Page 4 of Daddy's Pretty Baby

“I’m sure you would,” she agreed, that sleek head bobbing up and down, “but Mr. Lancaster has certain … um, predilections, so to say.”

I looked at her confused.

“But he’s not going to be here, right? I thought he needed a housekeeper because he was away?” That off-hand remark about “predilections” was confounding and I wasn’t sure which direction to turn next. Why would his predilections matter if he wasn’t even here? Was I forbidden from drinking the wine from his cellar, thousand dollar bottles of champagne off-limits? Or maybe he had some weird pets that I had to take care of, Komodo dragons he’d picked up in Thailand?

But Angela wasn’t very forthcoming. Instead, she merely nodded vaguely.

“Mr. Lancaster travels a great deal for business, so no, you won’t see much of him. But he does stop by New Jersey on occasion. This is his home after all, and he likes to enjoy it when he can. So although you likely won’t be seeing much of him, it’s possible that you’ll overlap.”

And I nodded then. Okay, that made sense. Yeah, if I owned this place, I’d want to be here three hundred and sixty-five days of the year, I’d resent anything that dragged me away.

“But I’m sorry, what were his predilections?” I ventured timidly again. “I don’t think you specified.”

Angela just brushed away the question.

“Why don’t I show you around?” she answered, changing the subject. “Before we talk more, why don’t I show you the house and grounds and you can decide whether you’d be interested in housesitting this place.” My eyebrows jolted upwards. I couldn’t imagine anyone not being interested, especially when you were me with zero options. But I nodded agreeably. No need to show all my cards during an interview.

So Angela gave me a brief tour of the mansion, showing off the public rooms, the two living rooms, the formal dining room, the casual dining room, the entertainment area, the gym, the pool in back, and the pool house, all of it interconnected by a web of hallways, corridors, and landings. It was like a tour of a castle, there were special spaces for everything, from a mud room to a bike rack, a music room, a recording studio, and a bowling alley to top it all off.

“Wow,” was all I could say. “Wow.” This place needed a map, it was so huge. And reading my mind, Angela chuckled.

“We don’t have maps,” she said kindly, “but we do have an intercom so you can call if you get lost,” she said, pressing a button on the wall to demonstrate. And immediately, another woman’s voice came on.

“Blanca?” asked Angela. “Is that you?”

“Si, si,” said the voice on the intercom, warm and accented.

“Oh great, just showing off the house to a visitor,” replied Angela. “Thank you Blanca, I’ll be down later.” And she clicked off, expert and efficient. I marveled at the entire scenario. Where I come from, there was no need for an intercom. We’d been packed like sardines, one on top of the other, stuffy with little personal space except when you went to the bathroom.

But evidently there are people who live a different kind of life because everything about this Mr. Lancaster’s home was gracious and elegant. Every detail was perfect, every accent a complement, every carefully hung artwork a testament to his taste. Where did people this perfect come from? Was he even human? It’s messy to be human, and this guy seemed more of a god than a man.

But that was for me to find out later, if at all. Because who knew if we’d overlap? Maybe Mr. Lancaster was on a trip to Antarctica at the moment and the glaciers had frozen over for the winter, there was no way to sail back to New Jersey. Or maybe he was a spy overseas, and could hardly walk out of a deep cover situation, it’d blow years of meticulous planning. So I shrugged. Mr. Lancaster was a part of the equation, yes, but probably not a big part, really only an afterthought. And at this moment, seeing the lavish grounds, the crazy good life, I was ready to sign.

Which was fortunate because Angela had pulled out a contract. I looked at it askance. The document was at least an inch thick, all fine print, and I squinted blearily. Oh god, more words, and my head began to hurt. I’ve chosen to be an artist because I love the power of a painting, the depth of shape and color morphing into one, but also because I’m horrifically dyslexic and right now, this contract was doing me no favors. The letters literally swum before my eyes, a p inverting into a q, or maybe it was the other way around. Oh god, oh god.

But I didn’t want to let Angela know. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, and I couldn’t miss out, no matter what the contract said. So I smiled and squinted a little more.

“I’m sorry, how much did you say rent was?”

For a place this nice, Mr. Lancaster would probably want something, even if it was just nominal. I prayed it was less than five hundred a month, less than three if I was lucky. God help me, any more than that would be a stretch.

But Angela merely chuckled.

“No rent necessary,” she said mildly. “We just put that in the ad to scare off the wrong type of person, there are a lot of odd folks floating around NYC. In fact,” she continued, “Mr. Lancaster is prepared to pay you,” she said smoothly. “Five thousand a month for your housesitting services.”

I gasped then, unable to hide my shock.

“Five thousand a month?” I parroted dumbly. “Really?” With fifteen thousand after three months, that was enough for me to make a dent in my student loans, maybe even build up a small emergency cushion for rainy days. Holy cow, I had to get this gig, this was too good to be true. So I picked up a pen and smiled merrily.

“Where do I sign?” I chirped.

Angela merely nodded.

“We ask that you initial every page, in addition to signing here, here, and here,” she said, pointing to pages that had been flagged. “It’s standard business procedure, Mr. Lancaster likes all his i’s dotted and t’s crossed,” she added.

My smile was so large that it almost cracked my cheeks. Holy shit, it was happening, it was happening! I’d found myself a new place to live, and not only that, but I was going to make money off the situation instead of bleeding my bank account dry. Somehow, I’d landed on two feet and it came with a heady feeling of freedom, of release. I was going to be okay. Even with an eviction on my record, I was gonna be okay.

So I began signing. On every page of the long document, I jotted my initials, always with a smile, and with absolutely zero hesitation. In fact, I’d never been so happy. I was gonna be safe for the next three months thanks to the generosity of my benefactor, the mysterious Mr. Lancaster … with his mysterious predilections.

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