Page 3 of Daddy's Pretty Baby

CHAPTER TWO

Melissa

A black town car pulled up in front of Starbucks and I straightened my skirt nervously. It’s not often that I get dressed up, usually I’m in a painter’s smock and loose jeans, or my waitressing get-up. But I wasn’t going to wear either of those outfits today. It was important to make a good impression, to come across responsible and organized so that this Mr. Lancaster guy would let me have the run of his house. I dunno why he didn’t have a friend who could do it, but when opportunity knocks …

So yeah, I was wearing a knee-length grey skirt with a red v-neck sweater, demure without being revealing, appropriate and boring. I’d put on my only pair of semi-nice heels, a pair of black Mary Janes complete with a strap across the front. The Mary Janes were nice, a grown-up version of the kid kind, and besides, I didn’t have a choice. It was either these shoes or sneakers, so I went with the black patent.

And mincing to the town car, I peered into the window.

“Hello, I’m Humphrey!” exclaimed the elderly driver. “Are you Melissa Carlson?”

I nodded cautiously, looking around. If there was ever a time to be kidnapped, it was now. I was getting into a car with a stranger, about to be whisked off to the wilds of New Jersey. But Humphrey looked elderly, about seventy, with white hair and decked out in chauffeur uniform. Hmm, he didn’t look too threatening, at least not from this vantage point. So I nodded.

“Yes, I’m Melissa,” I said carefully.

“Well, Miss, I’d get out to open the door for you, but we need to skip-a-doodle, this is a fire lane and NYPD is gonna ticket me if they catch us. Here, Angela asked me to show this to you,” he said, reaching into his glove apartment, one age-spotted hand disappearing. I stiffened, unsure what to expect. Don’t people keep guns in their glove apartments?

But it was merely Humphrey’s TLC license. That’s right, every driver in New York City needs to be registered with the Taxi and Limousine Commission, and Humphrey was part of the crew. His ID photo had been taken some forty years ago, his face unwrinkled and hair still brown in the pic, but it wasn’t expired and it was definitely him. So I took a deep breath, handed the card back before hopping in the car.

“Okay,” I said, still a little nervous. “Let’s go.”

Humphrey merely chuckled and nodded, pulling smoothly onto the West Side Highway. Perfect. If he’d headed off to the east side, I would have screamed, it was the wrong direction when you were driving to New Jersey. But no, we were going in the right direction, and what do you know, but the destination on his dashboard GPS read, “Valley Pine Estate.” Thank god for Google Maps. I was going to be okay, and not whisked off to a dungeon somewhere.

So I leaned back and tried to enjoy the ride. Cityscape flew by, only to be replaced by the bridge, and then New Jersey developments. But that melted away too and soon I was rolling past clusters of trees, magnificent oaks and verdant pines, all lush and gorgeous. New Jersey is the Garden State, I’d forgotten, and tremendously beautiful, green and glorious.

The trees parted like magic as we pulled into a gated community. My eyes grew larger, mouth hanging open in awe as we rolled by each house. Because these homes really were manors, straight out of Pride and Prejudice or Downton Abbey. The stone facades had to be at least three stories tall, with sprawling lawns circling each one, sometimes a fountain, sometimes gracious oak trees or a carefully manicured lawn, almost fluorescent green, they were so lush.

And finally we rolled to a stop in front of a mansion with a thicket of pines surrounding it. This had to be Valley Pine, and sure enough, Humphrey brought the car to a halt.

“Madame,” he said, bowing as he opened my door, a twinkle in his eye. “Welcome to the manor.”

I stepped out tentatively, a little wobbly after the long ride, breathing deep. Mmm, it smelled good. The trees lent a woody scent to the air, and I could already feel my head clearing, my lungs inflating fully. Man, this place rocked and I already liked it. There was so much nature, such a wonderful change from the grittiness of the city.

So I walked with a spring to my step to the front door and pressed the bell, a melodic chime ringing out. And what do you know, but a woman answered, probably Angela herself.

“Hi, I’m Mel,” I said, as confident as I could manage. “We talked on the phone?”

The woman was every inch a responsible businessperson. Tall with jet black hair pulled into a bun, she wore a sleek grey suit with a pin on its lapel.

“Welcome,” she said, shaking my hand. “As you’ve probably guessed, I’m Angela. Please, come in.”

And I stepped into a foyer that made me pause and gape, despite my best efforts to hide it. Because the entry hall was at least three stories tall with a huge chandelier floating above our heads made from what looked like a million different pieces of crystal. It was fantastical, unbelievable, insanely gorgeous, and probably cost more than two years of my salary.

“Mr. Lancaster appreciates beauty,” said Angela with an amused tone in her voice. “Mr. Lancaster is very particular about whom he surrounds himself with as well as what he surrounds himself with, and his home and furnishings reflect that,” she added.

I nodded, still speechless. Because by now, we’d moved into a sitting room, and it was straight from the movies. Elegant high-backed chairs surrounded a marble table with flowers, with low-slung couches spread about and priceless artwork on the walls. The whole setting was serene, elegant, and expensive, each candlestick, each objet d’art perfectly arranged to please the eye.

“I see,” I murmured, gingerly sitting down on one of the chairs. “Yes, it’s very beautiful.”

And Angela nodded, briskly taking a seat across from me.

“Valley Pine has been in Mr. Lancaster’s family for generations,” she said mildly. “But he’s improved on it, really enhanced the house itself, the furnishings, the surroundings, to make the most of the space. Most people who visit greatly enjoy their stay,” she added thoughtfully.

I nodded, almost afraid to speak. But that was no good, this was still an interview despite the opulent surroundings, and so I sat up straighter then, looking Angela in the eye.

“I appreciate the home,” I said in a straight-forward manner. “I take good care of my things, and I’d do the same for Mr. Lancaster’s things. I’m clean and neat, and I’d be a good housesitter,” I added quickly. “He wouldn’t even notice I was here.” Oh shit, maybe I’d said too much, too fast. We hadn’t even had any real chitchat yet, and I was already trying to make my case.

But Angela merely smiled and nodded.

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