Page 11 of Smooth Talk

Chapter 4

Poppy

“Good morning Sunshine!” I hear a scratchy little voice squeak as a forty-two-pound lump hops on the bed next to me. I flip the covers from over my head and look at the clock, 6:44. Exactly one minute before my alarm is set to go off.

“Mornin’ June Bug.” I tickle her side as I get up and turn off my alarm because no one wants to hear that annoying beep, beep, beep— after they’re awake. Then I go back to the bed to snuggle with my sweet girl for a minute before our day starts. Her cuddle game is extra strong in the morning, and I want to get these moments in before she decides she’s too grown for them.

“What’s on da ‘genda today mama?” she asks while squeezing me in a tight hug.

“I have a few meetings this morning, then you have a dentist appointment this afternoon.” I leave out that Sara’s coming. She wouldn’t be able to squash her excitement and I’d like her to pay attention at school today.

“Uuugghh, I don’t likes da dentist. She puts paper in my mouf dat makes me feel like frowing up and takes pictures.” She acts like her dentist enjoys making the children of Willow Creek gag, on the daily, then records it for posterity.

“Well you’ll be glad to know that you don’t need x-rays today; it’s just a cleaning. But I will have to pick you up a little early from school, your appointment’s at 2:30.”

“Polly Carter got picks up early on Monday cause she had to gets shots, I don’t gots to gets shots, do I?”

“No bug. We’re just going to get your teeth cleaned. So, make sure you brush extra good this morning.” I pick her up and put her on the floor and give a pat to her backside. “Now hurry. We don’t want to be late.”

“K, Mama. Can I haves magic cereal?”

“You sure can. I’ll get our breakfast ready, while you get dressed.”

I go to the kitchen to put on the coffee and pour Harp a bowl of Lucky Charms. I put a glass of milk next to her bowl, so she can add it when she comes down; she hates soggy cereal, and I don’t blame her. Then I head back up to shower and get ready for the day.

I pinch myself; I cannot believe I get to step foot inside Maxwell Manor in just a few hours. Even if I don’t get the job, the view will be worth it. It’d be worth it to see Grayson Maxwell again. Sweet baby Jesus on a bicycle; that man is fine. Chills run across my skin as I step into the shower remembering how he’d looked at me. Like he hadn’t had a proper meal in days. He seems the type to expect a woman to let him devour her on command, and I’m just not that type of woman. I don’t even know why I’m allowing thoughts of him to linger. He is way out of my league, and the likelihood of me seeing him today, or probably ever again, isn’t high. It’s not as if he still lives at home with his parents. With a roll of my eyes, I put the man out of my mind.

Well, as best as I can anyway while I finish getting ready. The color of his eyes, pops into my mind as I pull dress options in my closet. I promptly put the golden green sheath back on the hanger and opt for a blue number. While digging in my drawer, I silently wonder what he’d think of my taste in underwear as I slip into a matching nude lace set. Then immediately reprimand myself for asking such a ridiculous question in the first place. Why would a man like that care about my undergarments? He probably prefers women that don’t wear any. Women with perfect bodies that have no need for push bras. Okay, this has gotten a bit out of hand. I’ve got eight minutes before we need to leave, and I refuse to spend one more of them thinking about a man I met for five seconds.

Rushing down the stairs my eyes land on the little fashionista who is currently twirling in front of the mirror wearing black leggings, a gray tunic, denim jacket and glittery red ballet flats. She’s humming the theme song to that pony show she watches. I know because she’s pitch-perfect, and I’ve heard that song about a gazillion times. She is so precious though that I’d listen to it a million more just to hear her sweet little voice singing along.

“Will you fix my hair please mama? I wants a braid bun.”

I grab the brush from the entry table and quickly part her hair and French braid the front around the sides and pull her gorgeous auburn hair into a low bun in the back. My little mini-me. Harp’s features are mine to a tee, except her eyes are a shade bluer and she’s quite tall for her age. She gets it honest; Reed was 6’4 and I’m not short by any means at 5’8, but she’s got me beat by a whole two inches when I was her age.

My mom kept a growth chart on the pantry door and measured me on my birthday every year. Harp loves seeing how we measure up to each other. Her height is marked right next to mine on the chart now. There’s room for more names, but I’ve sort of given up on the idea of having more kids. Early-on in our relationship, I thought it would happen with Reed. But, as time passed, I realized it wasn’t going to. And since I haven’t met anyone that I’d like to go on a second date with, it’s looking like future babies are a stretch. I was an only child, and while it was occasionally lonely, I had lots of cousins to play with. Harp has no shortage of friends here. She’ll be okay.

