Page 1 of For You, Sir

Chapter 1 (Jun)

The bouquets in the florist’s cooler were lovely, but none felt right. Roses were too romantic, and the mixed arrangements were too cheery for the circumstances—Congratulations on your extended hospital stay!Yet, the more somber arrangements looked too funerary—white lilies drooping their heads in serene regret.

Where was the bouquet that expressed the proper balance of reverence, love, and existential dread I felt toward my mother? Would a higher price tag buy me another week’s reprieve from visiting her in the hospital?

My phone buzzed against my chest. I withdrew it from my suit coat pocket and glanced at the display: “Davies & Horne.”Work. Thank God. I pushed open the flower shop’s door and exited, glad for an excuse not to buy anything. If I was lucky, maybe a reason to avoid the dreaded hospital visit altogether.

Outside, a blast of desert air tightened my skin, and I was hit by the tarry chemical smell of asphalt from a road being repaved. I tapped the screen. “This is Jun.”

“Mr. Kim. How are you?” My contract manager, Deborah.

“Fine,” I squeezed out. Was that the answer she was looking for? “Adapting,” I added.

Adapting to a life of stir-crazy loneliness after the death of my last client. I had loved serving Mrs. Olsen—a 76-year-old ex-actress with a sharp tongue and a clever wit. I was her live-in butler when she received her Parkinson’s diagnosis and cared for her throughout its rapid advancement.

I was the one who found her the morning after she ended things “on her own terms.” I called the paramedics, even knowing it was too late, and closed up her house after they took her away.

“How are you enjoying the time off?” Deborah’s voice jerked me from my dark thoughts.

“Good,” I lied. “I’m getting a lot done.”

“A new contract came through this morning. I know you’re still on leave, but I thought I’d float it by you. It’s an interesting one.”

A distraction—good!“Sure,” I said. “Let’s hear it.” Slipping on a pair of sunglasses, I stepped into the sliver of shade along the edge of the storefronts and headed to my car.

A family wearing matching Universal Studios T-shirts gawked at me as I strode past, and I pretended not to notice. At six-foot-one, I’m head-turningly tall for a Korean guy, and tourists tended to suspect anyone wearing designer sunglasses in L.A. might be an incognito celebrity. Or maybe they were just incredulous that anyone would wear a three-piece suit in 90-degree weather.

“This job is sponsored by a major film studio, not the client himself,” Deborah said. “Have you heard of Einar Eriksen?”

“Of course.” Who hadn’t? The writer-director became a household name after his movie,The Fringe,won a couple Oscars. Though, admittedly, I hadn’t seen the film myself.

“Apparently, Eriksen had some kind of emotional breakdown,” Deborah said. “He’s in breach of contract for failing to deliver a script, but the studio would rather have him finish it than take him to court. They’re hoping some in-home care might get him back on his feet.”

“Live-in assignment or day shift?”

“Days to start,” Deborah said. “The client has become a shut-in and never leaves his house, so it’s best not to overwhelm him. At this point, the studio just wants you to make sure he takes his medication and gets back into a routine. Understand?”

“Yes.” Whether fame itself drove people mad, or it came with the territory of being a“creative type,”I was accustomed to celebrity clients with emotional challenges. Eriksen had to be one hell of a talent for the studio to still pursue him, despite his erratic behavior. That or they’d already sunk a boatload of money into his project.

“I know things ended tragically with Mrs. Olsen, but you had such success with her,” Deborah said.

The tension in my chest eased. I’d felt like a failure ever since Madam died while under my care. It was good to hear that Davies & Horne didn’t see it that way.

“Sign me up,” I said. Anything was better than hanging around my cramped studio apartment. Time alone meant reflecting on the pain of my fractured family. Or the conspicuous void where my love life should have been.

“Before you agree,” Deborah said, “there are a few more things you should know. I mentioned the client is a shut-in. He won’t take a housekeeper or cook, so you’d be performing those duties as well.”

I didn’t relish the thought of scrubbing all day, but at least I enjoyed cooking. “All right.”

“Good.” She exhaled. “Eriksen has a reputation for firing staff that don’t meet his standards, so I wanted to start with the best. Can you start this afternoon?”

The best. A ripple of pride rolled through me, and I smiled a little. “I can.”

~

Two hours later, I pulled up to the client’s address in Glendale. A steel fence surrounded the property, but the mechanized gate swung open without a code.

I parked my black sedan out of sight along the side of the house and checked my hair in the rearview mirror. Neat as a pin. My shiny black Oxfords crunched on the gravel, and I straightened my tie as I headed to the front door.

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