend, Mr. Madden, were waiting.

She hesitated before coming into the room and it was the other man, the tall, younger one, who noticed her first.

"Miss!" Madden stood up to greet her. He was surprised. "You look - fabulous. Love the dark hair – suits you much better than the blonde wig."

She didn't say anything, looking back at her cantankerous teacher.

He was surveying her with surprise and some curiosity. "You don't look - half-bad," he frowned and then added, "but you are rather short." He stood. "Well, shall we get to work? Oh yeah, what do we call you?" he asked.

"Lacey," she told him. "I'm Lacey French."

"Really? Lacey French? Sounds like a stripper name," he commented, raising his eyebrows. "I've ordered in some Italian." He motioned her toward the dining room table.

"Sure," she shrugged, tamping down a brief feeling of defeat - she'd thought her name sounded classy.

Mr. Madden held out a chair for Lacey even while Gold flopped himself down at the head of the table.

"Wine?" Gold asked her.

"Yeah, sure," she told him and watched as he poured something dark and red into her glass. Gold poured wine for himself and Jefferson next.

Lacey was still watching her new teacher closely. She felt like she was on some kind of trial and he was waiting for her to mess up so he could cancel the whole experiment.

The table had been set with china plates, goblets, cloth napkins and cutlery. The food, lasagna sitting in a large foil cooking container, was sitting in the middle of the table.

Once the young woman sat down, Gold dug in, dipping out his share and digging in. But next to her, Mr. Madden was clearly waiting for her to begin. She debated a moment and deciding to use manners she'd learned from movies, she put the napkin on her lap. She served herself and took a bite and Jefferson followed suit.

"Dis be good wine," Lacey announced, swilling the glass that Gold had poured for her.

"Thank you. It's Russian River Valley Pinot Noir," Gold told her, pouring her a second glass. "Sorry, I didn't have time to run out to get any Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill." Lacey glared at him but didn't make any reply.

"This is really good lasagna," Jefferson remarked after his second forkful.

"Tastes like Granny's," Lacey observed, shoveling in another bite.

"It is. You know Granny's lasagna?" Gold asked her, surprised.

"I know Granny's ev'rythang," Lacey expanded, taking bites between sentences. "If'n I come t' her place after closin' time, she'd let me eat her leftovers fur free. Not just me, y' know. She gives it out to lotsa folks down on they luck. Granny's an angel."

Gold sat back. "That seems rather generous of her."

"Well, she says she'd just haf t' throw th' leftovers out. This way, thare's no waste an' she does a good deed fur less fortunate folk," Lacey talked with her mouth full as she shared.

Gold sat quietly a moment. "I had no idea."

"You're her landlord, aren't you?" Jefferson asked and Gold nodded.

"You be her landlord?" Lacey had stopped eating and sat up. She wasn't sure she had heard him correctly. "You th' skinflint sonofabitch that won't accept less than th' rent to the penny and it'd better be on time?"

"I am," Gold admitted slowly. "You think I could afford this lifestyle on a professor's salary, even with the occasional book deal?"

"So, ya own some otha prope'ty?" Lacey pursued the point, finishing up her second glass of wine.

"I own . . ." Gold was hesitant to put his investments into words. He refilled her glass.

"He owns about three blocks of downtown, including this building," Jefferson interrupted. "Most of his income is from renting out office and shop space."

Lacey nodded, "Hmm," and finished up her food. She looked around at the rest of the plates and boxes on the table. "You didn't get no cannolis?"

"What are they?" Gold asked.

"Get out!" Lacey exclaimed. "Thay be these li'l pastries stuffed wid saw-weet cheese. I like mine wid a little choc'late on 'em. Thay be one of th' best thangs Granny makes."

"Well, I'll have to be sure I order some next time," Gold said dryly.

Lacey was shaking her head. "Can't believe ya didn't know 'bout Granny's cannolis," she muttered.

"Me neither," agreed Jefferson. "Given your sweet tooth."

Gold glowered under the disbelieving looks of his dining companions, "Well, I'll see to it that things are corrected in the future. Now, Lacey, we should have some proper clothes here tomorrow morning and we'll begin then," he dismissed her abruptly at the end of the meal. "There's a television in your room so you're free to go and watch whatever arse-numbing reality show you follow."

Lacey might have been offended by his comment, but, well, she did have her favorite show, "Tika and Monjo," the on-going adventures of two attractive people with no particular talents and no visible means of support coming on. Tika was scheduled to launch her line of designer baby shoes tonight.