That’s what I tell myself as I drop her at school and head over to the office. It’s just after 8:00 and I have work to do before my meeting at Caroline’s.

I pull down the long tree-lined drive and park along the circle at the end. The house is massive. I re-read an article about the manor this morning: it boasts twelve bedrooms and fourteen bathrooms— thirty-six rooms altogether excluding the servants’ quarters, several attics, a ten-car detached garage and a full basement (including a racket ball court, gym, game room, wine cellar and theatre room). Sitting on eighteen acres of prime down-town real estate, the home— built in 1901 by Baron J.S. Maxwell for his new bride was originally almost half the size it is now. When his son inherited it in 1930, he added the west wing and extended the basement. Over the years, each new Maxwell family (four generations) have added their own personal touch. Making this home an eclectic mix of styles. Caroline recently updated many of the features in the home to be eco-friendly, including adding solar panels to the roof, and overhauling the outdated wiring and plumbing systems. It was a fascinating article. The pictures of the exterior do not do it justice; I keep my fingers crossed that the same is true for the interior.

Dove gray façade, slate blue scalloped siding, and white gingerbread trim with navy-blue shutters and oversized double front doors. The house has several porches on each floor that span the periphery and three turrets. The landscaping is immaculate. A few of the shrubs around the front are just beginning to bloom. In the air, I smell a mixture of fresh cut grass, pecan trees and gardenias. No detail has been overlooked. No expense spared.

I hurry up the steps and knock. My fitted, cap-sleeve royal blue dress brushes the tops of my knees. I left the blazer at home—business meeting or not—it’s just too stinking hot, and I opted for black flats; today called for sensible footwear since we’d be walking the grounds. Which include the guest house (Rose Cottage), pool, pool house, tennis and basketball courts, fountains, greenhouse, gardens and more than a few acres of hard woods. I can’t imagine what it was like to grow up in this home. Swoon.

My parents four-bedroom ranch with partial basement seemed huge to me as a child. It was just the three of us. But it gave my father a study, me a room of my own, a bedroom for our guests and a studio for my mother. My parents wanted more children, but it was not to be. My mom suffers from PCOS, and I was her miracle baby. She's acted as a surrogate parent to all the children in town she gave lessons to.

She’s so proud of the few that went into musical careers. She loves to brag that she gave Harris Dawes, lead singer of Darke Horse, voice and guitar lessons. She has a couple pictures of them on her website. I’m not sure if Harris appreciates the fourteen-year-old lanky version of himself, complete with long emo hair, glasses and braces, representing right next to the tatted-up super sexy rock god persona he has now. But it’s my mom, and everyone loves her, so I’m sure he’s said nothing.

Literally everyone that has ever met Ava Monroe has been smitten (it took a while, but even my grandparents finally came around). She’s charming and charismatic, talented and stunningly beautiful. I count myself lucky that I resemble her in the slightest. I just wished she’d passed down a few more of her genes than she did. I wipe my sweaty palms across the skirt of my dress and knock again. I check my watch, 10:30 on the dot. And I tried so hard to get here early.

I wait a minute then ring the bell, maybe no one heard the knocks. Then I hear footsteps and seconds later a petite woman, wearing a simple black dress, with gray hair and sharp blue eyes opens the door.

“Hi there, I’m Poppy Monroe. I have an appointment with Caroline.” I smile and give a small wave as a greeting, and she gives a small nod and a polite smile, then steps aside to allow me inside and quietly closes the door behind us.

“Mrs. Maxwell is in the parlor, she’s expecting you. Follow me.” I’m practically speed walking behind her trying to catch up. I took too long admiring the prisms glinting across the white stone arch in the foyer from the crystal chandelier. Immediately beyond that arch, the home expands. Almost indefinitly. My pace is super disappointing, because, from what I can see, the inside of the house is exquisite. There’s a white, cream and champagne theme throughout with dashes of navy, slate and cornflower blues. To my left is an impressive staircase; the newels intricately carved with stags and laurel made of what looks like white Himalayan marble. The floors are wide planked dark hard woods. They shine like new, but are more than likely original to the home, as they creak with every few steps. Can’t imagine the Maxwell children did a lot of sneaking out of this house in high school.

The faint scent of lavender hits me as I’m led down the hallway in the opposite direction of the stairs. The lady in black slides open a set of pocket doors and quietly announces me. Caroline sits in one of the ivory wing backs in front of a large marble fireplace. She puts down her phone, looking up, “Thank you Anita.” She smiles broadly at me, “Poppy it’s so nice to see you again. Would you like to join me for tea before we inspect the cottage?”

---