Page 17 of Filthy Rich

“Oh, those old things,” she says, scowling. “The one has a snag. The other one has a spot. Honestly, if you’d done your job properly, you’d have noticed and packed me some of the others instead.”

“My job is your medical care,” I remind her. “I was helping you out by packing for you. You told me to throw some silk scarves in your suitcase, which I did. There were around thirty silk scarves in your drawer. How was I supposed to know which ones to choose?”

“Tales of your incompetence don’t interest me,” she says in her best Meryl Streep impersonation.

“I regret introducing you to The Devil Wears Prada the other night,” I say, rolling my eyes. Mrs. Hooper seems to have found her spirit animal in Miranda Priestly. “We should have watched Jeopardy! instead.”

Laughing, she reaches for her jar of cold cream and begins her nightly slathering routine.

“That’s your fault. Seriously, though, why didn’t you at least glance at the scarves? I don’t know what I’m paying you for half the time, Tam.”

“Nursing skills,” I say tartly, holding up the scarves and examining them in minute detail. Two handfuls of silk in the most vibrant colors under the sun, one blue (cerulean, actually; see what I did there?) and one green. Probably a good two thousand dollars’ worth of luxury goods tossed in the trash.

“I don’t see anything wrong with either one of them,” I say when I’ve completed my inspection. “Do you want me to, I don’t know, see if the dry cleaner on the ship can do anything with them?”

“You keep them if you’re so worried about them. Sell them on one of your little online websites that people use for vintage clothes these days. I don’t care. I just don’t want to keep hearing about some old scarves.”

“Really? Oh, my gosh, thank you!”

“Calm yourself down.” Now finished with the cold cream, she wraps her hair with the little net she uses to keep her silver curls in formation. “And you may as well go on to bed, honey. I’m calling it a night. I’m beat. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Make sure you wake me up at seven thirty sharp.”

“Will do.”

I find Juniper’s brush, then start to pick her up so I can take her into my cabin for our nightly grooming ritual. But the little demon snarls at me the second I come too close.

“Stop it, Juniper,” I say. “You know I have to brush you.”

“Oh, leave her be,” Mrs. Hooper says. “She’s tired, too. You can brush her twice as long tomorrow night.”

I brighten immediately. “Whatever you say. Do you need anything else before I go?”

“Yes.” Mischievous grin and a hand clap. “I wish you’d tell me about my surprise birthday party. You know I’ll figure it out anyway.”

I hesitate at our adjoining doors, my heart sinking. I don’t know where she got the idea that her kids are all planning to fly all the way to Venice and surprise her for her birthday. I’ve begun to wonder if it’s part of her growing confusion these days. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking on her part. Either way, she’s in for a rude awakening. I’ve spoken with Penny, her Florida niece, and she assures me that the kids are just planning to send Mrs. Hooper flowers on the day, and I believe her.

“Mrs. Hooper, I swear to you, there’s no birthday party.” I press a hand to my heart, praying she’ll believe me this time. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“So you say, so you say,” she says in her singsong. “Good night. See you at seven thirty.”

“Good night,” I say glumly. It’s going to be a sad day for her when she realizes the truth. And a sadder day for me when I’m left to pick up the pieces of a brokenhearted employer. But thankfully, that’s not for a few days yet.

I disappear into my own cabin and shut the door, eager for the off-duty portion of my day to begin. I kick off my sneakers, dive onto my bed, help myself to my pillow chocolate and reach for my phone. I’m thrilled to finally have the time to do the thing I’ve been dying to do since I laid eyes on him yesterday:

Google Lucien Winter.

Rabid curiosity kept me in a chokehold all day. Part of the problem is that I can’t figure out how on earth I managed to spend several hours with him and never learned a single personal detail. He’s got a way of steering the conversation to me and keeping it far away from himself. He’s a master at it.

Luckily, my college friends and I became highly skilled at the art of hunting down details of anyone who caught our eye, so it takes me less than thirty seconds to find the broad strokes of his life.

He’s thirty-three, eleven years older than me. Went to some fancy prep school, then got an assortment of business degrees at the Wharton school. Now he does finance with his brother at his family’s company… Blah, blah, blah… Charity work. Sailing. Polo. Golf. Adventure travel.

But that’s not what interests me. Not really.

To my surprise, it takes a bit longer for me to unearth anything about his dead wife. I’ve heard that if you’re rich enough, you can scrub the Internet of all your old stuff or anything that’s embarrassing. That’s certainly the sort of thing he could afford to do, although I have a tough time imagining that he cares enough about what other people think to bother doing something like that.

But I eventually find it, and there it is:

The glamorous couple turning away from the photographer at their outdoor wedding ten years ago in Newport, probably the same luxe waterfront location where Jack and Jackie Kennedy got married back in the day. He’s handsome and smiling, his dark hair blowing in the wind as he stands with an arm slung around his bride’s waist. And she…

---