Madden stood as Lacey rose from the table. She wavered on her feet. "Wow, that wine's done got a bit o' kick to it. Nice meal, thank ya, Professor," she told her host.

Madden smiled at Gold after Lacey stepped out. "So, she used the napkin and the fork correctly. And thanked you for the meal. Nice."

Gold shook his head, "Yeah . . . and she downed thirty dollars worth of wine without a hitch."

"Like it was hard? This is good wine," Jefferson told him, pouring the remnants of the bottle into his own glass. "Now, I'm no judge, but I'd say she cleaned up very prettily."

Gold reluctantly agreed. "Yeah . . . almost passably tolerable."

The Lessons Begin

Their first morning together was . . . difficult

Lacey, even with her usual late night work schedule, was still a relatively early riser, and she was at the dining room table by nine, pouring herself some coffee from the large carafe that had been set out on the credenza. She'd sat down at the table, reading over the morning paper, working on the puzzle page. Ms. Potts had come in, surprised to see her, but had then asked her what she'd like for breakfast. Lacey, trying to be accommodating, had said whatever Ms. Potts had on hand.

Ms. Potts looked at her. "How 'bout I bring you a couple of eggs, some bacon, and toast?"

"That'd be nice, real nice," Lacey told her. "I like eggs fixed anyway. Thank ye, ever so."

It was closer to ten when Rumple came down, bleary-eyed and non-communicative. He slouched down in his chair at the table, looking her over as if trying to register the identity of the young woman who was sitting at his dining room table.

He examined her. Lacey had left off her white-blonde wig, but she had troweled on the makeup. She was now dressed in an obscenely short black vinyl skirt, red patent heels which laced up to her knees, and a hot pink tube top. If the room had been five degrees cooler, he was sure he'd be able to see her nipples. This was worse than the quim-bits she'd been wearing yesterday.

"These are not the clothes I sent for," he finally broke the silence, irritated, disapproving.

"Well, I ain't got no clothes that ya done sent fur yet," she snapped back at him. "Miz P done sent that big guy, Dove, over t' my place t' pick up th' rest of me stuff. There warn't nut'in' else fur me t' choose frum 'ceptin' me own clothes. I cud ware these or just come on t' th' table buck-nekid."

"Oh," he blinked, processing her response and accepting her explanation. "The clothes just haven't gotten here yet. They should be here soon. And then, yeah, Jefferson is supposed to be coming along. I remember now. He'll be taking you out for some more shopping."

"Shoppin'?" she asked, interested.

"Clothes and shoes and . . . stuff."

"I ain't got no money t' pay for such," she protested, but he waved her off.

"Jefferson's picking up the bill. He can afford it and . . . the man likes to shop."

They sat in silence a moment, Gold - as if confused as to what to do next - and Lacey - in deep thought.

"Get ya some coffee?" Lacey finally asked him and he'd nodded.

She poured him a cup and then asked, "Sugah? Some o' th' creamer?"

"Black," he muttered. "Where's my paper?"

Lacey brought him the cup and then reached for the paper that was at her spot to hand to him.

She'd already done the puzzle page and he frowned. But before he could say anything, Ms. Potts announced Mr. Madden.

Gold's flamboyant friend was dressed in a skin-tight red tee with ballooning black silk pants. He bounced into the room and bowed to Lacey.

"Mr. Jefferson, what can I get you for breakfast? Your usual?" Ms. Potts asked.

"Oh, you remember, you doll, you," he told her, blowing her a kiss.

Ms. Potts nodded, "A two egg-white omelet with mushrooms, green peppers, black olives, tomatoes and no onions."

"I should be marrying you. You will come to work for me and Viktor when we get our household set up."

"You can't afford me. Mr. Gold pays me three times what I could earn in any other job.

"But, I'm so much nicer to be around," he cajoled her.

"Nice won't pay for my son's college tuition," she told him.

"Well, keep me in mind, if you ever get fed up with him," Jefferson told her.

"Are you trying to steal my help?" Gold asked him.

"Of course. I'd made a similar offer to Dove earlier but he turned me down too." Jefferson replied off-handedly. He then added to his breakfast order, "Oh darlin', if you've got any greens, I'd like some of them on the side."

Mr. Potts just shook her head and went back to the kitchen.

Jefferson casually made himself at home and poured himself some coffee adding a prodigious amount of sugar before sitting down at the table.

"Greens?" Lacey asked him, turning up her nose.

"Oh, it's the latest breakfast fad – greens for breakfast. I tried them as a lark, but now, my day just doesn't seem complete unless I've begun it with a bowl of cooked turnip greens or collards or kale . . . or even chard," he explained.

"Them air good wid white vinegar," Lacey nodded. "But I ain't never had 'em fur brekfist."

"Really?" Jefferson had responded and was about to make further comments when Gold interrupted.

"First lesson, Lacey. I don't ever – ever - want to hear you say 'ain't' again. It's low class. You may substitute: am not, is not, are not, isn't, or aren't. Less common, but still acceptable substitutions, depending on grammatical circumstances are: have not, has not, do not, does not, and did not, along with their associated contractions." He spoke quickly and sharply.

Lacey swallowed and nodded. "Sure 'nuff," was all she said. She looked closely at the man, his fumbling movements, his ready wincing at sounds and blinking at lights not to mention his irritability. Then she narrowed her eyes. "You'd feel bunches better if ya drank some water. It'd help wid ya hangover."

"If I'd been allowed to sleep until a decent hour, I wouldn't have had the hangover. As it was, you woke me at the arse-crack of dawn, clamoring down the stairs like a rash of drunken pirates tap dancing on wooden legs," he retorted. "A lady is light on her feet and . . . oh, fuck it all." It was just too hard at the moment for him to maintain his lecture. He ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing his head and ceasing his instruction.

"You poor thang," Lacey stood and went over to him. "Lemme give ya a li'l hea-ad mass-age. I'm good, really good. Ya'll feel better fur it."

He watched her, not entirely trusting her, but allowing her to work her magic fingers over his scalp and down his neck.

"You real tense," she observed.

"Jefferson?" Gold had closed his eyes and was relaxing into the massage. "Can you work on her managing the stairs without all the clomping and stomping?"

"Surely," his friend promised. "What else did you have in mind?"

"Uh . . ." Gold was momentarily distracted by Lacey's skillful fingers. "This is good. You could earn your living doing this . . ." he opened his eyes, "Oh, yeah, you do."

Lacey just smirked at him and gave him a few last petrissage movements before returning to her seat.

Jefferson repeated his question, "What else did you have in mind for Miss French and me this morning?"

Gold drained his first cup of coffee and began to expound on his proposed educational curriculum while Lacey dutifully got up to get him a refill. He shared that he thought Jefferson could help with the surface things, like clothing and makeup and . . . maybe . . . with some of the social skills, like dancing and dining and topics of conversation. Gold would give him the morning hours to do his work. Afternoons, however, were Gold's time to work his magic and he would be teaching pronunciation and grammar to the hapless Miss French.

The man droned on and on, apparently enchanted with the sound of his own voice and Miss French found herself drifting off, her attention instead consumed by the abrupt awareness that she was drinking out of a really fancy china cup. It was white with a little blue flower painted on it – sweet. She held it up and looked under the bottom.

Wedgwood. The cup was Wedgwood. That meant something to her like it was this really high-end china. This cup and saucer could well cost more than her entire outfit.

"Lacey!" she heard him shouting at her.

She startled, "Sir?" And now her attention was fixed on him.

"I was asking how you would feel about servicing any of our friends who happen to come into town," he repeated himself.

Lacey stood, the cup dropping onto the wood floor. All three heard it chink.

"That was a joke," he clarified. "You were obviously not paying attention and I needed to pull you back in," he explained.

Lacey glared at him, but then picked up the cup.

It was chipped.

"Oh, Professor G," Lacey began hesitantly, "I . . . I thank, I . . . " she held it up for him to see. "It's only a li'l chip. I thank we might . . . we might be able t' get some super glue an' fix it." She was on the floor, groping around looking for the chip.

She was nervous. As much of an ass that the man was, he was still her best and only hope for a new life. Would he kick her out for breaking his probably priceless cup?

Gold shrugged, looking around the table and down upon her, "It's only a cup."

She breathed a sigh of relief. All right then. He didn't seem angry. She pulled herself together. She slipped back into her chair and sat up, looking at him.

At that moment, Ms. Potts came in, carrying a large paper shopping bag. "I think this has the items you were waiting for, Mr. Gold."

He glanced in the bag and handed it off to Lacey. "Please change and do it as soon as possible," he told her.

A.N. Yes, I'm well aware that "cannoli" is the plural for "cannolo," but Lacey doesn't know this. -twyla